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| The traditional, yet non-existent, happy Thanksgiving dinner |
I have long thought about whether this blog should
exclusively deal with food, fun and frivolity, since as most of you know, I’m
all about the frivolity. For some,
sports have been the “toy store” of their lives, their outlet from the stress
and daily grind. For me, at various
times of my life, it has been music performance, whether concert, jazz or
“hoop” bands, or drum and bugle corps, whether a local corps (Sharpshooters of
Framingham) or a Class A (the 27th Lancers of
Revere, Massachusetts). However, the
constant diversion has been food, and not just consumption, but cooking. At times, I have focused on baking breads,
preparing stir-frys, or grilling, and as many of you faithful readers know, I
smoke a lot of meat.
My love of food, both preparing and eating, probably derives
from my father, former proprietor of “B.J.’s Diner” in Framingham. From working there, for him, I got a crash
course on food prep, short-order cooking and profanity. And I took those skills, mostly the
profanity, to McDonalds, to my own kitchen, and to the kitchen at Temple Beth
Sholom in Framingham. Along the way, I really thought about
what it meant to have a great meal.
Meals can mean a lot. For some, a great meal is strictly quantity, and for others, it is a certain food that brings back memories of a different time. In the dark recesses of my mind, I have a lot of great meal memories, a
couple of which I’ve referenced before on these pages. Here are three that standout:
1) My father, who
likes both quantity and quality, but mostly quantity, once ate 19 lobsters at
one meal, at Custy’s Rusty Scupper in Rhode Island. Sure, they were likely only 1.25 lb lobsters,
but they had both claws and the tail, and all the feelers and for a man that
stood 5 feet, 6 inches, and only weighed about 150 pounds, it was impressive. Being witness to my father’s systematic
breakdown of these poor crustaceans was like watching Michael DeBakey perform
heart surgery at Baylor…confident, expert and precise, leaving no piece of
lobster flesh un-eaten (at least as far as my father is concerned-I don’t think
DeBakey had the same appetite for organ meat).
All my father needed was a surgical gown and rubber gloves.
Of course, as my dad aged, his appetite waned, and with Alzheimer’s
and dementia, he has very little interest in food. Time has not been kind to him, or his
voracious appetite, but the last time I took him to an all-you-can-keep-down
Chinese buffet, those poor crawfish had no idea what hit them.
2. Taken, in part,
from an earlier post: “House of Roy” was
THE Chinese restaurant of my childhood.
This was way before the days of Mandarin and Szechwan cuisine, when all
Chinese food came swimming in a brown oyster-style sauce. This place defined “craphole”; it was a few
steps up literally, but several steps down, figuratively. The floor was collapsing, so you were always
leaning left when you walked in. The
bathroom floors weren’t much better, and if you’ve ever been in a bathroom in
an old Chinatown building…well, you don’t need any further information.
For years, we’d truck into Boston’s Chinatown at least twice
a month, and dine at the “House”. We
were hooked; we were addicted to that place, like Drago to those injections
from Bridgette Nielson. Sometimes we’d
meet other families, sometimes just us, but one thing never changed: the House
of Roy Special, and boy, was this special.
Long before I avoided foods that were biblically not kosher
(shellfish and pork, for you fans keeping score at home), the “Special” was the
apex of gastronomical pleasures. I only
wish I had an old menu so I could explain everything in this bucket of
food. It was a mélange of beef, chicken,
shrimp, peapods, water chestnuts, bamboo shoots tossed in the brown sauce. Poured onto a platter, it was surrounded by
fried wontons, and covered with pork strips.
Here me now and believe me later…this was an orgiastic feast for the
senses.
My parents promised me that I could have my own Special, the
week before my bar mitzvah, as my ticket to manhood. My father put the gauntlet before me, by
saying I could never finish it off, as it was really made for 14 people. Well, determined to show him…I went deep into
training. I ate light that whole
weekend, and didn’t eat at all on Sunday, preparing for Sunday night’s sumptuous
repast. Well, we ordered two, one for
the rest of the table, and one for me.
The anticipation was more than I could bear…I dug into that
thing like John Henry, swinging his mighty hammer. I ate, and ate, and ate some more, and I
didn’t make a dent! The thing was possessed;
regenerating itself after every bite I took.
I vaguely recall my father taking the rest, after I passed out into my
food coma. I ate so much; I still think
I have some left in me, over 35 years later.
When we left, I don’t think I made it 10 feet from the
steps, but I’m sure Roy appreciated it when I decided to decorate the parking
lot instead of his rest room. It was
immense, intense, and a fine “how do you do” into the landscape of bingeing, and
apparently purging. Unlike my father,
who can consume and immense amount of food, and eat 19 lobsters, I was a mere
amateur. Don’t worry Joey Chestnut, your
crown is safe from me.
3. In November 1992,
after a long academic push for both Elayne, and me, our professional licensure
exams were in our rear-view mirror: hers
the CPA exam, and mine, the bar! Our
parents decided it would be time to celebrate these occasions; though she had
been at Grant Thornton for over a year by then, slacking off, only working the
mandated minimum, which back then, was 80 hours a week…in the slow season. Elayne and I saw it as a chance to celebrate
entering our careers, while we came to understand that our parents were really
celebrating getting us off the family payroll!
An evening at Spinnaker Italia with a corner table overlooking the
Charles on one side and downtown Boston on the other was booked, replete with
wine, food and more wine (at least for some).
It was a fine night, with a fine meal…but ended with my mother
disappearing for quite a while. This was
well before cell phones, and we had no idea where she went. She came back, and when pressed for what
happened, she merely said she had gone to the restroom, and bumped into someone
on the way back. As we completed our
dessert, a young couple, not older than 22 or 23 came by, and could not stop
thanking my mother. It was as if she was
the Queen of England and these people had just been granted an audience. Our entire table exchanged “what the hell???”
glances as the couple thanks her some more, and then left. Now we needed answers.
My mother was not quite inclined to share details, but I
have a certain amount of relentlessness in me (geez, is that where my kids get
that???). As the story goes, when my
mother was coming back from the bathroom, she walked past that young
couple. They had come the restaurant to
celebrate some special event, and had a gift certificate, but the certificate
had expired. Without money to pay, and
without a valid gift certificate, they were stuck. My mother approached a manger, without their
knowledge, and paid the bill. As they
were leaving, the manager identified my mother to them, and they thanked her. Somewhere out there, this story is part of
their personal history (if they’re even still together), and if you happen to
read this…hi. Soooooo, our special
dinner that night was also made special for them, by a stranger’s kindness, and
probably some drunkenness as well.
I’d love to share other people’s stories too, so feel free,
dear readers, to email me at criticialpalate at gmail dot com and if fit for
human consumption, I’ll post them here to share.
Until next time America…
