Night skies and Jimmy’s

By Conrad Beaubien
It’s an odd mix, I agree. But I’m sure there are threads in the weave of thought when some nights as I walk beneath the stars in contemplation I find myself in reminisce of Jimmy’s. This more likely occurs when I’m with my four-legged companion, Thunder. Perhaps the donkey’s DNA of ancientness is what fuels a recurring stream of inner meander; perhaps again there is a reasoned aura that accompanies those who walk a donkey in the dark. I admit that night time is not Thunder’s favourite time. Thunder will tell you that sensible humans should either be home watching Netflix or in bed by now; or at least being useful. Thunder also knows that something is up when I need to bend his ear while walking a trail with flashlight in hand.

You see they called it Jimmy’s, but the large outdoor sign on the building read “Skyline Restaurant and Blue Room”. I was a latecomer to the scene, only getting to know it shortly after settling full time in the County. On my first occasion in the restaurant, sliding my butt onto a brown vinyl booth seat, Jimmy had already been in business for a half century.

Facing the sidewalk and leaning against the inside of an expanse of front window, messages were posted: Special—bacon and eggs; or Turkey dinner; Lunch—Montreal smoke meat sandwich; help wanted; messages handwritten on plain poster board. When you crossed the threshold at Jimmy’s, you slid down a rabbit hole of time and landed onto the set of a 1950s movie. The difference was that this was a live setting, real and unchanged in appearance since that 50s era.

An arborite counter finished in grey Mardi Gras pearl and with chrome trim followed a row of stools that ran the length of the interior. Behind the counter also ran a parade of machines in pastel colours—milk shake blenders, car-size bread toasters, a shelf loaded with Fire King Jadeite cups and saucers. There were many choices on the menu, plus the special of the day offered soup. Soup, vegetable or bean; chicken soup and sandwich. Or soup with roast chicken and gravy and mashed potatoes or choice of fries. Jimmy always said, “don’t worry, take a seat, I will cook for you”. He also once told me he arrived seven days a week at 5 a.m. and described in his quiet, heavily accented way how at each start of day he, “ would cut the vegetables for make it the soup, fresh soup every day. You want soup?” he would ask.

The patina of the place held comfort, the worn maroon and grey tiled floor; aisles that separated single booths from double booths which left the family size booth ready to be filled with animated teens after school ordering cinnamon buns and pop and coffee.

At a deeper level Jimmy’s was a place that I easily imagined Al Purdy to have hung out in, because for me the place itself was a poem. In actuality this was Al’s hood where just around the corner, down Front Street and near the Trent River, was his childhood home. Later in life and around another nearby corner once sat a hotel, a sorta home away from home for Al, a tavern that inspired one of the late poet’s lasting works named after the place—At the Quinte Hotel.

Upstairs and down the hallway of the second floor of the hotel and in the same period of time lived the late, well known broadcaster, Roy Bonisteel. Bonisteel hailed from the area and began his career working for the Courier, a once Trenton newspaper. He also drove cab at night.

Jimmy Christos arrived in Canada from Greece in the 1950s and washed dishes in Montreal before love drew him to Trenton. His business grew to be more than just about food. At times when I was there the place would morph into a village square in an old Venetian town like Chora on the Greek Island of Mykonos as the Skyline was a meeting place for many of Jimmy’s compatriots. One by one, they’d come in to greet him finding him in his usual spot, hunkered down in booth number three, a site close to the kitchen which also kept him in touch with his customers. The bench where Jimmy sat, generally with the weekly newspaper opened in front of him, was also a place where he’d grab an afternoon snooze. The creased bench more or less reminded me of the front seat of 1958 Oldsmobile convertible sitting among other open cars of the era, because every booth came adorned with a small, real deal chrome juke box.

It was in one of these moments, munching on a fried egg sandwich when I overheard but couldn’t understand the dialect of conversation that Jimmy was having with his friends. It then occurred to me that they were talking in the oldest recorded living language, a speech that originated in Greece and the eastern Mediterranean. The alphabet arose from the Phoenician script; the New Testament of the bible was written in Greek and Latin; it’s the language of the epics of Homer; Greek and Latin are the vernacular of the Classics, meanwhile the idioms are predominant sources of international scientific vocabulary today.

Regrettably an end to my moments at the place on Trenton’s Dundas Street came recently when owner Jimmy Christos died at age 94. He made soup to the last.

Thankfully for him, his place remains for me a field of memories. It was around this point in my recall that I realized that I had shared everything I needed to share with Thunder. Besides I could go on, but I know the certain twitch of his long ears that tell me when he’s done listening for the night and time to head home. Okay, so maybe done for this session that I can understand, but I’ll remain alert to the signs when he’s ready to hear more. That’s one thing I’ve learned about my pal Thunder.

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