Plenty of Garlic But Not Enough Time…

A Day in the Life of a Restaurant Gal

May 7

The Important Lesson

by misskkennedy

I’ve learned many lessons this week, but none more important than the fact that I am too old to sit in a jelly lounge chair.

Do we all know what a jelly chair is? Those strappy, armless, low-slung lounge chairs in a dazzling array of tantalizingly bright colors? Easy to fold up into equal thirds and tote to the beach? On sale at Target for the irresistibly low price of $18.00?  Well friends, some deals ARE too good to be true.

I chose the red one, of course.  The perfect match to my festive patio rug. “This is pretty!” remarked my observant Target cashier. (As a side note, this is the same gal who once, while ringing up my purchase of four limes, said, and I quote: “Oooh limes!  Whatcha makin’?  Limeade?”) At any rate, I agreed with her that my jelly lounge was indeed pretty and I carted it out to my car. Then I toted it up the steps to my third floor apartment and set it up on balcony, admiring how it matched my rug. Then I sat down and reclined fully into my new seat. This is where my important lesson began.

Did I mention the fact that jelly lounges are armless and low-slung?

I think we’ve all watched a bug that has managed to flip itself on its back. The struggle is riveting. We watch with a combination of fascination and pity. That bug is doomed. It’s never going to get back on its feet again. We basically have two choices in this situation. We can help the poor bug by flipping it back upright, if we are inclined to touch a bug and if we weren’t planning on squishing it anyway. Or we can pretend we didn’t see it and walk away because it’s too uncomfortable to continue watching the doomed struggle.

I’m hoping my neighbor directly across from my balcony, if he was home, chose the latter. And I might mention here that my new dog Lilly, who I myself rescued just six short days ago, also chose the latter. She was no help whatsoever. At any rate, this bug struggled in that damn jelly chair for about a full ten minutes.  Ultimately, I ended up rolling onto all fours onto my festive patio rug. The jelly chair, which was basically enmeshed in my butt at this point, came with.  I got up, told Lilly that if she were stuck somewhere, I would for sure help HER, and wordlessly folded the jelly lounge back into equal thirds and carried it back down to my car.

I have not yet decided how I will answer the inevitable question asked by any customer service representative when one attempts to make a return: “Was there anything wrong with it?”

My important lesson is this: While it is delightful to discover the many wondrous things that one can see while one is sitting down, it is equally important that one can get back up.

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Apr 23

The Things I See While Sitting Down

by misskkennedy

Sitting down in a restaurant is taking some getting used to, but I’ve gotten much better at it.  I am, of course, fascinated, obsessed and overwhelmed with the variety of choices in this city and all the cities surrounding it.  I am jotting names and addresses of restaurants on scraps of paper and stuffing them in a file.  I am combing and highlighting Indianapolis Monthly’s restaurant guide and dog-earring the pages. My ears perk up when the local news talks about a noteworthy restaurant opening.  I ask everyone I meet what their favorite restaurant is and why.

I’ve had some interesting experiences so far.  On one of my first outings, shortly after my move, I went to a place called Matt the Miller’s here in Carmel.  The bar was hopping, the dining room packed.  And this was a Thursday night.  The drinks were tasty, the salad was dreadful, the entrees (seared salmon and a flatiron steak) were pretty straightforward.  The really remarkable part of the evening came about halfway through the meal.  My dinner companion Liza was in mid-sentence when she suddenly stopped speaking and her mouth formed into a perfect “O.”  Seconds later there was a terrific crash directly behind my chair, and I turned around to see the biggest mess I have ever seen in all of my years in the restaurant business.  A server had lost an entire tray of entrees; steak piled on vegetables, piled on pasta, piled on mashed potatoes, piled on chicken breast, piled on rice.   A veritable mountain of food.  And unfortunately, part of that mountain was on the shoe of the woman sitting directly behind me.  She seemed frozen in disbelief.  Had this debacle occurred two inches to the left, that mountain of food would have been on my head, but I was miraculously unscathed.  The best part of it all was that the server simply turned and ran.  (I might have done the same under the circumstances.) Of course I thought that he was running to get something to clean it all up, but I don’t think we saw him again the rest of the night.  He may still be running for all I know.

