By Ricky Rieckert
Hope everyone had a wonderful Labor Day.
This week in Aurora, I’m going to touch base about the Blue Lantern Restaurant on E. New York Street.
Some people wanted to know more about the restaurant.
In the Summer of 1973, my brother, a year younger and I were driving my mother nuts.
At 13 and 14 years old, we were just being teenagers.
My mother said, why don’t you go get jobs.
A couple of Spanish friends in the neighborhood, had jobs at the Blue Lantern, and said they were hiring.
I drove my bike all the way there and met John Benakis, the owner.
This was the beginning of July, and my 15th birthday was July 10.
John said they were on Vacation until July 15, and I could start work then.
He said he still had to interview a few people, which I didn’t understand.
I went home and told my mother that I had a job at the Blue Lantern Restaurant, as a busboy.
She said, right, because she didn’t believe me.
A couple of weeks later, I asked her for a ride to work.
I told her I had to be there at 3 p.m. for a meal, and start work at 4 p.m..
At 2:30 p.m. I asked her for that ride to work.
She said, “You don’t have a job.”
I said, “Yes I do. And I need a ride.”
We got into the car, and she thought I was making it up. She didn’t believe me.
She backed up out of the driveway, thinking I was bluffing, and took me.
I got out at the front door of the restaurant and watched her while she waited for me to come back out.
Finally, she pulled away.
Inside, John said I could have ham steak, scallops, or a burger.
I said a burger.
He said, there’s a tub of hamburger in the fridge, make up a patty, and I’ll cook it in the broiler.
I made a ball about softball size, allowing for shrinkage, but it didn’t shrink.
He made the hamburger from steak scraps.
I could barely eat it all.
I started on a Tuesday, he was closed on Mondays.
Tuesday-Thursday, and Sundays, hours were 4 p.m. to 9 p.m.. Friday and Saturday, 4 p.m. to 10 p.m..
John was Greek, and on Saturdays he cut his own steaks and made hamburger from the scraps. People raved about it.
He made his own homemade onion rings, butter sautéed mushrooms and pepper steak.
His wife’s brother was Gus, we called him Greasy Gus.
He was Greek, and the main cook.
On Saturday night, he could have 20 steaks going at one time, and knew when to take them out of the broiler.
At the end of the night, the bus boys had to take the garbage out.
The dumpster was in back, by the woods.
One time I tossed a bag in, and a 50 pound raccoon jumped out. Scared the be-Jesus out of me.
Next door, was Luigi’s, which is what I called the Italian owner, Luigi.
On Saturday nights, we would have a lot of left over baked potatoes. I could toss one, about 60 feet, and hit the wooden bottom of his screen door. It would make a big thug sound and I would hide behind the dumpster.
Luigi would come out and yell, what the hell is going on. When he went back in, I’d do it again.
A little fun.
There was a waitress working there.
Her daughter was 15 years old, like me, and made salads on Friday and Saturday nights.
Her son was 14 and was a busboy with me.
The waitress was going through a divorce and her husband called the labor union in February.
Everyone under 16 had to quit.
That left one guy. Very sad.
See you next week.