THE STORY BEHIND ROSIE’S
By Duncan
I assumed I would never meet the owner of Rosie’s Breakfast Cafe in North Fort Myers, Florida. I thought it was a lost cause. Maybe the next time I was in town. Maybe.
And a nagging question you as the reader might be asking yourself might be …
“What gives you the chutzpah to think you have the right to meet and talk to the owner?”
Other uncomplimentary words might be: “What gives you the audacity to think the owner wants to talk to you?” From my side of the coin, I don’t consider myself arrogant. I can be flashy at times or a little too loud at times. I plead “Guilty” to being “Too Big” at times.
I remember one night in Cincinnati, I was on the dance floor with a gal doing a swing step to the music. This woman I asked to dance didn’t care about my style.
“You're Too Big!! You're taking all the attention away from me!”
I’ve never forgotten that criticism. And yes, she was more than likely right. Most eyes normally focus on the woman, not the male dance partner. I learned a lesson. You know they don’t teach this stuff in college. We only had one dance that night. She was a terrific dancer and as smooth on the floor as I had ever seen. I thought this could be a fun night. But I was “Too Big!”
When I moved to North Fort Myers with my mid-90s-year-old father, George, he wanted to attend church on Sunday. So we went to the Baptist Church less than a mile down the road. In true Baptist fashion, the inside of the church had a deep red carpet and dark wooden pews. There was the large wooden pulpit standing high over the congregation. That was to be expected. It seems that it is how it’s been in most Baptist churches as far back as I can remember.
However, my father had other ideas. He wanted to be on the front row of the congregation so he could hear. (He refused hearing aids.) I think we attended two Sundays, and my father, sitting in the aisle in his wheelchair, leaned into me during the sermon and said, “Get me out of here, now.” I, of course, whispered back, “Now?”
Dad wanted to get in and out by himself.
I stood up, turned his wheelchair around, and headed for the back of the church, trying to put on a face that pretended like, “He needs the necessary room.” I don’t know if I pulled it off, but we got outside, and I got him out of his wheelchair in the car. I folded the wheelchair and put it in the trunk. I slid into the driver's seat and turned on the engine to force a little air conditioning.
“Do you want to tell me what you’re thinking?”
Dad said, “Find me a different church!”
I tried to put myself in his shoes to understand what triggered his disdain. He was not happy about something. Was it the preacher or the building? Maybe he couldn’t hear the sermon. To be honest, perhaps it was the message or how the “message” was being delivered.
When you are in your mid to late 90s, my dad’s thought process could be the following.
“All I want to hear is I’m going to heaven. I don’t want to hear anything else.” These are my words, not my father's.
I tried to remember if the preacher was preaching a little Hell’s Fire and Brimstone. What could have triggered Dad didn’t trigger me. All I knew was that I needed to find Dad in a new church. I searched the internet for a Baptist church nearby, but most were a good drive from our home. I found a Methodist church about a mile down the road. I asked Dad if he would be comfortable with a Methodist church. He didn’t give me a yes or a no; he said, “We can try it.”
The following Sunday, I rolled Dad into the double doors of the Good Shepherd United Methodist Church, and women were waiting to offer a glad hand.
“We are so happy you chose us to worship today.”
They made over Dad like he was a long-lost uncle. Dad ate it up! I rolled him down to the front of the church. Dad had a new church home.
And the gals at lunch after church were all over Dad, too. Each Sunday, I would take Dad down to the front of the church and park him on the front row. I would walk to the kitchen and grab cup of coffee before the service started. One Sunday, at the back of the church, I was approached by a woman who asked,
“Are you and your dad from Indianapolis?”
I, of course, said “Yes.”
She said her name was Judy Stephenson, and she, too, was from Indianapolis. We talked off and on each week. She had worked for RCA on Shadleland Ave. I asked her what she did for RCA, and she said she was (PR) public relations for RCA. I wondered what she did as a public relations person. To my surprise, she told me one of her duties was setting up hotel suites for Elvis Presley and Engelbert Humperdinck's concerts. I, of course, ask more questions.
Judy: “When Elvis or Engelbert play in a city or town, important people in that community need to be wined and dined. We (RCA) offer a suite for them to mingle in after a concert. They all seem to enjoy the suite.”