An army of staff arrived with brooms and dust pans (although I doubt that carpeting will ever be the same.)  The manager swooped in with business cards, offering dry cleaning and comped desserts (although I doubt that poor woman’s shoes will ever the same.)  And we all went back to eating our dinners.  All of us except, of course, for the poor four-top whose food hit the floor.

I also had an amazing night at the Jazz Kitchen, listening to an incredibly talented singer named Cynthia Layne.  And while I was blown away by her fabulous band and chocolately smooth vocals, I was even more intrigued by how the service staff managed to move almost reverently through the room, taking orders and serving drinks and entire meals seemingly without making a sound.  The same is true at the Cabaret at the Columbia Club, where I watched a waiter literally duck-walk across the length of the entire room to avoid getting into a singer’s spotlight.

My favorite spot of all right now is Café Petit Chou in Clay Terrace.  The food has been flawless on each of my visits, and the staff simply oozes hospitality.  And there I was bedazzled by a server who, on a packed Sunday morning with a 40-minute wait, took our entire order of complicated omelettes and sides without writing a thing down.  And we actually got what we ordered.  Fascinating.  In my serving days you could have asked me for a cup of decaf and I would have forgotten by the time I was two steps from your table if I didn’t write it down.

Regardless of whether or not every meal is perfect, I’m seeing a theme emerge.  I’m seeing a real force behind the restaurant industry here; a dedication to be different and to try and really do things right.  I like it.

It’s amazing the things you can see when you’re sitting down.

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Apr 6

The Big Adventure

by misskkennedy

Some of you dear readers know this already, but many of you probably do not.  The “Restaurant Gal” is trying with all her might to leave the “Restaurant World” behind.  I have not posted in a while, because I’ve been trying to figure out how a blog about the life of a restaurant gal fits in with a woman who is no longer working in one.  The larger question, of course, is how does the life of a woman who has identified herself as such for so many years, fit in at all?  And what now?

The answer to that question is something I am answering one day at a time.  As a milestone birthday approaches (don’t ask,) it’s time now for me to try and make some of my dreams come true… to write for a living instead of for an hour at midnight.  To finish the screenplay I’ve been blabbering about for years.  To find my music again, and maybe even be lucky enough to get paid to perform it every once in a while.

In order to begin to try accomplishing these things, I knew I had to physically remove myself not just from the Restaurant itself, but from even any proximity to it.  If you’ve ever worked in a restaurant before, you know that getting out of it can be a slippery slope, and that you’re always just one phone call away from slapping on your apron and jumping into the fray.  And when you love the people who need the help, you can’t very well say no, can you?  And so, here I am, now living in Indianapolis (Carmel, to be specific,) on my Big Adventure… also known as: “The Scariest Thing I Have Ever Done in My Life.”

Oh, it’s one thing to jump in your car and move to a new city when you’re 21.  I felt like I was going to take Chicago by storm back then.  And maybe I didn’t storm it, but I did make a little mark in my time there.  But when you’re (insert milestone birthday here) and you move to a city where you know a handful of people, it’s a whole different talk show, as they say. And let’s be clear, when I say “they,” I mean other people who actually use that phrase, not imaginary friends.  I just want to clarify that because I talk to myself a lot now that I’m living alone and I’m afraid my neighbors think a crazy woman has moved in next door.

And so what is it that I do all day, as I’m chattering away to myself?  Well, I’m combing the internet for freelance writing jobs, I’m networking like crazy, I’ve been to Target about a thousand times, and I’m forcing myself to go out alone and talk to total strangers.  Now I talked to total strangers all the time in the Restaurant.  I’m certainly not shy and I had no problem with that.  But this is different.  This requires all the bravery and bravado I’ve ever had to muster.  But I’m doin’ it.   And KJG has been unwaveringly supportive as I navigate these new waters and she navigates the waters of the Restaurant without me there to help her row.

So back to my original question.

How do we explain a blog written by a “Restaurant Gal” who no longer works in a Restaurant?  The answer seems pretty clear to me now… I’m the same gal I’ve been all along.  I’ll always be a Restaurant Gal in my heart.  I’m always going to notice when the table next to mine needs water, or be amused when a server mispronounces a word while telling me the specials.  I’ll never stop wishing that every restaurant’s food could be as good as KJG’s, and I’ll never stop annoying my dinner companions by bringing that up. 

