Foodsluts at Doll & Penny’s Café

Here is where the story ends.
In 1992 Francis sold Doll & Penny’s to a family from Ontario using the same contract his father used on Benjamin and Russell Harington. When the Ontarians turned around and sold the café two years later, Francis sued them but lost, thus severing Papa Ed’s ties to 1167 Davie St once and for all.

The Dot Party was a polka-dot-themed event that had evolved from an annual house party for gay hospitality workers into a bona fide AIDS fundraiser in 1986. Since then, a “Dot” was appointed in a secret ballot at the end of every party and charged with the task of organizing the next year’s event. The tickets stated, “No dots, no entry.”

Chakra announced her candidacy for Empress of Vancouver in the summer of 1991, according to plan. Every rhinestone was falling into place: allegiances with drag queens had been made in exchange for a title, Chakra performed at shows, lent out dresses, gave dresses away — all in the name of a sash, tiara, sceptre and the privilege of being called Empress. But Chakra’s plans had not accounted for Francis owning Doll & Penny’s when her time came to run.

  Francis made his most indelible mark on Doll & Penny’s Café when he repackaged the Month of Wednesdays fundraiser into something more palatable or, as Elsa would say, more “John-Q-Public.” More to the point: more geared to straight people.

  Sick and tired of waiting tables, I took over Dan’s old job as manager. Entertaining though Chakra was, she was not the natural-born leader Donna had hoped she would be.

  On Nov 4, 1989, the breakfast regulars got a surprise with their morning coffee. On page 9 of The Vancouver Sun was a full-page ad with the banner “Time Is Running Out” above an hourglass.

  You could see the loss of life in the empty chairs and tables in the evenings and at lunch in the tired faces of the lesbian nurses taking refuge from the nearby AIDS ward… 

  It was a casual observation about the relationship between sex and tips that lead to the Bimbos from Hell theme for Halloween night.

  There was a shelf above the counting desk in the crow’s nest filled with photo albums chronicling the history of the café in Kodachrome. Inside were pictures of Yolanda, Blair, Spike, Scooter and Del Rita Deluxe just out of high school, draped suggestively over tables and chairs, hiking the hems of their skirts, their hairy thighs poking through torn fishnets. 

It was hard to believe the albums were from the same decade. 

  Andrew was by the door, hiding behind a pair of women’s sunglasses, when I arrived at the café. The windows were still covered with issues of The Province concealing the renovation.

“I’m convinced the dry cleaners across the street is a cover for the mob,” Andrew said, knocking on the door again. “I never see anyone in there.”

  The staff was crammed around Table 41, hiding their bedheads with baseball caps, arguing over side duties like they were the Meech Lake Accord. Donna had called the mandatory staff meeting first thing on a Tuesday morning — even for those who had worked the graveyard the night before.

I should have known better than to start my first relationship in Vancouver on a Welfare Wednesday, but like all messy affairs, it seemed like destiny at the time.

Club courtesy was written with invisible ink into the benefits package of every Doll & Penny’s employee next to extended health and dental.

The rule among the clubs was bar staff didn’t wait in line or pay cover. “I work at Doll & Penny’s,” I would tell the doormen and they’d let me in.

When you accepted a position on the graveyard shift at Doll & Penny’s, you did so knowing you might never be promoted.

None of the graveyard staff would admit it, but we secretly hoped a senior waiter would die of anything but AIDS. It was a credit to the graveyard’s fortitude that a senior waiter didn’t accidently slide down the green wooden stairs from the crow’s nest.

Chakra, Andrew, Spike and I had drawn the short straws for Christmas Eve. 

Some people asked if PWA stood for Pacific Western Airlines; others just pretended to steal the box. Fortunately for the Persons with AIDS Coalition, it was a bantamweight Fort Knox built right into the counter.
 
Doll & Penny’s was a thief’s Xanadu.

“For two?” he asked. That’s when I saw that his middle fingers were missing at the knuckles.

I caught my reflection in the glass as I reached to open the door. Even with contact lenses I was still a myopic kid with Coke-bottle glasses. My muffler and gingham overcoat looked exactly as they were: stolen from the Sally Ann, not British New Wave as my friend had promised.

I felt like an imposter. To some degree, I was.
 

Saturdays at 2am and Doll & Penny’s Café, at 1167 Davie St, would be hopping with club kids, drag queens, bar staff, sex workers and everyone in between.

The diner food was atrocious but the neighbourhood hub, known for its red Bonneville above the door, was a gay institution.