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Friday Food and Drink Post: Restaurant Memories
Ah, but not in the way you’re thinking, although I’d love to hear about the most expensive/best/worst meal you’ve ever eaten when you were dining out. Remember that? I do, and I miss it, even though my family’s endeavors in that area rarely approached the exorbitant, the world-class, or even the gourmet. (One startling exception was the lunch that Dad and my siblings enjoyed at Le Manoir Aux Quat’Saisons in Oxfordshire, on one of my infrequent jaunts home. A member of our party was employed there, so we enjoyed a small discount, but even so, I think the damage for lunch was more than a fortnight’s take-home pay at the time. You’ll get the idea, if you browse the website, and you’ll also see what an absolutely lovely venue it is.)
No, I’d just as soon be replete from a meal at Shorty’s Lunch on West Chestnut Street, in Washington, PA, where two people can still eat their fill for under $10 the pair. Alas, part of the experience at Shorty’s is also that of the venue itself–in this case, 1930s diner and the grease that goes with it. The above Wikipedia link quotes Rick Sebak, a local documentarian (who, as it happens, I was at high school with), saying, “There’s no other place like it. They haven’t changed a thing in there since the place opened in the late 1930s. That’s what’s great about Shorty’s. It has a high funk factor.” True dat. In these COVID-19 days of “takeout only,” it’s clear that something is missing in the deal. Still good hot dogs, though. (They’re from Alberts, @phcheese. I’m guessing you know about Shorty’s.)
But (please observe that nothing comes before “but”) today I’m thinking about embarrassing incidents that have stamped certain restaurant experiences firmly on your heart or in your brain. I’ll go first and relate three, none of which is supremely awful–I’d have to include experiences of dining out with my mother in order for that to be the case, and I can’t quite go there right now–but which, reflected in tranquility, cause me to miss the people involved, or the life-stage that they were at when they happened. Ready?
First: Dad, my sister, her friend and I went out for a Balti in Birmingham one day. I should think it was in 2004 or 2005. For those not familiar, a “balti” is a curry (choose your heat level) served in a metal bowl, with a separate bowl of rice, and a stack of fresh naan bread, in what Americans would call “family style”–you dole out your own portions at the table from the large bowls each is served in. It’s almost like a curry “stir fry.” (No idea how culturally appropriative, or not, this is, or how authentic, but they’re very popular in the UK. @zafar.)
So, there we were. A noisy, cramped little place, full of Indians, Pakistanis, Brits, apparently of all ethnic persuasions, and us. And a charming server attempting to ascertain what we’d like in in the curry. We ticked off all the things we enjoyed (fortunately, we were all fond of plenty of heat), until we got to okra.
This stopped Dad (who was in his 80s at the time) in his tracks. “Okra!” he exclaimed. Marvelous stuff! RAGING APHRODISIAC!!!”
Suddenly, it got very quiet. My sister, her friend, and I developed a new interest in studying our menus. Dad finished ordering. (There was plenty of okra.)
Second: On what may have been the same trip to Britain, we organized a family get-together, including Auntie Pat (early 80s), Uncle Arthur (late 90s) several cousins, my brother, and the self-same sister, Dad, and me. We held our little celebration at the Peacock Inn in Worcestershire, a conveniently central location, and a lovely place. As usual, we were doing our family thing, loudly, with everyone talking at once and almost no-one listening to anyone else. Auntie Pat, a primary-school teacher (5-6 years old) for over 40 years, excels at this sort of thing, and since she has a particularly distinctive voice, it’s easy to pick her out, even amid the general racket we all make.
A lovely lady who must have been in her early 50s gingerly approached the table. “It’s Miss Muffett, isn’t it?” she asked, rather timidly.
She hadn’t seen Pat’s face, or heard Pat’s voice, since about 1960.
I think it’s the only time I’ve seen Pat at a loss for words in her life. (BTW, she was 97 last week, may she live forever. The “last made and latest left” of my Dad’s generation on his side of the family. Bonus point for identifying the slight misquotation from one of her favorite poems).
Third: This one took place in the good old US of A, at the Eat ‘n Park in Altoona, PA. Like Shorty’s, Eat ‘n Park is a local institution, a regional chain in parts of PA, OH, and WV. It started as a drive-in in the late 1940s, and also like Shorty’s, it maintains a loyal customer base. I regularly found myself the youngest person in the dining room when we took my mother-in-law out for a meal. “Where would you like to go?” we’d ask, and we’d list several alternatives ranging from the very nice to a bit special. “Umm.” she’d inevitably say. “Could we go to Eat ‘n Park?”
