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  • The Love of His Life

    FresnoBee.com

    The Love of His Life

    Johnnie Bedrosian thought his life was over when his wife died suddenly 13
    years ago. Today, his down-home Armenian deli thrives on her inspiration.

    By Doug Hoagland
    The Fresno Bee

    (Updated Monday, February 28, 2005, 6:02 AM)
    Johnnie Bedrosian loved his Virginia.

    He planted a rose garden -- Virginia's Garden -- outside the
    deli-restaurant he opened after losing her to cancer.

    He hung a portrait inside of this carefully coifed woman he gave a
    new Cadillac to every other year.

    He nurtured a feeling that people should matter to each other at
    his deli. The way Johnnie and Virginia mattered to each other.

    They would have celebrated their 51st wedding anniversary Sunday.

    Johnnie, a former plumber with creaky knees, found an anchor in
    the deli. Now his place is an anchor in a Fresno rushing toward a
    population of half a million.

    The ethnic neighborhoods are gone. Some of the old immigrant groups got
    rich and moved away. Freeways cut through the city, taking commuters
    on journeys that never pass places such as Bedrosian's Armenian Deli.

    But some people go out of their way to a place they call an Armenian
    "Cheers."

    Bedrosian's deli doesn't sell alcohol. And Johnnie doesn't remember
    everyone's name. (That's why he calls all the women "dah-ling.") But
    Bedrosian's is stocked with enough real-life characters to rival
    any sitcom. Chief among them is an 87-year-old busboy, Charlie
    Antaramian. The deli is crowded and noisy and not always efficient
    because Johnnie sometimes forgets to wait on one customer while he's
    talking to another.

    Every Thursday, eight men from Pilgrim Armenian Congregational
    Church sit at the front table just inside the front door. The table
    is reserved for them.

    "Even in Fresno, it can be a busy, lonely world," says Ara Guekguezian,
    senior pastor of the church and one of the Thursday group. "Many times
    you feel like the world stands against you, and our lunches are a
    reminder that you don't stand alone. You've got friends in this world."

    Johnnie, 78, thought he had no friends after Virginia died in 1992.

    "Poof," he says. "Everybody forgets you."

    The couple met the old-fashioned way: his parents arranged it.

    When Johnnie telephoned Virginia for the first time, he spoke the
    truth. "My folks told me to go with you," he said.

    "My aunt told me to go with you," she said back.

    They were married three months later at St. Paul Armenian Church,
    then a new church downtown, but since relocated a few blocks from the
    deli in east-central Fresno. Johnnie asked Virginia never to argue
    with his father. He also asked her not to spend more than $50 unless
    he agreed. He said he would do the same. She said all right.

    They had two daughters, Patrice and Karen, and they lived in a big
    house in Fresno's Sunnyside neighborhood, where Virginia loved to
    give parties. People filled the house, and they danced because the
    elegant Virginia loved to dance.

    The dark-haired young beauty that Johnnie married became a stylish,
    handsome woman with blond hair. He can still joke about that
    hair color. Armenian women don't go gray with age, he says, eyes
    twinkling. "They go automatic blond."

    In retirement, they wanted to travel. He sold his plumbing business,
    and they made their plans -- then the doctor gave her a year to
    live. She lasted five days.

    Before the funeral, Johnnie drank a big glass of bourbon. He had
    to. "I said, 'Lord, I'm not a drinker, but you know the reason.' "

    Then he drifted. He went to work for the man who bought his plumbing
    business, he helped out at another deli and, in 1998, searching for
    a sense of belonging, he opened his deli in a strip mall at First
    Street and Ashlan Avenue.

    There are green and white curtains, and green and white squares of
    linoleum, and on the shelf against one wall sit bottles of dark red
    Mideast Pure Pomegranate Juice for sale.

    Taped music -- show tunes and standards from the 1960s mixed with
    traditional Armenian tunes -- plays in the background. Red, white and
    pink plastic roses fill vases on the tables. Bedrosian family photos
    are everywhere.

    Johnnie is a sentimentalist. A flirt, too. He teases 80-year-old Rosa
    Miars, who came from Russia by way of Germany many years ago. As she
    lunches, he says for all to hear: "On the second Tuesday of next week
    we're getting married." Miars, her face colored with rouge and red
    lipstick, crinkles her eyes and smiles like a schoolgirl.

