A Tale of Three Nose Piercings

Fire, a stabbing, and some lessons learned

When I was 17, I worked as a food runner at a restaurant called José Babushka’s in Traverse City, Michigan. As the name suggests, it was meant to be a blend of Mexican and Polish cuisine. The question is why?

I tried to unearth the restaurant’s origin story. I discovered that a man named Rob Kowalewski came up with the concept in the 1980’s, but oddly found no rationale for this peculiar mashup.

You might imagine kielbasa burritos, tacos topped with sauerkraut, or cheese covered pierogi nachos, but you would be wrong. The menu was just the standard Mexican fare you’d expect to find in a restaurant run by an American white dude. There wasn’t one single Polish dish, at least not that I can remember.

But, what I do remember, probably from the combined trauma of fire and embarrassment, were the “Flaming Fajitas”.

As a food runner my job was to, well yes, run food. We brought the heavy cheese and sauce laden platters out to the tables and the waitstaff tipped us out at the end of the night. (Once I lost control of my heavy tray and all of the plates slid off and crashed into the chair legs of the table it was going to, splattering all over the unfortunate souls sitting in said chairs. But that’s another story.)

I wasn’t old enough to serve alcohol so I couldn’t wait tables, where the real money was, until I was 18.

Although…and I’m only just realizing this, the accelerant we used for the Flaming Fajitas was a shot of tequila. Huh.

Anyway, the fajitas were served on a burning hot cast iron skillet, with a cover over the handle akin to an oven mitt, and set atop a rounded wooden plate. Before serving the fajitas, we were required to say to the customers at the table, “I’m going to light this fajita on fire, and when I do everyone say Olé!”

Can you feel my teenage mortification still traveling through space and time?

Honestly, it wasn’t too bad if it was a big group of people, especially if they’d already been lubed up by a round or two of margaritas. But, if it was just two people, say a couple on their first date? Sheer agony for everyone involved.

But, it had to be done. I never knew if the head food runner, Todd, was cheerfully lurking, silly buttons pinned to his apron embroidered with the José Babushka’s logo: a tiny man with blond hair and a blond walrus mustache, holding out his sombrero in greeting, and sitting atop a donkey.

photo courtesy of Andy Baumann, fellow former José Babushkian

So, after giving the instructions for forced gaiety, I would douse the sizzling meat with tequila, and light a match to it, stepping back as it erupted in flames. (Unfortunately, I learned that lesson the hard way. Singed bangs are not a cute look.)

“Olé!” I would shout.

If I was lucky, the customers would join in, but often they did not. As they laughed uncomfortably, I would place the fajita in front of the unwitting cause of our collective embarrassment, and say, “This plate is very hot.” Just in case the fact that it was aflame mere seconds before didn’t give that away.

And what did the customer do 95% of the time? That’s right, they touched the plate.

“Ow!”

No shit, I felt like saying. Why couldn’t they have shouted Olé with that amount of volume and passion?

José Babushka’s wasn’t just a restaurant. The other, cooler half was a bar. Since I couldn’t serve or drink alcohol, I didn’t mix with the bar staff much. But, one day, just as my 18th birthday was approaching, I met one of the cocktail waitresses and was fascinated to see that she had her nose pierced. This was way before it was a “thing”, at least in Northern Michigan. In fact, this was the first person I had ever seen with a piercing anywhere but their ears.

I thought it looked so pretty and cool! I asked where she had gotten it done, and she said a doctor had done it, which didn’t surprise me at the time because what did I know?

Now I know that this was unusual. Although not common, some tattoo parlors did body piercings back then, and there were a few specialized piercing studios, but I’m certain none where I lived. Many people pierced their own noses, or friends pierced each other’s noses, which just sounds horrifying.

I admit, I had pierced my own ears several times before the age of 12. I used two ice cubes to freeze my earlobe, doused a needle in alcohol, held a bar of soap behind my ear, and jabbed the needle through.

I remember a lot of blood, followed several days later by itchy crusty painful infections. Undeterred, I’d let the holes heal up, then try again. Finally, someone took me to Claire’s to get my ears pierced properly, with a gun.

But noses seem so much more tender. And unsanitary.

I’m lucky the cocktail waitress hadn’t taken an ice cube and needle to her own nose. I probably would have blindly followed suit.

As soon as I turned 18, I made the appointment. I’m not sure exactly what type of doctor he was, but the office was homey and his wife was there to assist. She had a nose ring as well, and she told me that she had gotten her belly button pierced for her fiftieth birthday. Wow!