And, as “they” (you know, my imaginary friends) say, never say never.  My black apron is neatly folded in the back of my drawer.  That slippery slope never gets any less steep and rent must be paid.   And I’m certainly not getting paid to write this little missive.  But I’m hoping that others will pay me for what I love to do more than anything else in the world. 

I’m closing my eyes and jumping.

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Jan 31

It’s a Virtue

by misskkennedy

I’m having a little vacation.  I’m in Florida in an amazing restaurant town called Delray Beach where, as far as I call tell, the median age of the guests is 82 and the median age of the service staff is barely old enough to serve alcohol.  The service personnel, whether they are restaurant servers, private car drivers or hotel front desk staff, are all gorgeous here.  They look like future (or current) Abercrombie models, all long legs, long hair and tan.  Universally though, they all seem to love their jobs.  They are truly happy to serve you.   They seem to understand that being good at their jobs allows them to stay here in this warm, wonderful place by the ocean.  And they seem to love their clientele too.  They know many of their guests by name and the sight of the familiar face of their regular server can immediately calm even the crankiest of guests.  (And over these last few days I have seen some seriously cranky guests; my favorites being the two women at the pool who got into a fight over a particular lounge chair when there were at least fifty others available.  An adorable pool boy had to intervene and moderate, placating each with extra towels and a complimentary Arnold Palmer.  He had, apparently, done this before.   Ultimately age (and with it seniority) trumped beauty and youth.  As it should.

For six days now, I’ve been a full-time customer instead of a server.   Although, I’m not your average customer.  I’m the customer who notices everything.   Who hears the whispered warnings about the woman at table 32, because she’s really mad about her overcooked tuna and now cannot find a way to be happy, even though the offending tuna has been replaced and her entire meal has been comped.  Or the man at the corner seat in the bar, because he’s grabbing the tush of every girl who slows down long enough to be within his reach.  I’m the customer who saw the busser drop a handful of teaspoons on his way to the service station, look both ways, decide no one saw him, and then swipe them on his apron and continue to the service station.  Oh yeah, I saw you.

But here’s what else I’ve noticed.  Patience.

An extraordinary, inordinate, unfathomable amount of patience.  Way more patience than I, as a server, am typically able to muster.  I’ve seen servers stand at a table with a guest who cannot decide what they want, but shoots down every suggestion the server makes.  I’ve seen servers patiently stand by while a younger companion reads aloud (loudly) the entire menu to a guest who apparently can’t see OR hear. I’ve seen servers try, again patiently, to tell the specials to or get the attention of a table who repeatedly ignores them, but will be the first to complain if they feel their server is not being attentive enough.

I hope these kids are richly rewarded for their patience.  I’d like to think they are.  I’m rewarding them at every meal.  They are certainly learning some life skills that will carry them far in their future endeavors, and their dedication and genuine smiles give me hope that the future of our country (or at least the future of the hospitality industry) might be in good hands.   I’m trying to learn a little bit about their patience as I watch them work.  I could use a little more of their patience.  I’m going to try it when I get home.

But right now, I’m waiting for my coffee.  It’s taking forever.

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Jan 11

Russell Stover, Party of 2, Your table is ready…

by misskkennedy

Another new year!  We made it through the Christmas Season without nervous breakdowns, which is a Christmas miracle all in itself.  We even made it through New Year’s Eve, for which we happened to be closed this year.  We turned away tons of reservation requests because we were determined to have a New Year’s Eve of our own.  We went to Indianapolis… out to dinner for a very over-priced, mediocre meal and then to a bar where some poor party-hearty soul threw up on the dance floor, and someone else spilled a drink on my gorgeous black velvet dress.  When WE are working, it really looks like everyone else is having a lot of fun, but in reality, I think everyone is just trying too hard. There is a reason we are better off working that night.

Anyway, once New Year’s Eve is over, there’s another big night just around the corner, and the calls start coming is as soon as January 2nd.  (The calls are coming in right now, and I don’t even have the reservation sheets done yet… I’m just toting all the messages around in The Vault on little pieces of scrap paper.) It’s a night with expectations just as high, if not higher, than New Year’s Eve.  A night where everyone’s romantic dreams come true.  Four syllables that bring hope, anticipation and an excuse to buy a new outfit for women everywhere while simultaneously causing an ulcer to form in the bellies of restaurant folk around the world.

Valentine’s Day.

