Redux

by Rin Swann

The Grand Concourse Restaurant was, in a single word, timeless. From the swirling lines of the complex mosaic on the floor, like living snakeskin, to the elaborate white tables, the entire restaurant felt like a snippet of the long-lost past. High above, the orange-tinted stained glass windows scattered a hazy gold film across the air. The effect made the restaurant glow with the old-timey quality I associated with vintage movies.

Built in 1901, the historic building had once been known as the Pittsburgh Grand Central Train Station. As the photos on the wall showcased, before the long tables and open bar existed, there were a series of worn wooden seats. As I closed my eyes, I swore I could still smell decades-old cigarette smoke from patrons as they waited for their trains.

But that was a long time ago. Pittsburgh Grand Central closed in 1974. The empty space had sprawled across Station Square for four years before a restaurateur bought the old building. Rather than redecorate in the vibrant pop art of the 70s, the designer chose to focus instead on preserving the old building. It was a slice of history served with every plate of steak.

Preservation was something I thought about a lot that summer. What makes a certain moment worth preserving? Which ones do you pick? And, more importantly, can the replica ever live up to the memory?

With only two weeks left before I returned to Iowa City for my senior year and less than a month before my mother and brother moved to South Carolina, I thought about what it meant to not only create a memory but recreate one.

I had spent my entire life living in Pittsburgh. I grew up hiking in North Park by the lake. I danced through my prom night at the Convention Hall two blocks down from the Grand Concourse Restaurant. I spent my childhood eating pierogies in the Strip District.

From Pittsburgh, I had collected scars and tattoos like fingerprints. It was where I found my closest friends and lived through my greatest moments. But it was also where I experienced the worst days of my life. It was the place where my mom and I left my father. The place she couldn’t leave until her court case had ended only a few weeks ago.

Pittsburgh was every joy and every heartbreak. Which ones were worth more than another? Which ones were worth preserving?

“You’re lost in your head again,” Lexie, my best friend of eight years, said as the hostess led us to our table. It was a short, white square at the very edge of their extended seating with a wide view of the Ohio River. In the distance, I could see the Gateway Clipper: the boat our graduating class rode on during our senior year of high school.

“Sorry,” I said. “You’re right. It’s just… you’re leaving on Monday. And we’re not going to see each other again for months, maybe longer.”

“Don’t do that,” Lexie said. “I don’t want to think about it. We promised: we are not going to cry until I drive back to school.”

I drew in a deep breath and nodded. “We’ve got too much to do for tears.”

“Exactly,” she said as she plopped down in her seat with a very unladylike thud.

The Grand Concourse was hardly the only stop on our Farewell Pittsburgh tour. We still had to visit the Flower Gardens and the Cathedral of Learning and the Fort Pitt Tunnel tomorrow. We still had to listen to our songs from high school and rewatch our favorite episodes of Game of Thrones.

Lexie’s family had moved out of town a year before and she currently lived in an off-campus apartment at Ohio University. The only reason she came to Pittsburgh anymore was to see me. It meant that weekend was a goodbye for her too: a final, severed connection to the city we shared.

I think that was why she suggested the Grand Concourse for dinner. Lexie was always the type to reminisce about history. She loved old movies and period pieces and vintage clothes. Even that night, wearing our chic modern jumpsuits, she had borrowed a costume replica of Kate Middleton’s ring I had in the back of my drawer. It was her way to feel immersed in the moment.

So, I focused on that ring as I brought myself away from the future. The past was always good for a lingering visit. I ordered a cocktail in a coupe glass and stirred the foaming egg whites on top with a painted nail.

I giggled over the bread as Lexie recounted some of her stories from college and I was genuinely shocked by how much I loved the clam soup. It was the perfect mix of creamy and thick and the spice was hot enough to warm me on the way down.

We shot dirty looks at an ex-flame of Lexie’s and his girlfriend that sat at the table next to us. We texted wildly under the table, poking fun about how he was still with the same awful girl six years later.

When my fish and rice arrived, decorated into a gravity-defying pyramid shape, Lexie pointed at an apartment building across the water. “That’s where we're going to live after grad school. Well, I’m going to live there, but you can come along too.”

I snorted over my fish. “Thanks, but I don’t know where I’m going after school yet.”

“Well, here is as good a place as any.”

I supposed it was. In the dim glow of the restaurant, it was almost like nothing changed. It was still me and my best friend, making sweeping declarations and big plans. There was no time passing. We existed in the same reality as always.

We reminisced about our greatest high school highlights. We moaned and groaned about the same people we always did. We mockingly adopted the upper-class British accents we made up when we were fifteen.

By the time we paid the check, it was easy to forget that I was leaving home soon. The Grand Concourse has that effect on people. When something exists in a single bubble in space, it's easy to forget that you don’t as well.

As we paid the check and left the restaurant, we went up to the pier for photos. It was sunset and the orange glow cast across the sky felt different than the light in the restaurant. That light felt like a photograph, a stolen moment. This one felt like a coming change.

“I’m going to miss this place so much,” I told Lexie as we stood at the top of the pier.

“We’ll visit. And maybe we’ll live here one day.”

We could. But that was the thing about replicas. They were only perfect from a distance.