She had me mark the spot on my nose using a fine tipped marker, then held my hand as the doctor punctured my nose with a sterilized needle. The pain was sharp and made my eyes water. I squeezed the wife’s hand hard. They were both very kind.

The nose ring he inserted was actually just an earring with a regular back, the end of the post pointing perilously toward my tender septum. Blowing my nose became complicated and risky. Once my boyfriend playfully grabbed my nose and inadvertently stabbed me. The earring itself didn’t lay flat against my nose, it protruded quite a bit, and would sometimes snag painfully as I dried my face with a towel.

Below is the best picture I could find of that first nose piercing. Put your glasses on and zoom in. It’s there.

photo by Lee Rimbach, the boyfriend who stabbed me and is now my husband

My mother strongly disapproved of my nose piercing. I think she might have “disowned” me for a few days.

At my work-study job in the Adult Continuing Education office of the community college I attended, the old ladies signing up for classes would stand across the desk from me whispering in a disapproving hush about my nose ring. Some would ask me outright how I blew my nose, which I thought was just rude, despite the fact that it was a valid question that I hadn’t found the answer to yet.

How do you blow yours? I would think, but never say. Despite a controlled rebellious streak, in many ways I was quiet and well-behaved.

My manager at José Babushaka’s also strongly disapproved and told me I couldn’t wear it at work. I pointed out that one of the cocktail waitresses wore hers, and he said “That’s different,” because she worked in the bar.

I was outraged! I wouldn’t abide the hypocrisy! I quit my job at José Babushka’s right as I was about to get promoted.

Luckily, I soon found another job, as a waitress, at The Embers on Grand Traverse Bay, an upscale restaurant which catered to the conservative elderly crowd.

The uniform—brown polyester skirt, button-down pink blouse with a rounded color and a brown bowtie—looked ridiculous on my tall, big busted frame. It was meant for petite women with small breasts who looked like dolls. I looked like a giant wearing a child’s clothes.

We had to wear our hair up, but no loose ponytails! Everything had to be tucked in and secured. No dangly earrings were allowed, just posts. And, of course, no nose rings.

I could respect this because it was an across-the-board policy. So, in the bathroom before each shift, I reached into my nose with a pair of tweezers, pulled the back off, and tucked my nose ring into my change purse.

Yes, you read that right. I put it in my change purse, where it mingled with germ infested coins.

We all know the inevitable end to this story—inflammation and pus. Sadly, I had to leave my nose ring out so the piercing could heal, and by the time that happened, the hole had closed up.

But, I’m nothing if not determined. A few years later, after I had moved to Connecticut, I went with a group of friends to another Claire’s and somehow they agreed to pierce my nose. I got the impression that it wasn’t really a thing they normally did. They used the same gun they use to pierce ears.

The technician, a man as I recall, shoved the gun up my nose and pulled the trigger. The bang echoed through my skull. Overcome with pain, eyes watering, and disoriented, they sent me hurtling out the door. They must have had me pay ahead of time.

Oddly, I don’t remember what happened to that piercing, although given my utter lack of common sense about nose piercing hygiene, most likely, it too, became infected.

Many years later, after I had my daughter, I got my nose pierced for the third and final time. By then it was much more common, almost mainstream. I went to a piercing studio, where I learned that you aren’t supposed to put anything in your piercing that you wouldn’t put in your eyes. They gave me a bottle of sterile saline solution to cleanse my new piercing.

This was a revelation! I’m of an age where we smeared burning Noxzema onto our faces, used Nair to cause the hair on our legs to fall out, slathered ourselves in baby oil to broil in the sun, and doused piercings with alcohol.

The nose ring, a tiny diamond, has a short post with a rounded disc at the end. It’s so tiny in fact, that sometimes people I have known for years will suddenly notice it and say, “You have your nose pierced??”

photo by me

Unlike my first two, this nose ring isn’t dangerous at all—not one single injury.

However, I am going in for a hip replacement surgery in two weeks, and the nurse warned me that if I don’t take it out and they have to “cauterize a bleeder”, although unlikely, I might get burned at the site of the piercing.

Except I have no idea how to get it out. She said I’ll have to sign a waiver.

I’ll definitely die with it. One day I’ll be an old lady with a tiny little diamond chip in her nose, telling her grandkids how cool and badass their grandma once was.

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