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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
I’ve been enlisted to smuggle back Heinz Salad Cream for a friend. I also always take a bunch of Cadbury and Waitrose chocolate.
Esoterica is now another -ism? Sign me up.
Mmm. Dave’s Lunch. A long-gone greasy spoon (that’s what we call such places around here) in the Boulevard of the Allies Parking Garage right in downtown Pittsburgh, amid the gasoline fumes and the city grime. (This was in my college and early working days, so late 70s, early-to-mid 80s. It’s been gone for decades.) They had a simply delicious “blue burger,” with oodles of blue cheese and slatherings of thinly-sliced (fresh) onion on a delicious, dripping with grease, burger. Before they slapped the meat inside, they toasted the inside of the buns on the greasy griddle which I don’t think had been cleaned since the previous century. Mr. She introduced me to Dave’s, and it was a guilty pleasure at lunchtime while I worked downtown, for years. Lord, they were good.
A Pittsburgh institution which has survived and thrived, although I’m not sure that’s an entirely good thing, is Primanti Brothers. The original one is in the Strip District (not that kind of “strip”), but they’ve gone regional and there are now several restaurants around and about in strip malls. You have to go to the original location at two or three AM to get the proper ambiance, though. The truckers who’re delivering the day’s meat and produce to the Strip are in there, it’s rowdy and fun, and the waiters are insolent and insulting as they deliver their signature sandwich, stuffed with meat, cheese, coleslaw, french fries, tomatoes and dressing. All inside the bread. It’s an experience too, but not of the Le Manoir aux Quat’ Saisons sort. Again, h/t Mr. She, who was a bit too modest when he used to say that the only things he’d been able to teach me how to do were watch American football and drink American whiskey.
On the cultural appropriation front (I think it should be called “cultural inappropriation,” if they’re really serious about it), and reaching back to my early years, one of the flavors I hanker for is “Jolof Rice.” This was a Nigerian staple, a spicy rice and tomato dish, usually with chicken, sometimes with beef. I’ve never been able to replicate it correctly, although this looks interesting, and when the temperature cools down a bit (it’s 92 here, at almost 7PM) later this year, I might give it a whirl.
Speaking of Pittsburgh, I’ve had Peking duck in Peking, Pad Thai in Thailand (it’s so authentic there!), drunk Saigon beer in Saigon and lao Lao in Laos. But when I was in Pittsburgh I asked for a Pittsburgh steak, black on the outside, red on the inside. And no one there had ever heard of it. Has anyone heard of Pittsburgh steak cooked this way?
Kind of like the Boston Cooler, which comes from Detroit.
No, I never have. Not really indicative of anything though. (Have you had Bombay Duck in Bombay? Never mind. Trick question. “Bombay Duck” is actually a fish of some sort, but I know it more as an old British expression meaning “upside down.” No idea how that came to be.)
I made an (authentic) Pad Thai at a wonderful cooking class I attended in Chiang Rai Thailand, a couple of years ago. Part of the experience was a shot of Lao Khao (the Thai equivalent of the Laotian rice whiskey). Tasted like nothing so much as furniture polish. Ugh. And I thought Grappa was vile.
But here’s the Pad Thai:
We started out the day with a visit to the Central Market, to buy the ingredients for our dishes:
We chose the three meals we’d be making: The Pad Thai, a Hot and Sour Shrimp Soup, and a Panang. And Sweet Rice with Mango for Dessert.
Hard work, making the red curry paste in a mortar and pestle, from the raw ingredients:
To cool us down, Suwanee then provided a refreshing “smoothie” made from Thai basil and fresh pinapple–delicious!
The Hot and Sour Soup:
And the Panang (note the perfect little glob of red curry paste.):
As if all that deliciousness wasn’t enough–taking pandan leaves and butterfly pea flower and making green and blue dye for the dessert rice:
One of the sweetest days of my life. And a perfect memory forever.
That is just too powerful. It’s making my mouth water, or at least my mind yearn. By the way, perhaps this is to the OP, lao Lao is Laotian “whiskey from sticky rice” so it’s probably the same as Lao Khao. I remember when I first tried it. My wife an I were at a quiet local place on the Mekong, and there were men who started playing stringed instruments and something like a recorder and singing quietly in the corner of the stilt-deck. I went over and listened, and the music and the sunset over the Mekong was absolutely enchanting. And all of them spoke English and invited me to try some loa Loa. They poured it out of a bottle that one kept in a back pack. What I had was very good; very sweet, but crisp, clean and clear. I played a little bit and we talked. They were all off-duty policemen. We played and sang into the night. It was unexpected and wonderful. I’ll never forget the sound of the recorder as the whole sky finally turned red, reflecting off the river.
When we were first getting to know our now son-in-law (who grew up in Greenville, PA, but spent a lot of time in Pittsburgh), he took us to Primati Brothers. He was somewhat disappointed that I was unwilling to give the signature sandwich a try.
We really do eat a lot of it in Bombay (now Mumbai).
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bombay_duck
It’s strong stuff. Delicious.
Thanks for the testimonial. I think you’re the first person I’ve ever known (even remotely) who’s ever eaten it. Sounds interesting. It sounds very salty. Is it at all reminiscent of anchovy?
My great grandmother’s housemaid (I know, such privilege!) who would have been from the same era as Rose in Upstairs Downstairs, or Anna from Downton Abbey, used to exclaim, when something went topsy-turvey, “it’s gone Bombay Duck!” As in, if a doll or stuffed animal fell out of my pram onto the floor, and landed on its head. So far, I haven’t tracked down the provenance.
It’s a local fish we call bombil or boomla.
When cooked fresh it is very delicate – you have to be really careful or it will just fall apart.
But. It’s also salted and dried before the monsoon. – which is when bombil becomes Bombay Duck. Which is very salty and very very fishy smelling.
People actually prefer to cook it outside because otherwise your kitchen will smell like fish on steroids for days. (Like when you roast balachan inside.)
Thanks. I didn’t realize it could be eaten fresh, as well.