At one of our favorite Mexican restaurants, the bathroom soap leaves something to be desired. Each time I wash my hands before eating, the smell emanating from my fingers makes me not want to reach for the chips and salsa. It’s like I need another soap to wash the smell of that one off. I have never understood this concept. Why would any eatery offer a soap that smells to high heaven, that reeks of Texaco restroom (which is the scent of cherry poop), that does everything to quell one’s hunger at a restaurant? Isn’t the point to increase one’s appetite? To that end, I have discovered this today. I think this would do well to increase the sales of not only appetizers, but buttered popcorn Jelly Bellies at the Walgreen’s down the road, once one departs said restaurant.
If I’d just scrubbed with that, I’d be sniffing my knuckles right and left. While we’re on the topic, I’ll share this trivia tidbit: El Senor Redenbacher died in his condo jacuzzi, after suffering a heart attack and subsequently drowning. Did you know that?
So maybe popcorn’s not your bag, baby. Perhaps you don’t want to smell like a cinema lobby. Well, sophisticated gentleman, this might be for you.
Mmmm. Forget Axe For Men; let me smell some merlot on his palms. And BTW, I hate the UB40 song Red Red Wine. I just feel like I need to put that out there, so that you know this pic is in no way an endorsement for such a wretched song, but more an endorsement of alcoholism.
And remember, The Mayo Clinic advises you to rub your hands vigorously for at least 20 seconds while washing, no matter how long the line of impatient patrons standing behind you. If we all work together, we can fight germs and bacteria.
When I waited tables twenty years ago, I constantly had to ask which salad dressing customers would prefer. In Texas, Ranch is king, and not just because of the nearby King Ranch, a ranch made up of 825,000 acres (3,340 km). For a while in the 1990s, Honey Mustard was quite a little trendsetter. But it always comes back to Ranch. In this city, there are always Balsamic Vinaigrettes and Jalapeno Cilantro Buttermilks to tempt your palate But people who eat Wonder Bread and vanilla ice cream and order cheese pizza will almost always choose Ranch.
Except old people. Old people LOOOOOVE themselves some Roquefort. The “blue hair” crowd that goes to matinees, the ones at IHOP at 5am and at Luby’s at 4pm, ladies with tight poodledog hairdos in sensible shoes and highwaisted elasticized pants–they like Roquefort. I don’t mean senior newbies who just started collecting Social Security checks. I’m talking the greatest generation, the ones disappearing at every breath.
And don’t second guess them; don’t clarify, “blue cheese?” Blue cheese is what you dunk chicken wings in. “Blue cheese” is not old school. Roquefort is. Roquefort is jitterbugging and Andy Hardy films. Let them be who they are.
I don’t care if you’re a vinegar & oil or a Zesty Italian person, I don’t judge. Okay, I don’t often judge. That is, I always judge. Nonstop. And although I can deal with Thousand Island, it does not lend itself to drizzling. Now that I think about it, we used to offer French as well, but nobody offers it any more. I wonder if it has gone the way of the woolly mammoth. Of course, this could all be a regional thing. Maybe some of you live in countries where French dressing reigns supreme. Surely not in France?
In any event, DO NOT invite me to dinner without assessing your salad dressing selection. I don’t need a wide array from which to choose. What I need is a fresh salad dressing. I don’t mean one that you whipped up from some Food Network recipe, with your own Greek yogurt and garden basil. No, I mean current. I mean made THIS YEAR. I mean NOT EXPIRED.
Maybe you’re not an expiration Nazi. Perhaps it’s never even occurred to you to CHECK the date on the lid, plain as day, put there for a reason to protect you from tuberculosis and polio, caused by rancid dressing. If that is you, then enjoy your childish naivete Because I PUH-ROMISE you that the very next home you go to for dinner, whether it’s Grandma’s or Cousin Kim’s or the cheery abodes of co-workers or friends, they will have an expired dressing on their table. And that is the downfall of civilization.