I didn’t understand why RCA would do that, but Judy told me it was because RCA pressed (made) the Elvis records. RCA wanted to sell records. To me, that was a fascinating business.
Over time, Judy whispered in my ear one Sunday and told me several women in the church would watch me wheel Dad down to the front of the church each week and say,
“I wish my family took as good of care of me as Steve takes care of his dad.”
I was humbled; I had never thought of it as a chore. Simply, my dad wanted and needed to attend church, and yes, it was his “Saturday Night Out On The Town.” I also need to disclose Dad asked me never to put him in a nursing home.
I was asked to participate in several meetings about the new building the church wanted to build and upload the weekly sermon to the website. Over time, I became very comfortable at Good Shepherd, and Dad felt the same way.
I received a text from Judy Stephenson saying, “Are you in North Fort Myers? And you have not called me? How dare you.”
(Judy Stephenson was a Good Shepherd United Methodist Church member.)
Oh my, I forgot about Judy. I quickly tried to backpedal and find a way to explain why I had not called. “Let’s have lunch,” I asked her where she lived. She told me, and I asked, “Wait, do you live close to Rosie’s?”
“Yes, just down the street, I love Rosie’s.”
“Well, I have unfinished business there; let’s meet at 1:00 PM at Rosie’s.”
Judy Stephenson - Duncan
I haven’t seen Judy for years. Judy is flamboyant and knows just about everything and everybody at Good Shepherd. She wanted to know about my life, and I told her it’s pretty simple: I sleep, eat, do lunch, cook a little, travel, and write a little. I also had to tell her what I don’t do: I don’t fish, golf, word work, work on cars, or volunteer. She looked at me with a jaundiced eye, “You don’t volunteer?” I had to admit, “No, not really.”
I happened to see Rosie, the owner, come out of the kitchen—Rosie herself. She had stopped her forward progress and was talking to one of the waitresses. I asked Judy to give me a minute; I want to speak to someone, so I jumped out of the booth, walked a few yards, and waited until Rosie could talk.
She turned and looked at me as if I might have a complaint. I told her my name and that I was on vacation from Indianapolis in North Fort Myers for a few days. This was my second time in her Breakfast Cafe, and I wanted to tell her about my experience and ask if she would tell me the backstory of how she got here.
She looked at me carefully and said, "Okay, I have a few minutes.” I explained that I had the Eggs Benedict Florentine a few days ago, which was terrific. Excellent.
“I also noticed that you serve the customers as the owner. I see you giving instructions to the other waitresses and the busboy. It’s obvious to me that you had experience in the restaurant business before you opened this place. Can you give me a little history about you and how you got here?”
Rosie’s story was short and to the point. She came to this country from Argentina twenty-six years ago. She indicated she had very little money. She began as a waitress. As time passed, she moved to nicer restaurants and worked in some high-profile places in California. She met a very good cook in one of the high-profile restaurants, and he wanted what she wanted. They both wanted to own their own restaurant. They agreed they would make a great team. He knew how to cook, and she knew how to manage the front end. They kept the dream alive. They worked until they had the money and were ready to fulfill the dream. Then, they decided to move to North Fort Myers and open Rosie’s.
Rosie slowed her speech and began to speak a little more gently:
“Mr. Dunan, do you know how great this country of yours is? I came to this country with nothing. Nothing. There is no place on this earth like the United States of America. Everything I have is because I moved to this country, nowhere else.
The emotion in her eyes caught me off guard. I had not expected to hear a story like this one. It was obvious she was aware that she had achieved her dream and could show her appreciation and tell her story to someone.
“Rosie, you’ve been in business for a year. This place looks brand new, the food is terrific, and the service is excellent. I have heard people say you might be opening a second Rosie’s. Is there any truth to the rumor?”
She caught her emotions and looked at the floor; “We are considering the possibility.”
“Then how will Rosie, who must be in charge of everything, be in two places at once?”
“I’m watching closely my current staff and have people I already trust.”
“Rosie, where do you plan on opening your second location?”
“Oh no, you will not get me to say anything more.”
“Rosie, will you allow me a photograph?”
Rosie turned to her hostess and asked her to take our picture.
Duncan - Rosie
I returned to the booth with Judy and told her I had just met Rosie. I was excited. We ordered lunch and talked for hours, especially about Rosie’s story.
I meet the nicest people while I’m on the road.