It’s always interesting to me that one member of a couple is always on the spot on Valentine’s Day while the other one just gets to wait and see if they’ll get it right.  How does this get decided for each couple?  In many couples, it’s the husband, but in other couples, especially same-sex couples (whom I am proud to say feel every bit as comfortable celebrating their love in our restaurant as anyone else,) you just don’t know who will bear the burden of doing St. Valentine proud.  Much like Christmas time when we watch employees opening bonus envelopes, on Valentine’s Day we see the expectation in someone’s eyes when she (or he) is opening a tiny box that has been slipped under her (or his) napkin, and sometimes the thinly veiled disappointment when it’s just not something they would want.

(By the way, here’s a hint from me to you… stay away from heart-shaped jewelry of any sort, no matter how expensive, resist any impulse buys at the check-out lane at the drugstore…. and back away…far away… from any heart-shaped boxes bearing the name “Russell Stover.”   Even Russell’s wife does not want those waxy chocolates. )

The phone rings in the month of February like no other month, just because of the sheer volume of reservations.  Think about it… if on any given normal night, we do 100 guests, that might break down into 15 four tops, 10 two-tops (deuces, as we call them,) maybe 2 sixes, and an eight.  Twenty-eight tables total.  And of those twenty-eight tables, maybe four of them will be celebrating a “special occasion.” On Valentine’s Day, we will do 200 guests, and almost all of them will be a table of two.

One hundred tables total.  And every single one of them is celebrating a “special occasion.”

No pressure.

I sit and obsess over the reservation sheets for hours in the week prior to the big day.  For sure the 5:30 resos (as we call them) will be out by 7:00.  For them, Valentine’s Day is a business transaction.  Something to check off their to-do lists.  Ten minutes to turn (clear and re-set) those tables means we can start re-booking them at 7:00.  The real romantics come at 7:00 (even if it falls on a weeknight… they will stay for two hours, gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes over coffee, but I’ll still have their table back by 9:00 for the third turn.  And just when I think I’ve got it all worked out, the phone rings: “We just realized a friend of ours will be alone tonight… can I add one person to our reservation?”  If I can, I move them to a larger table, but this changes everything, not just their table, but the turns of that table as well.   I squeeze in every call I can, but I’ll be honest… I’m also keeping a few tables up my sleeve, in case a reservation was lost (remember those little scraps of paper I was telling you about?) or a very regular customer calls me on the 13th, penitent and begging for me to save his butt.  Of course I can.

It is almost impossible for me not to laugh into the phone at the poor, clueless souls who call at 4:30 on Valentine’s Day… “Um, yeah, I’m gonna need a table for two tonight, around 7, or 7:30 would be okay too…”  I don’t often use the word “dude”, but now I want to, as in “Dude… seriously??”   Those tables have been booked for a month now. They are outright scandalized when I tell them that I really don’t have ANY tables left at all, but I guess I could try and squeeze them in at 9:45.  Dead silence… it’s sinking in.  I wait for the inevitable question:  “So for SURE you don’t have anything at 7:00?”  Yes, I’m quite sure.   Now comes denial, coupled with the certain doom of the doghouse he is about to find himself in…  “Well, can we come in at 7:00 and just see if something opens up?”   He is hoping against all hope, but I cannot give him hope where none exists.  “Even if we have tables that don’t show up, there is very little chance that we will have anything before 9:45 or 10:00.  We are literally booked solid.  I’m so sorry.”  And I really AM sorry.  I know what that guy’s in for.  But, seriously dude, it’s Valentine’s Day! Put a reminder in your phone for next year to call on February 1st, and then RUN to the florist and pray they have some roses left… you’re going to need them.

Whether or not you fully embrace the spirit of Valentine’s Day or just feel resentful that Hallmark and the media will make you look bad if you do nothing, my caveat to you is the same… start thinking about it NOW.  Even if you think it’s a load of hooey, there’s nothing  wrong with choosing one day every year to tell your beloved how much they mean to you.  Yes, my life would be easier if it were spread out over the course of a year, but that’s okay.  I’ll be ready.   And when I get home that night, KJG will invariably have two dozen, multi-colored roses waiting for me… my favorite… as she has every year for the past fourteen years.  Some years they die in two days and one year we found them frozen to the front steps when we got home at 11:00, but regardless, the sentiment is there and the thought means a lot to me.