The last time I attended a birthday celebration for a co-worker at a nice home, with an enormously garish centerpiece, nice stemware, and table settings, the salad dressing had expired. I don’t mean last month expired. I mean 2011 expired. Oh, yes. And that is not the worst offender. I have attended holiday meals wherein dressings nigh on half a decade old were proffered for my taking. Presidents had been sworn in, sworn at, and sworn out since this bottle had rolled off the assembly line.
If you would never deign to serve me spoiled milk or festering pork, then you shouldn’t offer me expired salad dressing. If it’s two months expired, I will hold my sanity together and gulp it down, praying to the Lord to spare me both jaundice and yellow fever. But if I wind up in the emergency room, it’s on your hands.
And can I just remind you that dressing is about $1.50? Unless you’re all uppity and enjoy getting swindled, you should not be laying down a five spot for dressing. Tell you what, I’ll do you a solid and spot you THREE dollars just so that you can go purchase two dressings of your choice. And I’ll be a good sport and consume it. Even if it’s poppyseed.
So what about other dressings? Years ago, when customers would request Vinegar & Oil, it never came ON the salad, like all the other choices. No, we had to trot out those two little glass bottles that took up a lot of table real estate. I couldn’t understand why a person would choose such a flavorless dressing. But now that I’ve entered my forties, I get it. Not because I prefer it, but because it’s a healthier option. It’s possible that as my eyelashes turn grey and chin hairs come in, I may feel an overwhelming urge to eat Roquefort. Until then, remember the immortal words of Mark Hamill, “Acting in ‘Star Wars’ I felt like a raisin in a giant fruit salad, and I didn’t even know who the cantaloupes were.” Damn, if this isn’t a perfect quote for a site called “I Don’t Get It,” I don’t know what is.
Vegans and vegetarians, this post is not for you. Get on your bike and pedal self-righteously to a co-op and buy yourself more hummus and tofu, kale and quinoa. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But this is for carnivores.
Ahem. I learned early on from The Smiths that meat was murder, but, then again,
And war is murder, and abortion is murder, and so on and so on. Now please make my steak medium rare.
Those of us of a certain age will remember this Saturday morning PSA, pleading with America’s then-non-obese children to not “drown our food.”
If you remember that, then you were probably wearing tapered jeans and shoulder pads when Sally (“Hot Lips” Houlihan) Kellerman exhorted us to come to Hidden Valley Ranch and slather copious amounts of the buttermilky goodness all over our baby carrots and celery sticks. It may be useful in getting your kids to EAT vegetables, but it’s a lousy strategy in TASTING them.
When it comes to steak, I can understand how some folks prefer grilled mushrooms on top, maybe some caramelized onions, even chimichurri on a flank steak. But for my money, a steak like this needs nothing more than the salt and pepper on the crust.
Consider this ad for Hunt’s (Hunt’s, people! Not even Heinz, the real ketchup–pardon me, CATSUP) in 1952.
Either Dad doesn’t know how to grill a tasty T-bone, or that’s a perfectly good waste of beef. Ketchup on a steak is an irreverent, impious act against the inviolable laws of steak consumption. It just is. Frankly, ketchup serves its purpose best on potatoes. While we’re at it, can someone explain this to me? Is this corn beef hash and cole slaw?
And what on earth is this next one? Baked BEANS with ketchup? Is that meatloaf wedges as the accompaniment? Or are those pumpernickel slices? So confused. And where is the hand holding the bottles in all these images? Hunt’s is so magically buoyant.
Enough already! I need something that makes sense.
Today is the final installment of vintage menus. The above pic is a Thanksgiving menu, a feast that Americans celebrate at the end of November, which makes all politically correct people get their panties in a wad because Pilgrims and Indians (now called Native Americans) could never possibly have shared a squash and a smile. But whatever. We watch football with our families, gorge ourselves on turkey and casseroles, and save room for pie. Come to think of it, why would anyone be eating in a RESTAURANT on Thanksgiving? Anyhoo, here are the feast details (one may click to enlarge).
Those prices are pretty steep for modern times, and this menu is at least twenty years old. Mercy!
