cooking

Just picture a great big steak –Fried, roasted or stewed.

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Nope!  Nope!  Nope!

That would have been me as a seven-year-old being asked to eat green beans. Or lettuce.  Or tomatoes.  Or beans.  Or broccoli.  Or spinach.   Or Cheese (except American kraft singles). Or onions.  Or liver.  Or fish (except fish sticks). Or a whole host of other foods.  I was a very picky eater.  

For all my parent’s faults, and as I’ve written they were many, they never forced my brother or me to eat foods we didn’t like.  There was always an alternative for us.  As kids I don’t remember my brother being as picky as me, but I flat out just refused to eat certain foods.  

When I started working at Day’s Inn Restaurant in high school, first as a dishwasher and then as a short order cook, my horizons broadened EVER so slightly.  I learned that tomatoes weren’t the devil’s food.  I learned that bakes scrod was not bad.  

When I was 16, I went to prom with my friend Julia.  Completely platonic.  I don’t even think she planned to go until I asked.  I took her to dinner, wearing a baby blue tuxedo with the frilled shirt, at the Marriot Hotel in Lexington, Kentucky.  

We ordered strawberry daiquiris, and prime rib.  I knew all about prime rib because we served it at Day’s Inn.  What I wasn’t prepared for was for the prime rib to be RARE when it landed on the table.  I was not about to embarrass myself in front of my date/friend so I toughed it out and ate it.  In a word, it was delicious.  It was the first time in my life that I learned that steak didn’t need to be shoe leather to eat it.  It was melt in your mouth delicious.  And I was hooked.  No more shoe leather for me. 

Through college I was still a picky eater.  I remember going to Florida for spring break and my friends were ordering oysters.  PUKE.  The very thought of putting a live slimy creature in my mouth and swallowing was disgusting.  Why would anyone want to do that.  

Fast forward to Atlanta and I was still picky.   Once again, I went out to eat with a friend at a fancy restaurant and she ordered portabella mushrooms.  I was asked if I wanted to share, and not wanting to embarrass myself, I said what the hell.  And they were delicious.  Yum.  Yum.  Yum.  I’ve been eating mushrooms ever since.  

Fast forward to New York City.  I’m dating someone who invites me to dinner.  We go out and he orders salmon.  Medium Rare.  At this point the only fish I’m eating is filet o fish at McDonald’s.  Once again, I’m asked if I want to try it, and not wanting to embarrass myself I say yes.  Who knew that fish could be so delicious.  

I could keep going.  I go out to eat.  I don’t want to embarrass myself.  I eat the food.  It’s delicious.  Rinse and Repeat.  

Fast forward to 2009. I meet a boy in a bookstore.  I give him my number.  He asks me to brunch.  I say yes. We meet for said brunch.  I order an omelet.  I eat said omelet.  New boy says he doesn’t like eggs.  17 years later he still doesn’t like eggs.  

Meanwhile, 17 years later I eat everything.  

Medium-rare steak.  Why cook it all?  Steak tartare for me.  

Oysters.  Raw, fried, roasted, baked.  Yes, please the more the merrier.  

Escargot.  Snails.  Can we double the order, so I can eat all of them.  

Fish.  All the fish.  Salmon. Swordfish.  Tuna.  Halibut.  Yes. Yes. Yes.  I don’t even care if you cook it.  Tuna tartare is one of my favorite foods now.  

Caviar:  Fish eggs?  Yes, please.  I’d eat it every day if I could afford it.  

Vegetables.  There isn’t a vegetable I won’t eat.  Salad of all kinds is delicious.  

Onions.  LOVE em.  In all foods.  On a burger.  In a salad.  In soup.  Yum. Yum. Yum.  

I have a very small list of foods that I don’t like.  And even then, I will still eat them.  

When we went to Argentina in 2023, I said that I’d eat anything on the table, whether I liked it or not.  

I’m not a fan of olives.  But they started every meal.  I ate them.  