As I finish this, I have also assembled the reservation sheets for the week of February 14th… sheets with sooo many more time slots than usual.  I am ready.  Now, where did I put all those little scraps of paper…

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Dec 19

Merry Christmas Indeed

by misskkennedy

Well, hello.

Remember me?  It’s been a while… but don’t worry… I have a note excusing my absence.  The note consists of two words:  Christmas Season.

Now, I know what you’re thinking… Trixie, that’s no excuse.  We’re all busy in the Christmas Season.  Well, I won’t dispute that, but the Christmas Season takes on a whole new level of busy for those of us in the hospitality industry.  (And those of you who work in retail can stop reading right now, because I’m sure you’re going to shake your heads and wonder why I think I have anything to whine about.)

The Christmas Season sneaks up on me like a cat stalking its own tail.  Every year, I know it’s coming, and I do everything I can to be ready.  Come November, just when I’m starting to feel recuperated from the madness of the summer season, the phone rings.  “I’m just inquiring about a party of 40 on Friday, (insert date of the second Friday in December.)  We need a private room.”  This is my cue that I need to get crackin’… I call all of our previous years’ customers to make sure they have the date they need.   I start organizing files of tentative inquiries, definite bookings, previous years’ menus, contracts signed, contracts to be written… My black calendar (“The Vault” as we call it) swells with white pieces of paper that represent a great deal of money for our business.  I try not to double-book the private room.

As the month of December approaches, my life seems to move in fast forward.  I’m on the phone constantly trying to nail down menus and party details.  Will the owner’s speech come before we serve salads or after dessert?  How many pieces of shrimp per person?  Any vegetarians in the group?  Centerpieces? Open bar? Games after dinner?  And just when I think I’ve got it all nailed down, another call… “I know it’s late, but do you happen to have a room available for a group of 30 any Friday or Saturday in December?”

We brace ourselves for the onslaught, and warn any new employees that they are going to experience a whole new level of “tired” that they never thought possible.   In the midst of this, we must decorate the restaurant (and our own house) for Christmas, do our own Christmas shopping, bake some cookies, and try to capture even a tiny bit of Christmas spirit for ourselves.   Some years, that’s trickier than others.  I have a very vivid memory of a Christmas season in the days when we were running the Inn when it all became a little too much for me, and KJG came home to find me lying on the floor, sobbing.  I cried every bit of Christmas stress out and then pasted my smile back on for the next night’s party.

That’s the thing about the Christmas season in a restaurant… it’s not enough to just be there… you really have to personify the Christmas spirit.  This party is the culmination of these people’s entire year of hard work, and it’s important to them.  You can’t just fake a smile for them… you have to exude Christmas Cheer.

You are also privy to the inside workings of each company’s philosophies on employee relations.   You see the looks on the employees’ faces as they surreptitiously peek into the sealed envelopes that contain their bonuses.   Some are delighted, some disappointed.  You cannot help but overhear the speeches that the bosses make.   Some are not so eloquent… I once heard a company owner explain to his staff that while he understood their need to celebrate the holiday, he himself did not believe in God.  He then proceeded to tell them a very long, drawn-out story of a Christmas from his childhood when he desperately wished for a red Radio Flyer sled.  I stayed in the room to hear what I hoped, for the sake of his poor employees, would be a happy ending to his story.   No such luck.  The moral of his story was that he did not get his sled and his employees weren’t getting any bonuses.   Merry Christmas indeed.

Most, however, take the opportunity to tell their employees the things they should probably say more often throughout the year.  How much their hard work and dedication is valued.  How much they have contributed to the success of the company.  Some bosses and owners, overwhelmed with gratitude and appreciation for their staffs, cry as they try to express their feelings.   These are the parties that make me feel good about what we do.  We can make it perfect for them, and the employees can go home feeling like their company thinks that they’re special enough to deserve a really great evening out.

Well, it’s December 19th.  Which means that we have four more nights of making someone else’s holiday special before we can take a little time off to celebrate our own.   And for you poor souls in the retail industry (I TOLD you to stop reading!) I guess you still have a few more days after that.  Many of those crazed Christmas Eve shoppers are probably restaurant workers, so have pity on them if you can.

And so, let me take this opportunity to wish you all a very Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, et al.   Take a break from the stress of the holiday season and find a moment to count your blessings.   They are there.  Now I’m going to go frost my cookies while I can… we have a party tonight.