Here is a cute breakfast menu from Varadero International in Cuba, all in Spanish.
Coffee was A QUARTER. Can you imagine buying a beverage for ONE coin? What would the tip be? A nickel? Did waitresses walk around with jingling aprons as dimes clinked against pennies? Consider the pain involved if she chose to “make it rain up in here.”
The next menu is from the Alta Mira Continental Hotel in San Francisco. How this hideous design ever got approved is beyond me, as it’s ugly as a 1970s appliance set.
However, I would be willing to overlook that if I could still procure either the filet mignon or the Half Lobster Delight for under $5, as advertised.
Bratten’s Grotto in Utah included actual photos on their large fold-out menu:
Cattlemen’s in Fort Worth–in bright taxi-cab yellow–had an interesting cocktail menu, which included both a Tio Pepe and a Tia Maria.
This final menu shows the name of its owner in the left corner, and its age, with the dates from 1961-1972. I love the sea foam green, the cheese saltines, and the ten ways to prepare a potato.
Today we have the second installment of menu art. This disturbing menu is from L’Etoile in Nob Hill, San Francisco. Are the cherubs protecting them from harmful UV rays? I’m concerned that m’lady is self-tuning in to Tokyo. Perhaps she is listening with her bosom–or is that Madonna’s great-great-great grandmother doing colonial vogueing?
Next is a Maison des Crepes, where you can get a crepe, salad bar, AND a drink for only $1.65. The Crepe Devil looks intriguing…
I don’t know where this is from, but frankly, it gives me the willies. The incomplete artwork looks like a storyboard scene from a Hitchcock film, and the writing is very aggressive, like they’re peeved they even had to bother with a menu. Just trying to read it out loud makes me sound like the Swedish Chef on The Muppets.
We’ll end with this festive Exposition Fish Grotto, which I’m sure you’ve heard of, since it’s “World-Famous.” Note more naked cherubs, getting merry and gay off a barrel of Paul Masson.
Yes, I also am thinking of Orson Welles right now.
I scored some super cute vintage menus at an estate sale several years ago and thought I would share, since I find them aesthetically superior to any contemporary art museum collection.
From Campy:
To Watercolor:
To bonafide art on this 1957 St. James’s Restaurant menu (Juillet-Aout only), just so you know the sardines are FRESH:
MÉHEUT Mathurin, Sardiniers démaillant la sardine
Note the selections on the reverse side, and that delicious Cafe Sanka takes ten minutes to prepare–for the finer palatte.
And lastly, Fortnum & Mason had a very Around The World in 80 Days feel to it.
Their menu included Sardines on a Raft, Hot Cheese Flan, Ovaltine, and Horlicks–of which I had never heard. Hungry yet?
Along with a handful of birthday greetings in my in-box today, was this inviting gem of an email, reminding me that “Lobster is back for a limited time.” Nevermind that I asked to be removed from their mailing list seven years ago. In their defense, the terms do say “Please allow 10 days as noted in the CAN-SPAM Law for Quiznos� to remove you from all future email advertisements.” Maybe it’s just taking longer than usual because of global warming or the recession or changing gun control laws.
Nevermind that my husband has a lobster allergy, so we never eat it at home. Nevermind that I don’t even eat lobster at RED LOBSTER (although I did enjoy a pre-Prom dinner there), due to the fact that I go into sodium chloride shock each time we take part of their salty cheddar bay biscuits.
In fact, it’s been so long since I partook of lobster, that I have no idea what it tastes like. No clue. But I can tell you that Quizno’s wouldn’t be my go-to place. Oh, heck, no. I would have warm lobster with butter sauce, not a mish-mash of mayo. And BTW, the bottom of the ad says it’s only 51% lobster. Why not 50%? So they could legitimately say the MAJORITY of it is lobster, by a percent? I suspect it’s like the “krab” at Subway, devoid of any “crab” at all.
Perhaps it’s even better than McDonald’s latest treat, fish bites.