    Bedrosian continues to banter about Miars: "Can't you imagine this
    in a bikini?" The woman from Russia tosses her head and laughs.

    He has at least 10 women he's going to marry on that second Tuesday.

    Truth be told, though, there will never be anyone but Virginia for
    Johnnie. "I've never dated since my wife died," he says later. "I
    don't believe in that for me."

    One woman does have some control over Johnnie, however. She is Alla
    Sargsyan, the deli's cook.

    Nine years now in this country from Armenia, Sargsyan speaks with an
    accent, but her words are sure and confident. So when Johnnie says
    the deli's kufta meatballs, moussaka baked eggplant and a lot of
    other dishes are made from his mother's recipes, Sargsyan speaks up.

    "Johnnie, I don't use no recipes," she says defiantly. "You give me
    ideas, and I make it."

    Johnnie insists he's right, but he shrugs as a
    what-can-I-do? expression creases his face. "When we disagree, she
    gets the last word in anyway."

    At least Johnnie does get the final say on the nicknames for his menu
    items, and they're heavy on Bedrosian family connections. There's
    Brother George's Double Steak Sandwich Hye Style and Sister Mary Side
    of Pilaf and 25 other selections, each named for a relative or friend.

    Ann T. Sullivan Whitehurst is a friend and regular, but she has
    no menu item named for her. She is, however, nicknamed for one of
    them. Whitehurst calls herself the Yalanchi Princess, so named for
    stuffed grape leaves that she loves to eat at Bedrosian's.

    Whitehurst came into the deli three years ago with a friend and just
    keeps coming back. She is a diva by virtue of her operatic voice,
    and well-known for stage appearances around town. But at Bedrosian's,
    she is no prima donna. Like other customers, she pitches in to refill
    her drink when the service is slow and clear away her dishes when
    the service is nonexistent.

    Whitehurst is now so at home that she waits on tables, tries to make
    sandwiches and leads the singing of "Happy Birthday" to guests whether
    they're celebrating birthdays or not. Usually, they're not.

    Charlie Antaramian, the 87-year-old busboy, never sings. He works.
    Antaramian is married to Johnnie's sister, Neva. Charlie's Sampler
    Plate is named for him.

    Antaramian also serves, though not always efficiently. He often brings
    the wrong order to the wrong table, but it all works out eventually,
    and no one seems to mind.

    A few customers, though, complained to the county at times when Johnnie
    had a dog on the premises. It's against the law for most pets to be
    in restaurants. So Johnnie says he stopped bringing in his beloved
    champagne-colored poodle, Anoosh. She goes to a baby-sitter while
    Johnnie is at the deli.

    The baby-sitter works for free. So does Charlie Antaramian. "We try
    to help each other," he says. "It's family." Nevertheless, Johnnie
    occasionally slips Antaramian a few bills to buy some cigars. And
    Antaramian takes deli food home because 83-year-old Neva doesn't like
    to cook much anymore.

    Sister Neva's Lahmajoon Plate is named for her.

    Neva Antaramian likes to be waited on. She sits at a small corner
    table, her green eye shadow only slightly less radiant than her
    blond hair, and she flips through her women's magazines and sips the
    coffee served by her husband. Neva Antaramian doesn't work at the
    deli because her feet hurt. "And I've got this bad rotator cuff on
    my arm," she says.

    The Antaramians were there when Johnnie married Virginia, as framed
    photos on the walls of the deli show. "She and I used to argue a lot,
    but we loved each other," Neva Antaramian says of Virginia. "When
    she died, I was holding her hand."

    On Sunday, without the crowd, Johnnie remembered his wife on their
    anniversary. He wanted to be alone, and the deli was closed anyway. He
    dropped by after church for just a minute to check on the place he
    created because of Virginia. She would have loved the deli, Johnnie
    says. The people. The food. The laughter. The singing of "God Bless
    Armenia" to the tune of "God Bless America."

    Outside in Virginia's Garden, one of the rose bushes died this winter.
    Johnnie is going to replace it. He'll do it in time for spring,
    when his Virginia loved to tend her roses.

    The reporter can be reached at [email protected] or (559)
    441-6354
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