Blu: an American Contradiction

Within the windy streets of Downtown Petaluma, under the glaring lights of the movie theatre, overshadowed by the hulking concrete mass of the parking garage, sits a small diner, located in a difficult area, understated in size and stature by the surrounding popular and far superior buildings such as Jennie Lows, Powells Sweet Shoppe, and Tres Hombres. Blu, as it has been named, is the runt of the litter. Tiny, repressed, diminutive- the restaurant flounders like a fish who’s struggling in a crowded pond, fighting for the draining resources.

Walking along the streets of Downtown, one must navigate through the masses of kids, ranging from barely pubescent to nearly adults, as they meander about and loiter around the theater, their insurmountable numbers creating a faceless crowd. The outside of Blu is unimpressive, a simple building of steel and plaster, nearly indistinguishable from the surrounding buildings. Through the glass double doors comes the smell of frying food, a whiff of a heart attack floating out to mingle with the crisp evening air. The sound of grease and oil sizzling with food on a grill only heightens the promise of thickly oiled food oozing calories: the exposed kitchen of Blu only amplifies the sound, filling every corner, every booth, every table.

Settling down at the dark wood table, seated on soft beige vinyl benches, the

seemingly pristine table-top reveals its true nature in the sun’s glare that peeks out through the windows framing the table. The harshly pock-marked visage, like a hardened criminal- decorated with the shining rings of long-forgotten drinks, the streaks and smears of fingertips smothered in grease collected from the food, and the overall sheen of lazy, undedicated efforts to eradicate it all- is hidden until the sunlight touches upon it at just the right moment. The light bounces off the tables and onto the glass framed paintings on the walls that pass for modern art, yet are much more closely reminiscent of the attempts of a clumsy three year-old only beginning to discover the deeply intricate movements of the body. The colors swirled. The colors blended. The colors crashed in a spectacular display of defective fireworks.

Outside the window, looking past the blinding sunlight, the bustling nightlife should offer a show of its own. Yet, the view from the booth provides an inaccurate depiction of a quieter town, one that shuts down at six o’clock. To the right, a perfect view of the deserted Haus Fortuna is provided, trinkets gleaming from the window and a limp Italian flag swaying morosely in the light wind. Many people, mostly older women, approach the doors hopefully, only to pause perplexedly for a moment before shuffling away, dragging their eyes off of the wares mocking them from the shelves within. Across the street, the movie theatre shows little activity, as patrons presumably enjoy their movies. Movie posters adorn the brick walls of the theater, one in particular standing out, flashing the bright white words “Wicked sexual thriller” above the thrown back neck of a heavily costumed dancer. Coincidentally, within the resturant again, an elderly pair of ladies are discussing the very same sexual thriller on the poster, over their red-checked paper cones of fries. They lure the waitress into the conversation, commenting on her “dancer’s body” and questioning her about any history in ballet or dancing of the sort. Discussing her past dance recitals and routines, her face grows wistful and distant, as if she is out of the diner and instead once again on the stage, leaping and pirouetting and flying through the air. Then, seamlessly, as if the memory never occurred, the waitress launched into an explanation of her favorite dessert served by the restaurant, a dessert which is procured from the plastic case by the cash register.

The music mixing with the sounds of frying fluctuates between classic rock hits and soft adult contemporary music, otherwise known as elevator tunes. As John Mellencamp’s “Jack and Diane” plays, the ballad of a classic couple, a middle-aged man and woman sit across from each other in a booth, silent except for the occasional harsh look thrown that says more than any conversation ever could. Mellecamp trills his famous chorus, “ Oh yeah, life goes on, long after the thrill, of living is gone,” and the woman gazes past her plate of food, into one of the many mystery plants placed discreetly around the room, lost in thoughts much like the waitress.

The food arrives to the table, the plate marked with the expected grease marks one could infer from the smells, stains, and sounds. I almost expected to catch a glimpse of the oil rolling off my veggie burger like the steady drips off a broken faucet. However, what the meal lacked in health, it failed to make up for in taste. After a few tentative bites, I forfeited my efforts. The only taste offered by the dry patty and limp lettuce came from the onions, which flamed in my mouth, stinging my eyes and nose. Leaving the building, the last thing one sees is the logo, labeling the diner as Blu: an American Eatery, escorted by a line drawing of a burger containing an unnaturally blue patty, a blue like the mold one would find on two-week old bread.

Blu: an American eatery can’t help but contradict itself. Like a patient suffering from split personalities, Blu is incapable of choosing an identity for itself. The restaurant that advertises as a classic southern diner projects itself more as a business chic location. Each table has a sticky, sloppy condiment caddy for all sorts of ketchup, mustard, and relish, but it also holds a loaded wine list with a respectable assortment of red and white wine. The restaurant is populated with a cheerful pair of friends, laughing raucously and making sweet conversation with the waitress, but on the other side of the room is the silent, brooding couple, pretending to be absorbed in their meal. The furniture is layered with the grease of old meals, but the furniture itself is all stained wood and contemporary beige coloring. The restaurant proudly bears the quirky name Blu: an American eatery, but that’s a misdemeanor; it should be named Blu: an American contradiction.

-Kelsey (and Prell)