Now, McDonald’s claims that these fried balls are made of tender, flaky wild-caught Alaskan Pollock. Isn’t this the same company whose jingle began, “Two ALL BEEF patties, special sauce…,” and then it turned out that the Big Mac was really just pink slime, and not so much of the all beef?
Maybe if I ever get up to Maine one day (or north of Dallas), I’ll stop inside some fisherman’s wharf where Rachael Ray once spent $20 on a po’ boy that made her giddy, and taste an authentic lobster dish. Until then, Quizno’s, I’ll pass on your former slogan: Eat Up.
If you’re a lady between the ages of 13 and 49, currently bloated and irritable, craving chocolate and Pinot Grigio, it might mean this:
But if you don’t foresee buying many more of those boxes in your future, or you’re done with them entirely, “wings” might mean this most awesome of hairstyles. You probably attempted some semblance of it at one point.
I’m familiar with all of those wings, sometimes incorporating the three of them in the same moment. But never had I seen a power mower with wings until today.
my 1955 Life magazine
The small print reads, “This giant of precison mowers…is the pride and joy of many men who mow grass for a living–and more than a few wealthy men who mow grass for fun.” For fun! Interpret as you will.
There are also scads of songs with “wings” in the titles. Broken wings, dove’s wings, eagle’s wings, little wings, silver wings, paper wings. But the song I never ever want to hear again, so help me God–not at a wedding or a funeral or a bris–is “Wind Beneath My Wings.” I can’t take it one more time. I really can’t.
INXS told us that, “We all have wings, but some of us don’t know why.” Does this gal know why? To fly from catwalk to catwalk? Those look heavy.
Victoria’s Secret model Candice Swanepoel during the 2009 Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show
Wings have inspired quotes from Shakespeare to Charles Dickens, but only one as elegant and classy as Mae West could have confessed, “I’m no angel, but I’ve spread my wings a bit.” Which reminds me of this:
pinterest
What’s the shelf life on that tat? A wee bit more than this unfortunate gal’s…
I love makeovers. LOVE them. And even though I love food, the makeovers are my favorite part of Rachael Ray’s show. And even though I love me some kooky, tipsy Kathy Lee and Hoda banter, my favorite part of Today is the ambush makeover. And don’t get me started on Clinton and Stacey spiffing stylistically-challenged folks up in straight leg, dark rinse trousers that elongate them.
So I understand the irresistible lure to fix the ugly and the outdated to market a product (although, apparently auto companies have not quite grasped that idea, and have actually gone in reverse for the past forty years, producing uglier, blander models, but that’s neither here nor there.) Successful advertising often requires changing with the times, and–in the case of the Quaker Oats Company–the need to stop offending particular groups. On her 100th anniversary, syrup icon Aunt Jemima received her latest makeover. I totally get the desire (read: pressure) to update her image, but do all transformations have to include a younger, thinner version?
Truth be told, I’m not digging this current Jemima. I’m not feeling the nurturing. Those pearl earrings are more for the boardroom than the kitchen. I’m not saying you need a do rag to cook, but I do have concerns that stray hairs from her more polished coif may find themselves in my pancake batter. And I just feel like if I asked her to whip me up some flapjacks, she might not be so keen on it. And before you call me racist, just know that the original Aunt Jemima, Nancy Green, actually was born into slavery in 1834, so the look was indicative of the time, like it or not. I imagine she did have the last laugh (all the way to the bank). Now onto a W.A.S.P.ier icon…
again–from neatorama
Unlike the changing Jemima faces, who–let’s remember were all paid to represent her–Betty Crocker was never a real person. Her name and face were contrived to appeal to homemakers. Well, I’m a homemaker, and I’m not down with any of these Betties. Talk about a lack of nurturing. The portraits all look so sterile. These faces don’t say yummy walnut brownies to me; they say news anchor or banker wife (or “no wire hangers!”). And I’m almost certain one of them is a Baxter-Birney. Next!
