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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
There is nothing like a lobster, but there are also places in Maine and Massachusetts where lobster rolls are an art.
We live pretty far central west in MA (although there is an excellent supplier of ‘caught that day’ seafood the next town), but one of my friends wants to go to the Cape or Martha’s Vineyard when I get back in 10 days. Maybe I’ll try then.
Is it considered a Yankee thing not to like deep fried food? Admittedly, I’m one and I don’t really like it (the only fried thing I eat is Korean chicken every few months), but I never knew it was a particular stereotype.
Sounds wonderful.
When I started work at the local community hospital in January of 1990, the cafeteria used to serve something called a “mile-high” hot dog. It was a hot dog (in a bun) with mashed potato on top, and cheese melted overall. A challenge to eat, but one of the two most popular dishes they served, out here in God’s country.
The other one? It was also a sort of sandwich, a bun filled with something called “frizzled jumbo.”
Weirdly enough, when I was a little kid I never used to mind my parents having to bring my sister for quite frequent appointments at Boston Children’s Hospital (they had and have a wonderful DS program), because the food was excellent. There was so much variety, almost all of it good, and I think that it was the first place that I saw a self service frozen yogurt machine. Probably the first place I saw frozen yogurt period. It didn’t hurt that the elderly doctor in charge of the program actually cared about siblings as well, and understood that they were just as burdened and affected (and more often ignored) as the parents. He’s the last DS specialist I remember that took the time to ask me a question or just how I was during an appointment.
Not really. We’ve been married 42 years now. It’s not likely that I’ll give her up.
Half Italian. Her father was from the mountains in North Carolina.
That’s really sweet. Cheers on having created and sustained such a long lasting relationship.
Thanks for the tip on Nihari. There’s a great Pakistani restaurant next town over. I tried to order Nihari, but they weren’t answering the phone (they were supposed to be open). Hope it’s not a really bad sign. They have (hopefully not had) fantastic lamb and chicken sikh kababs.
There are people on here who’ve been married longer than Lynda and I. I think @kentforrester has been married over 50 years.
Not necessarily, but deep-fried everything is definitely a Southern thing. Chicken-fried (or country-fried) steak, fried chicken, fried okra, fried onions, fried green tomatoes. I blame it on the Scots of the South. If the Scots would deep-fry a Mars Bar, they’d deep-fry anything they could catch. They must have brought it over with them.
I’ve heard of deep fried butter and deep fried ice cream.
Both quite good.
Just thinking about them makes me think I can feel my arteries clogging up.
Maybe I’m misunderstanding technique here, but deep fried butter sounds like an invitation for 3rd degree burns? Molten dairy fat does not seem like the kindest of substances for the human mouth, but is the fry sufficiently brief and the butter frozen that it only goes soft?
I’ve only heard about it. I’ve never seen it done.
I love that, it makes fried butter sound like some mysterious delicacy of the Far East, so complex and shrouded in esotericism that it cannot be reproduced.
Yes.
Edit: Well, it melts into the batter coating, but it does have to start out frozen hard.
Why hasn’t that guy had a heart attack already?
The Minnesota State Fair–sadly not taking place this year–has deep-fried everything.
Butter is good for you, it’s margarine (and the carbs) that kills.
The Big E has a ton of fried stuff, but all I’m interested in junk food wise is my Dippin’ Dots. They have ones that are themed for each participating state, and MA’s is great, mostly made with different cranberry products.
Mmmm…cranberries.
They’re incredibly expensive in England, just like imported peanut butter (ie peanut butter that actually tastes the way it is supposed to). Definitely going to make a batch of cranberry pecan muffins with oat crumble when I get home.
Yes but show her this and you might get some fried food.
Not a chance.
Funny. I used to take cranberries to my mother. Also, peanut butter.
Reminds me of this scene from “Always Be My Maybe”:
LOL. I’ve never seen that.