Lovesong of Walter E. Tuttle

My very first job that paid any money worth reporting to the Internal Revenue Service was at the Allenberry Playhouse. The name suggests a single building, but it was more accurately a campus of sorts situated in Boiling Springs, PA. Allenberry was really a kind of resort that consisted, among other things, of the theater (or "playhouse" if you don't want to sound so snooty), two restaurants and a variety of buildings providing lodging. Amid the trees, along the Yellow Breeches river, it was quite a charming locale. It always reminded me of the sort of Americana resorts that people must have frequented in the late 50s and early 60s; what I imagined the Catskills to be but without the bad stand-up comedians.

I worked in one of the restaurants, called the Carriage House. Maybe it was the Carriage Room. Anyway, I handled prep work and salad bar: a step above the lowly dishwasher position but sadly outside the glorious limelight of line cook. Weekdays were usually tolerable in terms of stress and pace, but it got crazy on the weekends. The restuarant had a bar, and the bar closed at 2 am, which meant I usually didn't leave until 2:30 at the earliest. On weekends we would have the head chef, three line cooks, three prep people, the dishwasher and the wait staff (which probably consisted of about five people, plus a hostess and a bartender).

The other prep guys I worked with most often during my time there were Tawn and Walt. Tawn was a pretty laid-back guy who, true to the spirit of the kind of work in which we were engaged did just enough to stay out of serious trouble. My other partner in the trenches on the prep/salad bar front was Walt--Walter E. Tuttle. One of the line cooks, Mark, exclusively called Walt his full name. It was fun to say, and Walt was a unique individual.

One of Walt's passions was Michael Jordan. Apparently there was a videotape of highlights of Jordan's basketball abilities called "Come Fly With Me," because Walt consistently used this phrase before striking the Jordanesqe air-jam pose, complete with extended tongue. It was an interesting juxtaposition, because Walt, even at that age of 17 or so, was 6'1", probably 120 pounds with bright red hair fashioned into an Army crew-cut. He had slightly bucked teeth, a pronounced Adams apple and bugged-out eyes. He was a funny guy and really a great value in a stress-pot situation that a kitchen can become; he was Mark the line cook's foil and sometimes butt of jokes, but Walt was good-natured and probably used to this sort of treatment, so he took it all in stride.

Another of Walt's passions was spanking the salmon. I mean it. I'm not talking about a euphemism for masturbation; he spanked the salmon. That is to say, when pulling out what we'd need from the walk-in refrigerator, he would take you aside conspiratorially. Walt would grab a sealed plank of smoked salmon and, describing the aesthetic benefits of a girl's tight ass, slowly make circles with his open palm on the face of the packaged fish. Peppering his soliloquy with sharp slaps to the salmon, Walt underscored his desire for admirable female glutes. The end of his bizarre diatribe always ended with a wavering, open-faced hand raised high above the package, which he would bring down with full force and punctuate with an "Ohhhh yeah!" It was almost like a trademark finishing move from a pro wrestler. This was Walt's gimmick. After the move, he repeatedly nodded his head in appreciation for this surrogate . . . whatever it was . . . and laugh, extending his same salmon-smacking hand to you, ready to receive a congratulatory high-five.

I never thought much of Walt's salmon fetish. It was weird, sure, but it provided all of us with a much-needed laugh during those long shifts. It might sound like the nakings of a serial killer: cornered in a confined space with this guy who becomes increasingly violent and vociferous with a packaged fish product. He was harmless though, and one of the things I miss about working in a restaurant is the sort of weirdo characters you meet, like Walter E. Tuttle.