I think we can all agree the 2006 Sun Maid Raisin girl makeover was an epic failure. I prefer the happy Gilda Radner to this creepy CGI no-indentation-in-her-upper-lip-Julia-Roberts-smile Little Red Riding Hood. The cheerful immigrant girl was clearly up at the crack of dawn to pick grapes, but I doubt the “new and improved” Raisin Barbie would have stumbled home yet. And something about her armpit bothers me. And finally…
In retrospect, maybe the 70s Brawny dude does look like he did a little porn on the side, but at least he looks like a real guy. Depending on your age (white people) you either have an uncle or a brother who looked like this guy. And he probably had a name that rhymed with “hairy” to match: a good, solid era-specific name like Gary, Larry, or Barry. He changed the oil on his Camaro himself (while listening to his Boston eight-track), he drank beer out of cans–not bottles–and gave no thought to wine pairings and manscaping. This is the guy I want representing the durability and strength of my paper towel. This guy knows how to clean up a mess.
But the new effete guy? The one in the red plaid shirt that he just picked up from the dry cleaners? What’s his name? Perhaps it rhymes with “Aiden,” as in Brayden, Caden, or Jaden. How is he going to clean up spilled milk and vodka vomit if he just had his mani-pedi done? A Brawny guy should not know what exfoliating is, but Caden does. Honestly, I think fem queens will dig either one, depending on their preference for bears or not, and I’m certain the wording of “Pick A Size” beneath the blonder Tom Selleck is not lost on them. But speaking as a straight woman with an opinion, I say: If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.
Browsing the dairy aisle today, I noticed the neon yellow tub of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter! (yes, it has an exclamation point, as if Elaine Benes from Seinfeld had designed it). Not butter, you say? Really? Did you know they also sell Could it be Butter? (is that a rhetorical question?), as well as the not-so-grammatically correct Taste Like Butter, and You’d Think IT’S Butter! (again, the exclamation point for emphasis). Where is the label that says “I Don’t Believe For A Second It’s Butter”? I’d slap that right over each tub of Smart Balance or Country Crock (aptly named) or Parkay (mmm, mmm, vegetable oil spread). Reminds me of that Reddi Whip ad on tv where the waitress asks the customer if she prefers whipped cream or oil. Wouldn’t we all pick cream?
What does taste like butter is Land O’ Lakes. Because it is butter. I reach for the yellow and red rectangles at the store, and I like the little kneeling Indian woman on it, P.C. or not, just like I like Aunt Jemima and I like Uncle Ben, who BTW was a real man. And yes, sometimes, I bust out singing the chorus to “Kaw-Liga” as I toss it in my cart. I don’t care if it’s high in saturated fats and leads to heart disease because I love it. We accept the universal truth that things that taste good are usually bad for us.
Except in the case of white bread. White bread is processed and flavorless and nasty, basically without merit. Growing up, the choices at restaurants were always, “white, wheat or rye,” and I would choose wheat or rye because white is devoid of joy. It’s not that it’s associated with bologna sandwiches and demographics that include Honey Boo Boo, and it’s not the snobbery of growing up in a Whole Foods culture; it’s just that it’s patently gross. And it has the added bonus of high starch that converts into sugar and bang–you’re Paula Deen with diabetes. And you didn’t even get any fiber to make you regular.
Every Sunday after church, we go out for barbeque. The cashier totals up the bill and then raises a loaf of white bread and asks how much we want. We get two slices per person, so that we can each construct a little brisket sandwich with pickles, onions, and barbeque sauce. There is no choice, not even in Whole Grain Hippietown. It’s white or nothing. And though I wish wish wish they would offer another option, I realize that would drive the price up, and I respect the right of the small businessman to make his own choices. And granted, they are not chintzy with the bread. I imagine if you requested an entire loaf, they’d throw it in the basket, but who on earth would? That’s what I don’t get.
As I bite into my brisket sandwich, the first thing that happens is the white bread comes into contact with saliva and immediately converts into a gummy paste that sticks to the top of my mouth. By the time my tongue has succeeded in prying it off, it is too tired to chew. I have to give my tongue a rest and sip iced tea for a solid minute, while my insulin levels spike and I try to avoid a coma.
