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Tag: Restaurants
Where Sombreros Are Born
Ever wonder how it is that every full-service Mexican restaurant has ample sombreros to place upon each birthday patron’s head? Now you know.
These milliners are ankle deep in straw hats of different weaves. Do you own one, tucked into the back of your closet? No? Have you ever been the lucky sap beneath the hat at a Mexican restaurant? I have. At the place we patronize each Sunday after church, they chant a generic name to the birthday boy or girl. “Happy BIRTH-day, Panchito, Happy Birthday to you!” And then Panchito gets complimentary fried ice cream.
Sunlight On The Dahlia Patio
At Your Service
Cafeteria Happy Hour: Gramps Plays “Air Piano”
Pigskin With Fries
New York’s Bowery 1935
A dollar could go a long way in 1935. A haircut, a shave, and goulash–only 50¢!
Coffee At Ruby’s
At first, this image of Ruby’s Diner in Schenectady, NY may seem like a study in isolation. The calendar shows September 1988, and while that may not seem like that long ago to some of us, just peek in to this scene to see how the world has changed. 
Gerd Kittel’s pre-digital camera shows us a man and a woman (presumably both past their physical prime), sharing booths with no one. The woman appears contemplative and dressed for work. The man reminds me of my grandfather: intent on reading the news, colder in his old age and consequently cardigan-clad, and probably smells of Old Spice. No laptops, no iphones, no flat screen TVs. Just take that in–no one is staring at a screen. Like you’re doing right now.
There are Polaroids tacked to the wall. A cigarette machine. God knows the price then, but I passed one only last weekend, a relic itself, and the cost was $10 per pack. And you know smokers will pay it. Formica tabletops. The TV is not a wide screen. It has knobs which to turn. The coffee cup is small. It is not a Starbuck’s grande. That doesn’t mean he won’t consume more than the 16 oz; it just means a waitress will be by shortly to top him off. And that means human interaction. She might bring more cream. She might ask what he is reading.
But first, she will ask the photographer to step out of the way. You can see his reflection to the left of the TV, the man in the Anthony Bourdain sweater.
Afternoon Delight
Forget Sunny D: Embrace A Frozen Margarita
These were my son’s menu choices yesterday at a local Mexican restaurant. Pretty run-of-the-mill stuff. The food is just mediocre, but we frequent it because the waiter does what seems to be nearly impossible these days in the world of self-absorbed, iPod-staring, adolescent servers: HE MAKES US FEEL WELCOME.
- He greets us, shakes our hands, and asks how we are doing.
- He brings us our drinks before we request them.
- He does the “check-back” at least three times.
- He keeps our drinks full.
- He SMILES. He’s super-good at this one, without being fake.
- He brings us to-go drinks without us having to ask.
- He shakes our hands when we leave (or if he’s putting in an order, he waves good-bye).
And so even though the food is pretty meh, the service is great. He never looks slammed, he’s never in the weeds, never appears overwhelmed. He’s got this. And because he’s got this, we tip him well every time.
But until yesterday, I had never realized how inappropriate the illustration on the kids’ menu is. A Mexican man salsa dancing with a frozen margarita? With salt on the rim? I’m not making this up.
Choosy Coots Choose Roquefort
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.
Somebody is going off on a tangent.
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.
I Don't Get It 