Sweetbreads.  Look it up.  Sweetbreads are a delicacy made from the thymus and pancreas glands of young animals, most commonly veal or lamb, prized for their rich, creamy texture and mild, subtly sweet flavor.  50 years ago, I’d probably have thrown up first.  They are fucking delicious.  

Blood sausage.  Blood sausage is a type of sausage made from blood (usually pork), mixed with a filler like grains (oats, barley, rice) or breadcrumbs, and seasonings, then cooked and solidified.  Delicious. Yum.  

Which brings me to last night.  

For dinner last night, Adam served a meal of foods that I would have not eaten probably even 20 years ago. We had French onion soup, with extra cheese, steak tartare with crostini, spring mix with a light vinegarette dressing, and goat cheese tart with an olive tamponade.  And for dessert pistachio and lemon bars.  

The very idea of little Jeff sitting down to a plate of food that consisted of all his least favorites is still funny to me.  But last night, I stuffed my face.  It was all delicious.  

I’m glad.  Life is so much more exciting and wonderful when you like food.  I’m very adventurous and will try most everything.  I don’t like everything but I will try it.  By the way kangaroo carpaccio (raw kangaroo) is delicious.  

The two foods that I tend to not eat on their own are olives and blue cheese.  I will eat them in a salad or in other dishes, but I prefer not to.  Last night as Adam was spooning out the olive tamponade onto my plate, I said “not too much”, and he said your prompt for tomorrow is olives.  

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Nope!  Nope!  Nope!

That would have been me as a seven-year-old being asked to eat green beans. Or lettuce.  Or tomatoes.  Or beans.  Or broccoli.  Or spinach.   Or Cheese (except American kraft singles). Or onions.  Or liver.  Or fish (except fish sticks). Or a whole host of other foods.  I was a very picky eater.  

For all my parent’s faults, and as I’ve written they were many, they never forced my brother or me to eat foods we didn’t like.  There was always an alternative for us.  As kids I don’t remember my brother being as picky as me, but I flat out just refused to eat certain foods.  

When I started working at Day’s Inn Restaurant in high school, first as a dishwasher and then as a short order cook, my horizons broadened EVER so slightly.  I learned that tomatoes weren’t the devil’s food.  I learned that bakes scrod was not bad.  

When I was 16, I went to prom with my friend Julia.  Completely platonic.  I don’t even think she planned to go until I asked.  I took her to dinner, wearing a baby blue tuxedo with the frilled shirt, at the Marriot Hotel in Lexington, Kentucky.  

We ordered strawberry daiquiris, and prime rib.  I knew all about prime rib because we served it at Day’s Inn.  What I wasn’t prepared for was for the prime rib to be RARE when it landed on the table.  I was not about to embarrass myself in front of my date/friend so I toughed it out and ate it.  In a word, it was delicious.  It was the first time in my life that I learned that steak didn’t need to be shoe leather to eat it.  It was melt in your mouth delicious.  And I was hooked.  No more shoe leather for me. 

Through college I was still a picky eater.  I remember going to Florida for spring break and my friends were ordering oysters.  PUKE.  The very thought of putting a live slimy creature in my mouth and swallowing was disgusting.  Why would anyone want to do that.  

Fast forward to Atlanta and I was still picky.   Once again, I went out to eat with a friend at a fancy restaurant and she ordered portabella mushrooms.  I was asked if I wanted to share, and not wanting to embarrass myself, I said what the hell.  And they were delicious.  Yum.  Yum.  Yum.  I’ve been eating mushrooms ever since.  

Fast forward to New York City.  I’m dating someone who invites me to dinner.  We go out and he orders salmon.  Medium Rare.  At this point the only fish I’m eating is filet o fish at McDonald’s.  Once again, I’m asked if I want to try it, and not wanting to embarrass myself I say yes.  Who knew that fish could be so delicious.  

I could keep going.  I go out to eat.  I don’t want to embarrass myself.  I eat the food.  It’s delicious.  Rinse and Repeat.  

Fast forward to 2009. I meet a boy in a bookstore.  I give him my number.  He asks me to brunch.  I say yes. We meet for said brunch.  I order an omelet.  I eat said omelet.  New boy says he doesn’t like eggs.  17 years later he still doesn’t like eggs.  

