The eggs don’t taste right. The bacon isn’t as crispy as it once was. The servers have lost a step and the patrons don’t smile as much or laugh as heartily. The secret sauce is gone. Danny Murray is dead.
It’s been a long, lousy month since Danny Murray passed away and no one can really believe it yet. His exit was so sudden, so unexpected that it’s impossible to walk into Fairway and not see Danny the Ringmaster or listen to Danny the Raconteur. Was there ever a host, a maitre d’, or a grandmother who could make you feel more at home with so little effort? A smile, a shrug, an expression — Danny made you feel missed and welcomed. You mattered. Your kids mattered. Your strange weekend guest mattered. Your bad golf score mattered. Your home fries mattered.
Breakfast at Fairway used to be the best meal of the day, or the week, or the winter. Full of protein and promise, easygoing and timeless. All that has changed. The cereals don’t snap, crackle, or pop. The coffee doesn’t boost. The secret sauce is gone. Danny Murray is dead.
Danny had what his generation called “a gift of the gab.” He knew when to talk turkey and when to slide along the skin. He could shoot the breeze with punters and politicians alike, with bubs and bubbes, with bankers and surfers, doyens and duffers. Words poured out of him, kind words, snarky words, wise words, provocative words. Not that he wouldn’t listen — he listened hard and listened long. Like a good fisherman, he knew exactly when to sit still and when to yank a chain. And you never thought he was doing it because of his job description or a smart business decision. Authentic conviviality was second nature for Danny Murray, for he was equally amused and bemused by the whole human comedy.
Which is not to say the realities of running a crazy diner in the Hamptons did not get to him. He could roll his Irish eyes with the best of them — Danny Murray was human, first and foremost, and honest to his core. Guests could be trying. Entitled. Hungry. Hungover. Impatient. Impolite. And Danny dealt.
Cooks could be in a funk. Servers could call in sick. Muffins could be stuck in Speonk. Bees could swarm. Rain could leak. And Danny dealt.
With aplomb and an adorable exasperation — he was a most happy pessimist and a most negative optimist, looking for a dark cloud whenever he saw a silver lining.
For weeks after the sad news had spread, every Fairway phone call and conversation would start with, “Tell me it’s not true.” A man so healthy, so vibrant, so alive can’t leave this earth without warning, without illness, without a hint of farewell. ’Twas the day before Christmas and his pregnant daughter was left waiting for him at the airport near Whitefish, Montana. It was only two years after losing his wife, Janet, and his father the year before that. Who can comprehend the purpose of such a heartless holiday? Maybe Danny Murray could, but the rest of us mortals scratch our heads and stare into a half-empty cuppa joe.
Another muffin, please. Toasted. No hurry.
Another moment of silence too.
What you are reading, I am late to interject, is not an obituary as much as a jeremiad, a mournful kvetch against unnecessary cruelty and godawful timing.
The official obit was sweet and loving but may have missed the mark.
“Daniel H. Murray, 70, of Vero Beach, FL, and Southampton, NY, passed peacefully at his home . . .”
Vero Beach? Top billing over Southampton? Please. Danny Murray was not a Florida man. He was born (to run) in New Jersey, and his (hungry) heart thrived in the Hamptons, on the beaches, on the golf courses, and on his sleeve. Vero Beach may get along fine without Danny Murray, but Sagaponack is another matter. There is a huge hole at Poxabogue Golf Course and it ain’t Hole #2 (two eggs with your choice of bacon, grilled Virginia ham, or fresh sausage, served with home fries and toast).
It’s Hole #Danny.
The obit continued: “Daniel grew up in Upper Montclair and later resided in Watermill, NY.” Daniel grew up? Not sure he would appreciate the assertion that he “grew up” anywhere. Danny Murray preserved and treasured his boyish playfulness, his innocent spunk, his competitive spirit. In a rowdy Irish family with three brothers and two sisters, older and younger, politeness was not the protocol, compromise not the goal, growing up not easy.
The eggs don’t taste right. The bacon isn’t quite crispy. The servers have lost a step. The secret sauce is gone and there ain’t nothing you can do about that except remember Danny Murray and a story you once heard.
A Zen master greets his oldest friend with “Have a cup of tea.” Soon after, the Zen master greets a total stranger with the same “Have a cup of tea.” A student has observed all this and asks the Zen master how can he greet such disparate parties with the same exact salutation.
The master says, “Have a cup of tea.”
Rest in peace, Danny Murray.
Bruce Buschel is a writer who lives in Bridgehampton.