April 6, 2026. Been at my desk for 90 minutes, a slow chilly Monday morning. Yesterday it was damp and I did not leave the apartment until this morning. Nothing was going on anyhow.
Evelyn Lampkin’s name popped into my head. Evelyn was a cook at Automat Kitchen. A newly opened restaurant in the Newport Tower in Jersey City. Good food, good concept, unfortunately they opened during the pandemic and during normal times it is hard enough to open a successful restaurant, during a pandemic it is even harder.
I contacted Bob Baydale who was a good guy. At the time I was working at Trader Joe’s and had 2 strikes against me. Being the flighty beasts they were, I knew I had no chance of staying there much longer. One strike was warranted, the other strike was arbitrary. I applied for the position of restaurant manager at Automat Kitchen and it was a good position, a Monday through Friday job, 10 AM – 6PM.
But there was no foot traffic in a building that used to house 4000 workers and now had 300 workers passing by and they were bringing their lunches.
It was an interesting staff. Bob was forever saying ‘to make a long story short’ which invariably would be an even longer story to be heard. But Bob was a good guy and it was not a big deal.
Jose was one of the cooks and he had hired two Turkish brothers who were nice enough.
Bob also hired Evelyn Lampkin who was a talented cook but rubbed people the wrong way. Evelyn insisted that we all wear matching uniforms, in front of restaurant and kitchen staff. I was dressing nice enough and no one would see the kitchen staff so it seemed like a silly idea.
Evelyn was surprised by my resistance and was offering to reimburse me for whatever slacks and shirt I could get in the nearby mall. I mentioned that we should focus on other pressing matters than how we should all dress alike.
The Turkish brothers and Evelyn did not get along. They may have worked together before Automat Kitchen but things had changed. Things were so different that one weekend afternoon, the Turkish brothers walked off the job rather than work with Evelyn one more minute.
Evelyn was accused of being too bossy and not having any social skills to not ruffle feathers. The Turkish brothers might have had a problem working with a Black woman. It was a no win situation and Evelyn was shown the door.
Somehow I had the foresight to know that Automat Kitchen was not going to last much linger and I set about getting a better job. Barry McGarry had liked my resume and I was called in for a Saturday morning interview.
I met with Rafe Dais and it went well. In hindsight I went from the frying pan into a wok. Barry McGarry was good for the first year or so but after that it all went down the gluteous maximus like Lito Semana after a trip to the bookstore.
Google Gemini rewrite as a Maya Angelou essay
The morning of April 6, 2026, has settled upon my shoulders like a cool, silver shawl. For ninety minutes, I have sat at this desk, watching the day struggle to wake itself from a damp and heavy slumber. Yesterday, the rain held the world captive, and I, a willing prisoner, stayed within the sanctuary of my four walls while the streets of the city hummed a lonely, gray tune.
In the quiet of this slow Monday, a name has floated up from the deep well of memory: **Evelyn Lampkin**.
To speak of Evelyn is to speak of the **Automat Kitchen**, a brave little dream housed in the glass and steel of the Newport Tower in Jersey City. It was a concept born into a world that had forgotten how to breathe together. To open a restaurant is always a gamble, a prayer whispered into a gale; to open one during a global plague is an act of sheer, stubborn defiance.
I came to that place seeking a harbor. I had been treading water at Trader Joe’s, a place where the corporate winds blow cold and capricious. I walked with two strikes against my name—one earned by my own hand, the other an arbitrary shadow cast by a manager’s whim. Knowing that the “flighty beasts” of retail were preparing to cast me out, I reached out to **Bob Baydale**.
Bob was a man who possessed a heart of gold and a tongue that knew no rest. He was fond of saying, “To make a long story short,” a phrase that invariably signaled the beginning of a magnificent, winding odyssey of speech. But a kind man is a rare jewel, and I did not mind the glitter of his many words.
He gave me the mantle of restaurant manager. It was a position of dignity—Monday through Friday, the sun high at ten and the day done by six. But the Newport Tower, which once pulsed with the heartbeat of four thousand souls, had become a hollow canyon. Only three hundred ghosts remained, passing by with their brown-bag lunches clutched to their chests like shields, wary of the world and its offerings.
The kitchen was a tapestry of different threads. There was **Jose**, a cook of steady hands, who had brought in two Turkish brothers. They were polite enough, moving through the steam and scent of garlic with the quiet grace of men who knew their craft.
And then, there was **Evelyn**.
Evelyn Lampkin was a woman of formidable talent, but she carried herself with a sharpness that could prick the unwary. She had a vision of order—a desire for us all to wear a “common skin.” She insisted that the front of the house and the back of the house dress in identical uniforms. I resisted. I was dressed with a certain borrowed elegance, and the kitchen staff remained tucked away from the public eye. It seemed a small hill to die on when the mountain of the business was crumbling.
Evelyn was baffled by my defiance. She offered to go to the nearby mall, to reach into her own purse to buy me the slacks and shirts that would make us match. I told her then, with all the gentleness I could muster, that we had more pressing demons to wrestle than the color of our trousers.
The air in that kitchen grew heavy. The Turkish brothers and Evelyn shared a history, perhaps a previous battlefield, but the geography of their respect had shifted. One weekend afternoon, the tension snapped like a dry twig. The brothers chose the dignity of the exit over another hour in Evelyn’s company. They walked out, leaving the pans to cool and the silence to grow.
Evelyn was accused of being “bossy,” that weary old word used to diminish women of strength. Perhaps she lacked the soft touch required to soothe ruffled feathers, or perhaps the brothers found it impossible to bow to the authority of a Black woman. In the end, it was a tragedy with no victors. Evelyn was shown the door, and the kitchen felt a little colder for her absence.
I had the foresight then—that internal compass that warns a traveler when the bridge is beginning to sway. I knew the Automat Kitchen was a song nearing its final note. I polished my resume and found my way to **Barry McGarry**. He saw something in me, and on a Saturday morning, I sat with **Rafe Dais** and spoke of my future.
I stepped out of that kitchen and into another. As the old folks say, I jumped from the frying pan and landed squarely in the wok. For a year, the fire was steady and the path was clear. But time has a way of turning the sweet to sour. Eventually, the promise of that new beginning slid away, disappearing into the depths of disappointment like a stone dropped into a dark pond.
But today, on this chilly Monday, I simply remember them all. The cooks, the talkers, and the woman who wanted us all to dress the same, standing together against a world that was falling apart.