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Nov 25

Troubles From the Nuthouse

by misskkennedy

Employees.

There is no way to run a business of any size without them. They are the reason we lose sleep at night, but they are also the reason that we are able to enjoy Thanksgiving week in Puerto Rico while The Restaurant chugs away without us. Drinks may or may not be served in a timely manner. The ideal wine recommendation may or may not be made. Steaks may or may not be cooked to the perfect temperature. But here we sit, seaside, sipping a frozen mojito. And right now we may or may not care. (More mojitos, please…)

We run The Restaurant with a very small staff. A dedicated little band of foodies, several of whom have worked for us for ten years or more. We are not easy to work for and we know it. Those who stay the course buy into our passion for what we do. Many have come and gone before them, and their ghosts linger in stories told over after-shift cocktails, legendary in their ineptitude. What we have learned over the years is that the common sense gene does not get passed down to every generation, and applicants can be really good bluffers.

I ran restaurants in Chicago for many years. Over the course of those years I encountered unbelievable examples of the missing common sense gene. I have told these stories many times over the years… sometimes people believe me, sometimes they think I’m making them up. I assure you I am not that creative.

Scene: A busy Sunday Brunch at a Lincoln Park Bar and Grill. I am in the office getting change for the bar. A server comes into the office and says, “Do we have a toolbox?” I reply, “Please don’t tell me you’re looking for a screwdriver.” Server: “How did you know??”

Scene: A late weekday afternoon at a large, upscale downtown bar. I am in the office doing paperwork between lunch and dinner. A lone bartender, Skip (his real name!) is on duty. On the camera monitor, I see two ladies come in and sit down at the empty bar. I see Skip promptly greet them. I go back to my paperwork. I look up a full ten minutes later to see the two women still sitting with no drinks in front of them and Skip is nowhere to be seen. I race to the bar, greet the women, apologize for the wait, and ask them what they ordered. I make their drinks, a Chardonnay and a Bailey’s and coffee. I then go looking Skip. I find him in the kitchen, rummaging through the spices. He looks at me in total frustration and says, “Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a bay leaf in this restaurant?”

KJG and I also spent many years running an inn where the dream employees continued to arrive on our doorstep. There was the server who, we realized after several months, had been telling our guests that our signature salad was served with “Islamic vinaigrette.” This was the same guy who attempted to free a stubborn wine cork tableside by putting the bottle between his thighs and pulling and grunting loudly.

Before our time, there was a server who chastised guests if they tried to order a bottle of wine because she didn’t believe in drinking. But my favorite of all time is the server who had been instructed to present complimentary after-dinner chocolate truffles to her guests from the local candy store called the Nut Shoppe.

“Troubles from the Nut House, compliments of the Chef.”

Another mojito, please…

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Nov 11

A New Recipe

by misskkennedy

Some foodies are born and some foodies are made; the classic case of Nature vs. Nurture.  Chef Lady (who has requested that I stop referring to her as Chef Lady, so will now be known as simply KJG) was raised in a family of foodies.  Her mother is a fabulous cook, and I believe that KJG grew into her sophisticated palate at a very early age.  Their family dinners were, and still are, culinary events, always made special by beautiful table settings, candlelight, music and wine.  Platters of food are thoughtfully garnished with fresh flowers or freshly chopped herbs.  The perfect amount of food is prepared… everyone is satiated, but not stuffed.  Left-overs are a rarity.

My culinary journey differs just a tad…

My mom, the original Mrs. Malaprop, earned the nickname of “Lola” from one of my high school friends, and so Lola she shall be hereafter.  Lola grew up in the Depression.  As a result, our pantry, fridge and freezer were always stocked to overflowing with every canned good and frozen vegetable known to mankind.  Lola loved to cook, and there were home-cooked meals every night… just of a different ilk than KJG’s.  Fresh herbs were unheard of in our house… McCormick’s garlic salt and onion powder ruled our flavor profiles, and dried oregano surfaced periodically for fancy Italian dinners.  Because we were Catholic, our dear friend Mrs. Paul visited us every Lenten Friday night with her fish sticks and she was invariably accompanied by Kraft macaroni and cheese.  Other standard dinners included: polish sausage with noodles and sour cream, pot roast, corn flake-crusted baked chicken and spaghetti.   (What’s that exotic flavor in there?  Oh yes, dried OREGANO!)  Baked goods were omnipresent; cookies (from a hideous, bright green frog cookie jar), breads, cakes… and I am here to tell you, there was no escaping Jello ™ in all its many incarnations.