So when our granddaughter was born in 2008, you bet we took her to Eat ‘n Park, and told her about the good times we’d had as a family there over the decades. The waitresses remembered her and “Grandpa,” and she always felt among friends, as she enjoyed the kids’ mac ‘n cheese, accepted her free cookie, and scribbled all over the placemat with the crayons she was given.
And one day, when she was about two-and-a-half, she wanted to share a special accomplishment with her friends at Eat ‘n Park. I expect she (who has a fine sense of drama) thought about the best way to communicate her achievement as she ate her meal and drank her milk. And finally, the moment arrived! When she’d eaten her fill, she suddenly jumped up and put her feet on the faux-leather of the booth seat, turned herself to face the other customers, lifted her skirt up over her head, and shouted “I HAVE BIG GIRL PANTIES ON!”
All the old ladies and gentlemen in the room, and every member of the staff, dissolved in fits of laughter. Our granddaughter was very pleased with herself. And then we had ice cream.
That’s all I got.
You?
Published in General
Yeah, I’m sure you guys wouldn’t just provide him with more material.
I was thinking more along the lines of getting the dissertation advisor’s email address. We could desensitize him to toxic Americans. Your dad will seem like a breath of fresh air.
Haha, if my dis is enough of a torture this coming year, I might just take you up on it. I think we’re kind of equally wary of one another, although we have the same taste in books, music, etc; I’m afraid that I’ll do something too American and make him think less of me (long story short, our departmental tutor treats me like I’m slow for my accent and it hasn’t exactly been positive reinforcement), and he’s probably afraid that, when he least expects it, I’ll hug him or something similarly anti-English. Really, based on my mark comments, he’d probably just like it if I talked more and didn’t look as though I was being submitted to Chinese water torture every time I have to do a presentation.
I never indulged, but I understand that nursing students were prime targets back in the day.
Well, now, there’s an idea, too.
I’m not at Oxford; one of the other two top three UK unis (though they change position every year it seems) on the League Table. (I’m deliberately vague for the sake of privacy, especially because I want to have a career in academia, but am contemplating Oxford for a master’s). And actually, that particular professor is a Cambridge man through and through. Thank you for the advice, though. I will check it out.
Two weeks ago a friend and I were able to have lunch at a lovely restaurant overlooking Puget Sound. I told the sweet little waiter standing there with his mask on and a twinkle in his eyes what a thrill to be able to actually sit down and be served!! It’s hard to believe that I’ve been having lunch out with friends two or three times a week for years until Covid reared it’s ugly head.
This actually just reminded me of something that happened this year. My dis advisor was also my History of the Enlightenment, 1680-1800 prof (it’s his speciality), and one of the weeks in Lent Term was about the Enlightenment and the American colonies. I always sit in the front of the room when he does the lecture, and at one point he started going on about how the 13 colonies had no real independent literary/artistic culture, and were just slavishly derivative. The same moment he said that, I glanced up to check a name he had written on the board for spelling, and I guess I must not have looked too happy, because he kind of sputtered and back tracked, talking about how that changed and was never 100% true, just mostly. Can’t imagine what he thought I was going to do to him, I’m not exactly the most intimidating looking person ever.
Back to She’s subject. (Sorry, second time today.)
I took my parents to Jimmies of Savin Rock in West Haven, Connecticut. Savin Rock had been an amusement park. It traced its roots back to the 1870s. In 1925, a guy and his brother had the brilliant idea of splitting hot dogs. They built a stand which was one among many, but because Nutmeggers had never seen a split hot dog before, it took off. As it grew, the park declined, finally closing down in 1966. The restaurant remained. Mom had her lobster, Dad his oysters and fried clams, and I had surf and turf. Maybe not the fanciest meal I’ve ever had, but a good value and a fantastic view of the Sound.
In the fall of 1974, my wife and I went to New Orleans with another couple and on a quiet Sunday night we ate oysters at the Acme Cafe. Being a quiet Sunday night, there wasn’t much noise. Somebody across the restaurant laughed loudly in a weird cackling but melodic way. With perfect timing my friend Gordon, cried out loudly “Wipeout!” It was hilarious because the laughter that preceded it sounded just like the opening guitar rift from the Ventures song. You had to be there to appreciate it but it seems like yesterday to me.
