I used to have a lot of Greek diners on my routes up in North Jersey and New York. I've been called a Malaka many times, especially when it came time to pay their bill. The majority were always cool. I had one in Nutley, NJ who would not let me leave until he made me something to go. Usually it was a pumped roast beef on a kaiser roll with lettuce and tomato. He would be yelling to his guy, Coca-Cola. I knew I had better wait for the Coke and sandwich.