Do people who like white bread only like it out of nostalgia, because they pledged allegiance to it in their childhood? Is it a comfortable memory, associated with pimento cheese sandwiches and mayonnaise? I’m not convinced it’s purely social strata. Maybe people who enjoy white bread are the same people who order cheese pizza with no toppings, or hamburgers, just meat and bun. People who insist on no variety, no spice of life. Now, look, it’s different if you have some sort of allergy that prevents you from eating wheat. But I’m talking in a world of pure freedom of choice, a world that offers rosemary sourdough and Jewish rye –why pick white?
The truth is, I couldn’t find a word meaning hatred of eggs.
This post is not to slam the Captain of Flavor Town (the media has done that enough lately), his spiky bleached highlights, or his two different shirt styles (the Charlie Sheen character on 2 1/2 Men, which is essentially the Kramer shirt from Seinfeld–or the one with flames that always makes me want to launch into a rendition of “Greased Lightning.”) I genuinely enjoy the show, and I don’t want Food Network to “disappear it” the way they did Throwdown with Bobby Flay. At the end of each show, Bobby would inquire, “Ask yourself this? Are you ready for a throwdown?” I speak for many American women, when I answer affirmatively. Yes, Bobby. Yes, we are.
Sorry, back to Guy. My concern is that a purported connoisseur of diners, one-third of the show’s title on Triple D, should love eggs. Not even just LIKE eggs, but love eggs. Incredible, edible eggs are what make or break a diner. How can one so vocal of his abhorrence of them possibly assess the merits of any establishment whose reputation rests on its ability to prepare eggs?
Does he have a right to detest eggs? Absolutely. Everyone out there loathes something. I’m not keen on ketchup-swathed meatloaf or plastic-y processed Kraft Singles. And I imagine there exists a Gentile somewhere who doesn’t like bacon, perish the thought. I suppose my beef with Guy is that eggs are so versatile. I get it if you don’t like sunny side up, if you don’t want a runny yolk hardening up in seconds on your plate. And I accept that egg dishes cool down very quickly, so you’ve got to shake a tailfeather if you’re going to consume them, and not dawdle about. But there are so many options, so much variety to choose from. It’s the first question your waitress asks. “How do you like your eggs?” Scrambled, hardboiled, poached, over easy, over hard. Oh, what about eggs in a nest? Where you put the egg inside the toast? I’ve seen this done with a heartshaped egg inside the bread. Just precious.
Maybe I didn’t grow up in Flavor Town, but I did grow up in Austin, aka Brunch City, USA. Every weekend, we ate brunch. It was a given. We never tolerated a restaurant waiting list (we’d stomp right back to the Nissan Sentra and go elsewhere), unless it was for The Omelettry. It was worth the wait, worth the smell of patchouli wafting off aging hippies reading The Chronicle under ball moss-infested oak trees, worth the teensy graffiti-riddled bathroom with Jenny’s number on the stall. A broccoli sour cream omelette with gingerbread pancakes! Or maybe migas? Scrambled eggs with onions, tomatoes, cilantro, jalapenos, cheese, and tortilla strips, with a side of black beans and home fries. THAT is what’s really money, Guy! Eggs.
Nevermind how protein-packed eggs are or however high in cholesterol, and ignore the superiority of free-range chickens; it’s about TASTE. Why would anyone’s tastebuds say no to eggs? Even my eyes love eggs. I’ve actually ripped a page out of Martha Stewart Living just because the photograph of deviled eggs was so simplisticly beautiful: just smooth scooped-out egg white filled with gorgeous pilloy yolk, sprinkled with paprika. Sigh. Even my April 2011 Food Network Magazine has a two page spread of “All-Star Deviled Eggs,” with recipes from a dozen notable chefs. Guess who’s not represented? Go figure.
Nonetheless, Guy has a standing invitation to my home for brunch. He can fuel up on bacon, biscuits, and hash browns, and wash it down with freshly-ground coffee. And when I try to entice him with a plate of delicious Tex-Mex migas and he politely declines, I won’t be offended. Flabbergasted, but not offended.
I Don't Get It 