GUS and GASTIS from the village
Decided to open a restaurant.
The two of them agreed at once
Without a single comment.
One would stand at the register
The other would work in the kitchen.
Soon they would open the doors
And money would begin to pour in.
A sign out front they prepared
With their names displayed.
Workers laboured inside
And the two of them helped as well.
Above the door the sign would read
“GUS AND GASTI RESTAURANT.”
And they had a lovely young girl,
A waitress with curly permanent hair.
Meanwhile in the kitchen
They knew nothing about cooking.
As they used to say in those years,
What do Americans know about food.
GASTIS asks Konstantis,
“Hey Dinka, how do you make gravy.”
“My friend, it is simple,
Boiling water and flour.”
At last the good moment came.
They opened the doors wide.
The two of them said a prayer
That fate would be generous.
Noon was getting close.
Not a single customer appeared.
People passed right by the door
And did not even turn their heads.
Two men finally came in to eat.
The table was set well for them.
But when they stood up to leave
They had no money to pay.
The cook hears the commotion
And runs before they start fighting.
They tell me they have no money today.
They will pay us Monday.
“Ah, do not worry Konstantis,
It is only one day.
Today is Sunday,
And Monday is what they mean.”
Then along comes another fellow
Who sits down to eat.
He reads the menu and quickly
Holds up three fingers.
He meant three eggs,
Prepared in every style,
Just as he would choose,
Without a single mistake.
One should be medium boiled,
Another a little soft,
The third should be fried,
And the toast soft at the edges.
The cook comes out angrily
Holding a black frying pan.
He grabs him tightly by the collar
And lifts him up toward the ceiling.
“You who want all of this,
Go to your mother
And let her cook it for you.”
And he too leaves without eating.
The afternoon passes by.
The cook still grips the pan.
Not a single coin has touched their hands.
He forgets the rice pudding on the fire.
It bubbles and overflows.
The cook runs and slips
And drags himself through the rice.
The next morning early
The soup in the kitchen failed.
“Do not worry Konstantis,
We will call it Gerlandina soup.”
The Americans liked it very much.
They ate it before noon.
Only it had no recipe
And could never be made again.
And the children helped as well
From a very young age.
They did whatever they could
Without a single complaint.
And so, life went on,
Their seven-day work.
Running night and morning
So, their children could be educated.
Sklithro-Zelenich-Sebalći 