April 23rd, 2006
|06:41 pm - spatch likes food|
recent eatings of food:
1. Rosebud with Nate, who I hadn't seen in over two years. I brought him in with the promises of diner coffee and milkshakes and good old fashioned diner service. "We don't do milkshakes," our waitress said. Sorry, Nate. The counter staff were settling down into a few glasses of amber after-dinner liquor when we came in. One of 'em said she saw The Police back in the early 80s at -- now I can't remember where -- and "there was only like 9 people there." They almost didn't want to give Nate the last of the decaf, but after we explained our diner roots, they let him have a taste. Not bad, apparently; he had a full mug and then some. Nate's business trip paid for dinner, and in the absence of an actual paper receipt, he took his record of purchase on the back of a Rosebud postcard. Let's see HR work that one out.
2. Beer and miniature burgers at Joe Sent Me with Pete and Molly. It could become a regular place, as we're all less than 10 minute walks from the joint. We watched the Sox lose on their HDTVs, enjoyed the beer (Pete not so much his burrito) and my miniature burgers were cooked very nicely. Half the fun of watching baseball with Molly is the fact that while she's diminutive and friendly all the time, she's blessed with a mouth like a sailor when watching baseball.
3. Dinner at the Town Diner (or Olde Towne Diner or something like that) in Watertown with Jo. She had these incredible pork chops, cooked without being turned dry, and I had a nice buffalo burger with bourbon-maple syrup glaze that was so good I took the leftovers home for Abbie. We had plenty of gossip and beverages. Afterwards we bought some wine and had a thought to settle in somewhere and empty a few, but by the time we were done shopping we were exhausted. Abbie liked his, though.
4. Burgers and beer with Lynn at Charlie's Kitchen in Harvard Square. It was 4/20 and WBOS played quite a bit of Pink Floyd while we were enjoying our dinner, which seemed more than appropriate given the circumstances. Later, we went to see Dave Chapelle's Block Party which I think is one of the happiest movies I've seen in a very long time. Big ol' positive vibes, even when the acts' messages were a bit angrier (I mean, I don't think anybody could accuse the Roots or Dead Prez of having a naively-optimistic "Maybe if we all held hands in peace and harmony the world would be a better place" kind of attitude.)
5. Tibetan at The Place on Elm (which I know full well is named Martsa's On Elm, but hey, what can you do?) As usual the potato chaat was very delicious and the hot cider even moreso. I enjoyed the chicken curry with a bit of apple to it, and read a book I'd gotten from McIntyre & Moore's about notorious rapscallions in Massachusetts sociopolitical history -- Honey Fitz, Mayor Curley, Ben "Spoons" Butler (so named after his Civil War military governorship in New Orleans, where it was said he'd absconded with a suitcase full of high society's best flatware) and Charles Ponzi, the schemester whose investors still supported him wholeheartedly, even after he'd gone to jail for his international reply coupon scam.
I wonder what I'll eat tonight.
"We don't do milkshakes,"
God, how I hate The Rosebud and the way they waste a beautiful classic diner car on very, extremely, profoundly NOT diner cuisine. The fact that I had to use the word "cuisine" in that sentence underscores my point.
A diner -- and I use the term "diner" in the reverent sense of a mid-Atlantic native -- does not have a liquor license. It does not have blackened swordfish. It does not have primavera anything. It does not deprive its patrons of patty melts or breakfast-all-day. Ideally, it's owners should be Greek and enthusiastic about throwing you out if you're drunk. Not drunk themselves.
A diner's menu should be 8-10 laminated pages long, but you don't need to read it because you already know you want eggs and fries with gravy. The waitress shouldn't ask "which kind of gravy?" because there is only one kind of diner gravy -- brown and fatty. Rob, really, I can't believe you brought your out-of-town friend to such a Disney-ass mockery of a diner. It's a point of shame in Davis. Unlike The Rosebud, a true diner serves nothing on a bed a kale.
Real diners have milkshakes. Real diner waitresses don't say "We don't do..." They say "We don't have.... But milkshakes, a diner always has.
|Date:||April 25th, 2006 03:05 am (UTC)|| |
(Is your icon Rube from Dead Like Me or some other Mandy Patinkin character? I adore Dead Like Me.)