It was the first night of my first real job since retiring from a successful career as a paper boy for the Independent/Press Telegram. I was a bit nervous as I walked through the front door and made my way past the booths and tables covered with red checked tablecloths and the enormous "Blue Grotto" picture on the North wall. I was on my way to the to the kitchen to check in with Vincenzo and Inge Cristiano for my first night as Nino's one and only night shift dish washer.

"Good, good," he said, "here my boy" as he took me to the dish washing station behind the kitchen. It was a small room with a large stainless steel sink on the back wall with tables on the right and left sides. The dirty dishes were to be piled on the right side and the "dry" (I will explain later) dishes were stacked neatly on the left side. Vince pointed and said "You wash here. You dry here." My training was complete.

I was glad he didn't say more because his accent was so thick I couldn't understand anything he said anyway. I was confident that my dish washing at home had prepared me quite well. I was a very good dish washer. I knew by the end of the day Vince would realize that I was the best dish washer he had ever employed, or so I thought.

It wasn't long after I put on my white apron that people started arriving for their evening meal. It was slow at first and I was easily able to keep up with the flow of dirty dishes. This job wasn't so bad I thought and I was doing such a good job I was sure Vince would be impressed. Sure the delicate wine glasses were a bit of a problem and I was worried I would break one, but I had a system that worked. As the restaurant began to fill up and the smell of spaghetti sauce and baking pizza filled the restaurant, I scrubbed the dishes until they were squeaky clean, individually washed each and every knife, fork, and spoon, and carefully washed those fragile wine glasses.

But the problem was I was falling behind. The table to my right was filling up with dirty dishes, glasses and utensils. There was no space on the table for dishes, so the bus boy just started piling them into the shape of a small volcano ready to erupt.

I couldn't figure out how I was going to keep up as it took a long time to dry each and every dish and utensil with my one small dish towel -- not to mention how long it took to polish each wine glass to a crystal like sheen. Clearly my system was beginning to fail. The dining room was running out of clean dishes.

And then Vince stormed around the corner spied the growing pile of dirty dishes and me standing there carefully polishing a wine glass with my dish cloth. His face became beet red and he bellowed, "No Dry, No Dry," turned around stormed out.

So that's the secret! You don't dry restaurant dishes, it never occurred to me. A few minutes later the bus boy came back to help me catch up and give me some tips on how to properly wash restaurant dishes. I think the bus boy took devilish delight in my failure. It was a verrrrry long night, but thanks to Vince's "training program," I made it.

At the end of my shift when the restaurant closed, Vince came back to my "work station" and told me it was time to eat. I was worried he would give me a stern lecture about my rocky start, but he didn't say a word. He wanted me to eat.

Now, the last thing I had on my mind was eating a plate of spaghetti after four or five hours of scraping spaghetti and meatballs off dirty plates. But I was afraid of Vince and understood little of what he said to me, so I ate. And later, out of respect, I ate every night at the end of my shift, hungry or not. I grew to like and respect Vince as he really was a very nice and considerate man who worked very hard and took pride in his restaurant. And it wasn't too long before I could understand, with reasonable certainty, what Vince was saying.

In later years when I ordered dinner or pizza for take-out, I often sat with Vince and Inge in their booth and we talked. It was usually about past employees, business, politics, or family. I will miss those chats.

Over the years as I grew older, married and had a family, Nino's became a regular stop for the Jensen clan. The food was good and Vince always welcomed us with his booming voice. I don't think I ever ordered anything but a half and half with meatballs even when they took it off the menu. My son and daughter liked going to the restaurant and sitting in the front booth as it was situated directly adjacent to a large aquarium and it kept them entertained looking at the fish.

They also liked the wishing well that sat in the center of the room and my son, in particular, loved the "Blue Grotto" picture on the North wall. Who would have guessed? Never understood that one.

During my tenure working as the chief and only dishwasher for Vince and Inge, I learned the story of how they came to Long Beach with virtually nothing and with hard work, crafted a productive life without benefit of any "handouts." It was what I saw as the personification of what this country is all about. Work hard with honest intent and you can prosper.

Vince was an American success story and Long Beach will miss him. I know I will.

Previously on LBReport.com: Common Sense by Terry Jensen (continuing series):