Meanwhile, 17 years later I eat everything.  

Medium-rare steak.  Why cook it all?  Steak tartare for me.  Hopefully with a raw chicken or quail egg on top.

Oysters.  Raw, fried, roasted, baked.  Yes, please the more the merrier.  

Escargot.  Snails.  Can we double the order, so I can eat all of them.  

Fish.  All the fish.  Salmon. Swordfish.  Tuna.  Halibut.  Yes. Yes. Yes.  I don’t even care if you cook it.  Tuna tartare is one of my favorite foods now.  

Caviar:  Fish eggs?  Yes, please.  I’d eat it every day if I could afford it.  

Vegetables.  There isn’t a vegetable I won’t eat.  Salad of all kinds is delicious.  

Onions.  LOVE em.  In all foods.  On a burger.  In a salad.  In soup.  Yum. Yum. Yum.  

I have a very small list of foods that I don’t like.  And even then, I will still eat them.  

When we went to Argentina in 2023, I said that I’d eat anything on the table, whether I liked it or not.  

I’m not a fan of olives.  But they started every meal.  I ate them.  

Sweetbreads.  Look it up.  Sweetbreads are a delicacy made from the thymus and pancreas glands of young animals, most commonly veal or lamb, prized for their rich, creamy texture and mild, subtly sweet flavor.  50 years ago, I’d probably have thrown up first.  They are fucking delicious.  

Blood sausage.  Blood sausage is a type of sausage made from blood (usually pork), mixed with a filler like grains (oats, barley, rice) or breadcrumbs, and seasonings, then cooked and solidified.  Delicious. Yum.  

Which brings me to last night.  

For dinner last night, Adam served a meal of foods that I would have not eaten probably even 20 years ago. We had French onion soup, with extra cheese, steak tartare with crostini, spring mix with a light vinegarette dressing, and goat cheese tart with an olive tamponade.  And for dessert pistachio and lemon bars.  

The very idea of little Jeff sitting down to a plate of food that consisted of all his least favorites is still funny to me.  But last night, I stuffed my face.  It was all delicious.  

I’m glad.  Life is so much more exciting and wonderful when you like food.  I’m very adventurous and will try most everything.  I don’t like everything but I will try it.  By the way kangaroo carpaccio (raw kangaroo) is delicious.  

The two foods that I tend to not eat on their own are olives and blue cheese.  I will eat them in a salad or in other dishes, but I prefer not to.  Last night as Adam was spooning out the olive tamponade onto my plate, I said “not too much”, and he said your prompt for tomorrow is olives.  

Come on down to the Double Cup.

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Once upon a time.  

Way, way, way back in the dark ages.  

Before electricity, and the internet.  

I turned 16.  

And I was super, super, super excited to turn 16.  Not because I wanted to drive, which I did, but mostly because I wanted a job.  

Back in 1902, in the town I lived in you had to be 16 to work.  Not like these spoiled kids today who can get a job at 14 working in an ice cream shop.  

I wanted to work, because I wanted stuff.  

My family was relatively poor.  Not dirt poor.  We had running water, and were fed, and had the basics.  

There was however, no money for luxuries.  No name brand clothes, or shoes.  Or the latest video games.   Or records. Or especially a walk-man or an Atari, which I wanted a lot.    

I needed a job if I was going to have these things.  

Two weeks after my 16th birthday, I started my first job.  

I was hired to wash dishes at the Day’s Inn Restaurant, on Delaplain Road in Georgetown, Kentucky.  

I applied and worked there, because my parents knew the managers and my aunt worked there as a cook. 

I started on a Friday night. 

I arrived at 3:30 as I’d been told to do, and for the first time, in what would become thousands of times, I filled out new hire paperwork.  

It probably took me an hour to fill out the tax forms. 

After my paperwork was finished, I was taken to dry storage to find a uniform.  

The uniform was a lovely shade of white.  White white. 

