The Icing on the Steak
Or, How I Went to See an Eclipse and Wouldn’t Stop Talking About the Hotel
Suppose you’d like to go see a total solar eclipse. Why do such a thing you ask? Well, maybe because it’s beautiful, or because space is cool, or because sometimes, immediately following one, you can find a weird plant just sitting there among some zinnias. Whatever, the hell with you. There are lots of reasons. Don’t be such a jaded horse’s ass. (However, if your reason is so you can walk around in a “totality or bust” t-shirt you had printed up for the occasion, please stop reading and go pound salt.) Anyway, no matter the reason, an eclipse never seems to pass over anywhere worth going to, so you’ll have to visit someplace terrible, like Charleston.1 Or, most recently, Buffalo.
Now, I may be willing to go to Buffalo for this sort of thing, but, on principle, I’m entirely unwilling to pay $900/night to stay there. This meant that, against my nature, I’d have to plan ahead. Enter Russell J. Salvatore. The sum total thought I put into the rooming arrangement was, “oh this delightful weirdo allows you to book 18 months ahead of time for a not exorbitant price. Sold!” As the event drew closer, I actually bothered to look the place up: bit of a 1980s guido vibe in the décor… okay. Some of the rooms have hot tubs in the (carpeted) floor next to the beds?!... hmm. Well whatever. All of the nerds assembling for the eclipse have bid up the price of a Day’s Inn to $1500; I’m locked in.
Soon enough, I found myself on final approach to Buffalo with the lady across from me explaining to her silly grandson that, “no, there were never any Buffalo here. I’m not sure why it’s named that.” [Point of fact: there were scads of bison there, hence the name; they killed every last one; the Lorax was furious] Merely 40 minutes later, from behind the wheel of a rented Honda, I beheld Salvatore’s Grand Hotel / Russell’s Steaks, Chops, and More.
Out front, the first thing you come upon is Salvatore’s Patriots and Heroes Park. It’s more of a plaster statue garden really but why split hairs? Evidently, there are two – and only two – ways to be a patriot and/or hero. Option 1: Be in some way connected to WWII. Option 2: Die in a NYC to Buffalo commuter plane wreck. Do either of these things and you too can be commemorated in front of a roadside hotel by an upstate airport. Past the park is the hotel-cum-steakhouse, which is just the sort of large beige box that could be any suburban building, but with some pointless ornamentation thrown in.
Approaching the institution from the parking lot, the first thing one sees is a large television by the door playing Sal’s greatest hits (i.e., his local TV commercials). With the sound off, these are quite trippy: In one vignette, he enters an exam room dressed as a doctor, chats with a young man in a hospital gown, then turns him into a broiled chicken with a human head. The moral is that you should go to the steak restaurant.
Once inside, I let Rini check us in as I went to stare at the fish in the saltwater aquarium. There are several reasons for this: like a magpie, I’m drawn to shiny things; I couldn’t bear to look at the bright red carpeting and gold fixtures a second longer; it’s possible I have an undiagnosed (really would prefer it stay that way) autism spectrum disorder; the fish were the only pretty thing I’d seen since the view from takeoff at JFK; the check-in process was interminable because the staff were about as elderly as the factory workers in Mouse Hunt (incidentally, if you have a mental image of how quickly a 75 year old maid would push a hotel cleaning cart, I assure you it’s slower in reality).
On the way to the elevator, it seemed as though the hotel were a shrine. You’d be forgiven for thinking that Russell was dead and this was done to memorialize him. There are pictures of gazebos named after him, news clippings about how he bought TVs for a hospital, and plaques of all sizes. Amongst this are bits of Russell J. Salvatore thought (much like Xi Jinping Thought) scattered about, frequently, “they’d be in jail for the discipline they gave us” in reference to his parents.2 Still, he is — or at least was at the time — very much alive. We’d find him at breakfast walking around, dressed like an extra in a Scorsese film, yelling at his staff.
In the elevator, guests are treated to his life story, from which I have selected a few choice quotes. First, he casually mentions that his family doesn’t speak to him (though that’s probably their fault) and kind of implies that he sold his first business to his son then opened a competing one down the road (yes, there are actually multiple Salvatore’s).
Success has cost him. It’s led to feuds with his family and loneliness. He separated from his wife and barely speaks to his three children, eight grandchildren, and 10 great-grandchildren. In 2007 after he sold his business to his son, he was miserable…
Next, we’re informed that things used to be cheaper.
…A square pizza with anchovies cost 50 cents.
Finally…
Even now that he’s got millions and is 86, [this blurb was a few years old] Russell works full-time. He takes an afternoon nap. He’s always impeccably dressed; he owns 200 hand-tailored shirts with his name embroidered on the cuffs…
Our room was fine, clean, and in keeping with the 1980s in Staten Island theme. But I’m sorry to report that it was not one of the rooms with a hot tub in the floor. So, tripping and nearly drowning while getting out of bed in the middle of the night is something I’ve yet to experience. In place of the Gideons’ bible, one finds Well Done. The final course served to a Great Life lived. The Life and Times of Russell J. Salvatore. Of course the title is a steak pun. I read an uncomfortable amount of that book. “When [Russell] was in school, all the girls wore jewelry. These days the boys do.”
Out the window, an equally beige and boxy chain hotel beckoned. The next day, clouds blocked the view of the eclipse.
Incidentally, if you find yourself in Charleston on a Sunday, you’ll notice that not much is open. You might pop into a gift shop / visitor center downtown. Inside, you might see curiosities such as cummerbunds made of peacock feathers. Past the bric-a-brac up front, perhaps you find a bookshop in the back. In said bookshop, maybe you flip open a random coffee table book and see nothing but a huge list of names, names like “Jerimiah Beaufontaine Cletus IV”. Thinking it curious, you may then glance at the title of the book and see it’s something of the “List of South Carolinians Who Gave Their Lives in the War for Southern Independence” variety. You won’t be upset because you already didn’t like Charleston and were eagerly awaiting the trip back north; in fact, you may smile because at least Mr. Cletus had it coming.
I’m aware that some of this was the times. If my father forgot to shave for two days in high school, he was beaten by his teacher, sent to the principal’s office where he was beaten again, then reported to his parents with the understanding that my grandfather was supposed to beat him as well. That said, for most baby boomers, “they hit me” is neither the first thing that comes to mind when they think of their parents nor what they’d write about them on the wall of their business. So it still struck me as odd.