A Loyal Guest and Friend

Almost every day for the past four or five years. Dean Lehmitz came into our café at Jordan Valley Medical Center for lunch.  Sometimes he came in twice, once for coffee and then again for lunch.  Most days, he brought along his buddy Ray.  Once when I was working on a Saturday, Dean came in dressed in his funeral suit, and it was the first and only time I ever met his wife.  A friend had died, and he had come by for coffee and a little dessert after the services.  

Dean was a retired  farmer from West Jordan.  I did not know much more than that, other than that he had served in the Pacific during World War II.  He was ‘an ornery cuss’, my cashier, Elaine, used to say, but meant it in the kindest way.  He would come up to the line and step back with the line cooks to get a closer look at the food, and ask for extra potatoes, another roll, or more gravy.  The thing was, Dean treated us and our café like a real ‘joint’ as we called them back east, where I grew up.  You know, the kind of neighborhood diner, where you went so often, it was hard to tell who the patron was and who the owner was, because they didn’t act much different, where everyone knew your name, like in Cheers, and just accepted you, warts and all.  It was the highest compliment, coming from a guy like Dean. 

And he brought Ray along with him, and occasionally another old codger.  He even stepped into line for our free employee BBQ’s throughout the summer, and our holiday meals during December.  He used to tell me that I did a good job when I was director there, and that we had the best deal in town, and the best food.  He told my replacement that too.  And I believed him, because he made me feel like I was doing the right things.  Really though, it was our grill cooks, Steve and Armando, and our cashiers, Elaine and Renee, and Dana, our sous chef,  and the rest of the crew, that were doing the right things.  It wasn’t really about service, or maybe it was.  It was about making someone feel welcome, feel at home, like they belonged there.  That was what our staff did, every day, and that made all the difference. 

We used to talk about what it meant to work in the hospital in the café.  Coming from restaurants, from ski resorts, and golf courses, like I did, it was easy to show people a good time during meals.  They were already having a good time, all you had to do was avoid screwing it up for them.  But in the hospital, you never knew what the folks were going through, who came through your doors.  It could be the best of times, like a newborn baby, or something much different, like a sleepless night in the ICU, a vigil over a loved one.  The ten minutes or half an hour that you saw someone might be the only break they got from a hospital bedside the whole day, and good or bad, the only moment to take a deep breath.  Our job was about much more than serving food; it was about being present and knowing that you had an opportunity to make a difference in someone’s day, if you simply paid attention to what they needed most from you.  It wasn’t always about the French Fries.  I like to think that is what Dean recognized when he came in every day for lunch. 

This year Dean did not make it to our holiday meal for the prime rib.  I read his obituary just the week before, and learned that he had earned a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star during World War II, farmed with his brothers, and  worked at the copper mine, that his wife’s name was Evelyn,  and that he had children, and grandchildren, and had lived his whole life in that part of the valley. 

Thanks Dean for your patronage.  We will miss you.