I had never heard of split hot dogs until you mentioned it, I had to Google to make sure it was what it sounded like. There’s nothing like fried seafood in the coastal parts of the Northeast, although I’m ashamed to admit as a MA native that I don’t think I’ve ever had a lobster roll. Did cook lobsters with my dad when I was little. That sounds like a great spot to eat.
Lobster rolls are poor substitutes for lobsters. My folks were in Connecticut for about 10 days visiting me. We went to a little lobster shack near the beach in Milford one evening and ate at the picnic tables out front. Huge lobsters for next to nothing.
Lobsters? You’re eating prisoner food? 😜
Balti means bucket – apparently a balti curry was first served from a bucket, hence the name.
It’s an English thing, first put together by migrants in some place like Manchester or Birmingham.
Ah, you all make me so nostalgic. I have no tale to tell other than we found this restaurant by chance, as we always do, and it is my favorite restaurant in the world. It’s called Lo Scoglio Ubriaco, in Cefalu. It means The Stumbling Drunk. the food is the best I’ve ever tasted anywhere, but the views are entrancing. We stumbled in for lunch and stayed for three hours, which is a normal lunch time there. My favorite dish was zuppa di cozze, muscles. (Their lamb shank was good, too. And their fish was marvelous.)
Thanks for the reminder.
View to the left
View of my favorite dish
I think of To Catch a Thief every time I think of the place.
I think chicken tikka masala is often purported to have the same origin. My roommates are Pakistani, and the food they cook is wonderful. (They’re also a bit older than me, by about 6 years, so I tend to get babied. The stove wasn’t working one day, and instead of just telling me to get takeaway, they began brainstorming in Urdu and English what they could give me, “because she has to eat dinner.” They settles on an old royal Mughal dish they made the day before that was in the fridge (particularly because they knew I was in a module that was focused on Mughal history), I wish I could remember the name, that was made primarily of beef in a thick sauce/curry, and naan. It was one of the best things I’ve ever had).
95% sure it was this:
https://www.google.com/amp/s/food.ndtv.com/food-drinks/nihari-history-of-the-meaty-and-buttery-breakfast-staple-of-the-mughals-1795358%3famp=1&akamai-rum=off
Yum. Pakistani food tends to be really good.
It is, I wish the US (at least where I live) had as much good Indian and Pakistani food as the UK. We all keep kind of crazy schedules, between classes, sports, and extra curriculars, so by like Thursday night they’re getting started on curry at 11:30 pm, just as I’m getting back from Muay Thai practice, and we all end up eating at 12:45-1:00 am. Midnight curry when you’ve had nothing else but a piece of fruit all day, and just got done with rough physical exercise, is divine. I seriously want to hug their moms when they come for graduation next year for raising such kind, tidy, and culinarily talented young men.
What a location. The food looks pretty good, too.
I was spoiled for seafood during my summers on Prince Edward Island during my high school and college years. “Lobster Suppers” have been a thing there for decades, starting out as fundraisers in church basements, and eventually becoming a profitable staple of the Island’s summer tourist season. The last one I attended would have been in 2008, at the Fisherman’s Wharf restaurant in North Rustico. At the time, they were still putting all-you-can-eat buckets of PEI mussels on the table throughout the meal, although I don’t know if they still do that.
But the best seafood meal I’ve ever eaten was a spontaneous beach party featuring 34 lobsters just brought in from the traps (many of which I’d pulled myself), boiled in seawater and served warm, lots of the aforementioned PEI mussels, fresh bread, and beer. No restaurant needed, just friendship and what Geoffrey Chaucer called “felaweship.”
My mother use to split our hotdogs when we didn’t have hotdog buns . She would split the dog and put it on a single piece of bread and fold it over.
Want try something really good try a Ripper. It’s a deep fried natural casing sheep skin hotdog. They rip open during the course of frying thus the name Ripper.
Mom used to split the dogs, put cheese in the notch, wrap bacon around the result, and pop them in the oven. Restaurants, especially sit-down hotdog joints around Chicago call those ‘francheesies.’
I haven’t had anything deep fat fried in 30 years. My wife doesn’t believe in it. Though we’re having egg rolls whether she wants to or not.
Sounds fantastic.
Cheese and bacon, you must have been rich. Bet you even had Grey Poupon .
You could get a new wife you know. Let her Rip.
Well, it might have been Velveeta. Mustard was usually just yellow salad mustard.
Meaty and buttery? How could it not be good?
Did you marry a Yankee girl?