My grandmother’s 94th birthday celebration last week was a cozy gathering, mostly family. Among us was Ms. Joyce, a woman whose warmth filled the room as much as her delicious cooking. She was the caterer for the party and, as I learned, a familiar face who used to prepare meals for my Granny before she moved in with my aunt. Intriguingly, Ms. Joyce also had a history as a head cook at Jr. Food Mart many years ago.
Later, I had the chance to thank Ms. Joyce for the wonderful birthday food and reminisce about Jr. Food Mart. I was curious and asked her a question that had been on my mind: did she consider Jr. Food Mart a restaurant that happened to sell gas, or a gas station that served food? Her answer was immediate and honest. For Ms. Joyce, Jr. Food Mart was simply “my damn job.”
She went on to describe her multifaceted role – cook, cleaner, shopper, manager, security, and server – all for minimum wage. While acknowledging it was the hardest job in terms of effort versus pay, she fondly remembered the joy of connecting with her community every Friday night. She likened the atmosphere to the excitement of Saturday evenings in her town when buses from Jackson would arrive, bringing children back home to visit their families.
I shared that I understood this sentiment, even joking that my own “favorite restaurant still serves gas.” Ms. Joyce chuckled, hugged my grandmother, and confessed, “I miss my job. But I’m so glad not to be washing those damn dishes and dealing with those gizzards anymore!”
“My favorite restaurant served gas.” The thought echoed in my mind.
Reflecting on it, my favorite restaurant, Jr. Food Mart, relied heavily on Ms. Joyce, a dedicated individual who was paid the absolute minimum wage possible in the food service industry. She worked tirelessly, even enduring the smell of gasoline and occasionally pumping gas for customers until her shift ended late at night. This reality, now intertwined with my fond memories, adds a layer of depth to my appreciation for that place. And while the aroma of gas is forever linked to those memories, I am genuinely happy that Ms. Joyce is no longer burdened with the demanding tasks of cooking, cleaning, and endless dishwashing in any establishment that also dispenses fuel.
However, I must admit, I still crave her ‘tato logs. There’s no denying that. I truly miss our regular visits for them.