Because of her childhood in the Depression, Lola was loath to waste any food, ever.  Left-overs were religiously enshrined in the absolute perfectly-sized Tupperware container (and because she always cooked enough for an army at every meal, left-overs were also preordained.)

Needless to say, there was a colossal paradigm shift the first time I brought KJG to visit Lola.

Upon arriving at Lola’s house, before you could even take off your coat, the inevitable question: “Are you girls hungry?”  Regardless of the answer, the parade of Tupperware containers began… orange Jello salad with shredded carrots, scalloped potatoes (courtesy of Betty Crocker), meatloaf, zucchini bread, and sometimes unidentifiable dishes which would always be referred to as a “new recipe.”

There were also always seriously stale Triscuits with some kind of orangey-red cheese ball and vanilla ice cream (lurking under stalagmites of ice crystals) that looked to have been first opened about a year prior.

On the first visit to Lola’s house, KJG was uber-polite, gamely polishing off every new challenge Lola placed in front of her.  For my part, I was just relieved to have some help with the task.  On the way home, KJG complained of a stomach ache, and loudly moaned, “What did we just EAT???  What WAS all that stuff??”  I told her she had made an old lady happy and I was proud of her for trying new things.  “Those weren’t NEW things,” she replied.

Before the next visit, KJG made it clear to me that she was NOT going to be forced to partake of the Tupperware parade, nor was she going to eat Jello in any form, or anything that was stale or had been in the freezer open for a year or more.  “Maybe we should go out to eat,” I suggested.

No such luck.  Knowing now about KJG’s high standards, Lola had upped her game.  A freshly opened box of Triscuits awaited us, along with a warm, cheesy casserole coming out of the oven, which my mother announced as “Baked Brie.”   Tasting it, KJG and I exchanged glances… it was pretty good, but tasted nothing like brie.  “Mom, what’s in this ‘Baked Brie?’” I asked.   “Swiss Cheese and Mayonnaise,” she replied.  “It’s a new recipe.”

Over the years, KJG and Lola would develop a fabulous relationship that made me happy to my core.  Lola would offer ice cream or baked goods, and KJG’s eyes would narrow suspiciously as she asked, “How old is it? Let me smell it first.”  KJG’s level of cooking was something my mother had never experienced, but she knew a good thing when she tasted it.  Lola would ask KJG food and cooking questions… “What’s a shallot?”  “If I don’t cook fish in a microwave, how else can I do it?”  Lola learned from KJG how to use actual garlic instead of garlic salt.  (Although I once caught her trying to open a can of coffee with a garlic press.)  In return, Lola filled our bellies with the best Chex Party Mix in the world.

Lola has been gone several years now.  KJG and I talk often of how much we miss her, especially as the holiday season approaches.   I am quite certain that she is up in heaven with Jackson, feeding him stale cookies and crackers, and ice cream with freezer burn, which he is happily gobbling down.

And they are both looking down on us and saying, “I told those girls there was nothing wrong with this stuff.”

food foodies humor

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Oct 31

A Fond Farewell to a Fellow Foodie

by misskkennedy

This past weekend Chef Lady and I had to say goodbye to our faithful foodie companion of the last 12 years… our beloved golden retriever, Jackson Finn.  What a grand, sweet old soul he was.  He loved us almost as much as he loved ice cream, and that’s really all that we could have asked of him.  Jackson was a foodie in his own right, just not with quite the same standards as ours.

Jackson loved to cook and could be found in the kitchen with me each and every time I prepared a meal for our little family.  He was adept at cleaning the floor which came in quite handy, as I am a very messy cook.   He saw us through three different restaurants over the years, and lived his life on a restaurateur’s schedule, patiently waiting for his dinner at ten or eleven o’clock every night.  He understood when we were too tired to walk him between the lunch and dinner shift, and lived for Sundays, when we could all sleep in and stay home together all day.