White pants.  A white shirt.  100% polyester.  With a dash of yellow on the pocket.  

Lets not forget the brass name plate, with Robert spelled out nicely.  

I don’t think I ever had a name tag with Jeff on it the whole time I worked there.  

It’s approaching 4:30, I’m dressed and ready to go.  

I punch the time clock with the long beige card.  Hear the clunk, clunk sound and I’m off. 

I was given a quick tour of the restaurant.  Dry storage.  The break room with it’s ash tray over flowing with butts.  

The restroom, that I’d be responsible for cleaning later that night.  

I got a run down on the kitchen with a quick explanation of things I might need to help with if we got busy later during dinner service.  

I was shown the dishwasher, had a 45 second explanation on how to use it and I was turned loose.  

The next five hours lasted longer than I could have imagined.    

My aunt who was cooking that night, would come in and check on me every so often.  

I worked and worked, and the dishes piled higher and higher.  There was no keeping up.  

And then we closed, and the pile got even bigger as the pans from the kitchen started to appear.  

I’d wash one and turn around to see five more.  

The pans had to be scrubbed in the 3 bay sink and the water was a few degrees hotter than the surface of the sun.  

Scrub.  Scrub.  

Empty the dishwasher.  Reload the dishwasher.  Hit the button.  

And then turn to scrub, scrub, scrub.  

On and on I went.  

I hadn’t even cleaned the bathrooms or the breakroom yet.  

Scrub.

Scrub.  

Finally, as we neared 11:00 I was done.

I was wet from head to toe. 

I was exhausted.  

My shoes squished as I walked.  

I clocked out and walked into the dining room to find my mom, my aunt and the manager of the restaurant smoking and drinking coffee.  

I was very casually informed that I was the worst dishwasher they’d ever hired.  

Hands down.

The worst.  

What does a 16 -year-old kid say to that?  

I was embarrassed, but this did not deter me.  

I’d worked 7 hours.  

At $3.35 an hour. 

That was $23.45.  

That was a lot of money. 

I came back the next night.  And the next.  

And after about a month I was the best dishwasher, they’d ever hired.  

I was fast.  Thorough.  

And soon, I was backing up my aunt in the kitchen.  

And then after about 6 months, I was told, I was being replaced, so that they could move me into the kitchen.  

And for almost 2 years after that, I was the dinner cook 4 nights a week.  

And was I good.  

I was a short order cook, with hand written tickets, and a bell, and I was in there all alone.  

Flipping burgers, frying chicken, baking scrod, making a mean prime rib.

And I’d yell for the dishwasher to come set plates for me.  Something I’d been doing a month ago.    

All the plates were decorated with a canned peach and a maraschino cherry.  Or a candied apple.  

And for the love of god don’t forget the parsley.  Everything came with parsley.  

And the dishwasher set the plates, so that I could add fried chicken and mashed potatoes. 

And a burger with fries. 

And the prime rib with a baked potato.  

My personal favorite was the turkey, over dressing, with. Mashed potatoes and carrots.  (We added about a cup of sugar to the carrots when we dumped them out of the can).  

I spent my first paycheck at McAlpin’s, in the men’s clothing department.  I bought an Izod shirt, a pair of khaki pants and an Izod belt.  It cost $84, and I was really, really happy to have a job. 

And I plugged along.  

And then. 

One night the owner’s daughter came in to the restaurant to borrow bread.  And I asked her to take it from dry storage, not the bread drawer in the kitchen as I’d already stocked.  

And this upset her.  

And the next day I was called into the office for a meeting.  

And I was told I’d been rude to the owner’s daughter.  

And I was let go.    

The funny part of this story was I was sitting across my manager eating a chocolate sundae for dinner, and when I finally realized what was happening, the sundae slipped out of my hand. 

Later, it was reported that I’d thrown the sundae at her.  

I still don’t know what I did.  

But I’ll die knowing that for a brief moment in time, I was the best dishwasher, and one of the best short order cooks to everwork at the Day’s Inn Restaurant on Delaplain Road, in Georgetown, KY.