Jackson was an omnivore.  Lettuce, (even iceberg!) radishes, jalapenos, celery, garlic, onions… there was nothing he wouldn’t gobble down if it hit the floor.   While Chef Lady, whose standards are higher than all of ours put together, would rid the cabinets and fridge of what she deemed to be less-than-fresh crackers, breads, fruits, meats and cheeses, Jackson would watch mournfully as each item hit the trash can, his expression seeming to say, “I totally would have eaten that…”

Jackson was also an opportunist of the highest degree.  We once came home from a very long day and night in the height of the Christmas season to find what had been a bountiful platter of at least five dozen assorted Christmas cookies reduced to crumbs, slobber and tin foil.  Another holiday (Easter perhaps?) we were running errands with Jackson in the car and had purchased three one-pound boxes of toffee and turtles from our local candy kitchen for gifts.  One quick stop to pick up a bouquet of flowers was all the time he needed to devour all three pounds.  Panicked, we called the vet… was three pounds of chocolate a lethal dose for a puppy???  The vet couldn’t be sure; we should watch him closely.  Not only was he fine, but also begging for dinner by the time we got home.

Back in the days when we ran an inn, Jackson was sometimes allowed to come to work with us.  He was in his glory; the mayor of the place.   He loved to swim in the pool and greeted every guest as if they were long lost grade school pals.  His tenure at the inn was cut short, however, after the day when his love of muffins got the better of him and he ran into the forbidden territory of the dining room, snatched a guest’s entire breakfast off the table (hard-boiled egg, shell and all) and gobbled it down in the foyer.

Bad dog.

But the glee on his face, the pure, unmitigated joy he found in eating made it hard to punish him. I sometimes see the same look on the faces of our guests at The Restaurant the first time they taste Chef Lady’s Wasabi Pea Encrusted Salmon.

Rest in peace, fellow foodie.   You shared our love of food, people and fun, and joyfully welcomed us home every night, even if we were too tired to pet you.  You will be missed but never forgotten.

food foodies humor pets restaurant owner

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Oct 21

Two Foodies in Amish Country

by misskkennedy

Yesterday I was inspired to make some baked oatmeal in the two-hour window between the lunch and dinner shift.  Inspirations to create baked goods do not come often to me.  Inspirations to do anything other than take a nap between the lunch and dinner shift do not come often to me.  Also after several years of baking disasters, I have been seriously warned against attempting it.  But I just wanted some baked oatmeal.  It’s cold and rainy, my hostas have finally signaled their decision to stop fighting, someone has dumped leaves in our front yard, and I really needed to smell something with cinnamon in it baking in the oven.

So I dug out my mess of recipes (remember all that stuff about time management?) and unearthed my recipe for baked oatmeal.   I opened a cabinet that rarely sees the light of day and I must say, the little Clabber Baking Powder Girl seemed quite surprised to see me.  She, along with all the usual suspects came reluctantly out of the cupboard and into the mixing bowl.  All except for the brown sugar… seriously??  Who would put away a bag of brown sugar that had less than a ¼ cup in it without buying more or at least adding it to a grocery list??  Well it certainly wasn’t Chef Lady… she does NOT bake.   So that leaves yours truly.  What to do?  I’m mid-recipe, I’ve trashed the kitchen, and we live 7 miles from the nearest grocery.   Ahhhh yes… the Amish store.

We live in the heart of Amish Country.  When our power goes out (as it often does) and I call the electric company to report our outage, the first question they ask is, “Are your neighbors also without power?” The answer to that question is always yes.   But the Amish have their own little grocery store less than a mile from our house.  Now if we are out of field greens or Maytag blue cheese or Yukon Gold potatoes, we are not going to find it at the Amish store.  I once went there hoping against hope to find some romaine lettuce. What I found in their generator-powered cooler was iceberg lettuce, giant blocks of cheddar cheese and numerous deli containers of a mysterious white substance called “marshmallow fluff.”  Well, a little iceberg every once in a while isn’t going to kill us.

But certainly you can count on the Amish store for some brown sugar.  And yes, there it was… in normal-sized bags or 10 pound bulk!  Those Amish ladies must bake a lot more than I do. Feeling like Laura Ingalls Wilder, I procure my missing ingredient for $2.20.

So here we are… two foodies in Amish Country.  Our land is not rich with culinary enterprise… unless you happen to find fried chicken, mashed potatoes, Jello salad and pie epicurean delights.  But still we forge ahead.  We have managed to find an audience for the foods we love amongst the corn fields, cows, and buggies.  There are other foodies who live here too.

And may I say, my baked oatmeal is delicious.

food humor restaurant owner Uncategorized

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