6.06.2004
Raising a glass
You can tell what someone does for a living by the condition of his or her hands. I know it’s been at least three weeks since I’ve left the food service industry, as the cuts on my hands have completely healed, leaving faint scars, smudges that remind me of bread cut too fast, shards of broken china, steam burns.
Now, I’ve got splinters. I break open pine crates filled with French wine that per bottle costs more than I earn in a week. I’m a peasant in the retail wine industry, catering to manor lords who toss down thousands of dollars monthly to keep their cellars (plural) well stocked. I use phrases such as “full-bodied,” “fruit-forward,” and “mouth feel” without giggling. I dust and stock and climb tall ladders in a warehouse that’s the size of a football field, filled with crates of wine from all over the world. And yes, I get to drink too.
As a fan of the grape, I thought I knew a thing or two about wine, carefully scouring wine lists at chic San Francisco restaurants and pronouncing French appellations with a fine-accented flourish. After my first day on the job, I considered myself lucky that I could at least point out the Chablis from the Burgundy--but not much more.
I’ve picked a hell of a classroom, however. This wine shop, located on the edge of nowhere, Emeryville, has a fairly dedicated class of consumer who knows exactly what they want and how much they are willing to pay for it. The shop's owner scours the world for top-notch wines, and maintains warehouses in both Paris and London. Most customers don’t even come into the shop, opting to buy cases by phone or over the Web, paying hundreds more to have thousands of dollars of fine wines shipped to Florida, to Washington, to Maine.
A few classes are starting to emerge. There are certain customers, primarily men, who collect bottles like they might collect cars or young wives. These status seekers are the ones who call 10 times a day, scrambling for a case or two of a 100-Parker point vintage, or other well-hyped bottle. A middle group of customers seeks out the nicer wines but isn’t above grabbing a cheap bottle or two to pair with pizza.
Some unknowing customers, however, blanch at the cost of the wines, accustomed to Costco or Trader Joe’s, the benevolent home of $2 bottles. Now, I’m starting to think that $25 isn’t too bad. $30 is my limit, so far, except for that bottle of Champagne that I needed, really, one night to cheer up my lover; then again, one cannot put a price on Champagne.
So, it starts. I make $14 an hour, and receive an employee discount. As long as I clear rent, I think, I may find it to easy to drink the rest.
With this liquid transition, I’m closing the doors of the Meat Lab, packing up--for now--my knives. Thanks to all who have slogged through the blog. I raise my boning knife in salute.
You can tell what someone does for a living by the condition of his or her hands. I know it’s been at least three weeks since I’ve left the food service industry, as the cuts on my hands have completely healed, leaving faint scars, smudges that remind me of bread cut too fast, shards of broken china, steam burns.
Now, I’ve got splinters. I break open pine crates filled with French wine that per bottle costs more than I earn in a week. I’m a peasant in the retail wine industry, catering to manor lords who toss down thousands of dollars monthly to keep their cellars (plural) well stocked. I use phrases such as “full-bodied,” “fruit-forward,” and “mouth feel” without giggling. I dust and stock and climb tall ladders in a warehouse that’s the size of a football field, filled with crates of wine from all over the world. And yes, I get to drink too.
As a fan of the grape, I thought I knew a thing or two about wine, carefully scouring wine lists at chic San Francisco restaurants and pronouncing French appellations with a fine-accented flourish. After my first day on the job, I considered myself lucky that I could at least point out the Chablis from the Burgundy--but not much more.
I’ve picked a hell of a classroom, however. This wine shop, located on the edge of nowhere, Emeryville, has a fairly dedicated class of consumer who knows exactly what they want and how much they are willing to pay for it. The shop's owner scours the world for top-notch wines, and maintains warehouses in both Paris and London. Most customers don’t even come into the shop, opting to buy cases by phone or over the Web, paying hundreds more to have thousands of dollars of fine wines shipped to Florida, to Washington, to Maine.
A few classes are starting to emerge. There are certain customers, primarily men, who collect bottles like they might collect cars or young wives. These status seekers are the ones who call 10 times a day, scrambling for a case or two of a 100-Parker point vintage, or other well-hyped bottle. A middle group of customers seeks out the nicer wines but isn’t above grabbing a cheap bottle or two to pair with pizza.
Some unknowing customers, however, blanch at the cost of the wines, accustomed to Costco or Trader Joe’s, the benevolent home of $2 bottles. Now, I’m starting to think that $25 isn’t too bad. $30 is my limit, so far, except for that bottle of Champagne that I needed, really, one night to cheer up my lover; then again, one cannot put a price on Champagne.
So, it starts. I make $14 an hour, and receive an employee discount. As long as I clear rent, I think, I may find it to easy to drink the rest.
With this liquid transition, I’m closing the doors of the Meat Lab, packing up--for now--my knives. Thanks to all who have slogged through the blog. I raise my boning knife in salute.
4.22.2004
Institutionalized
I ended my Friday (Tuesday, for me) by spilling a large tin filled with 30 sodas and 10 pounds of ice all over the floor of a classroom. My customers scrambled, got down on hands and knees, scooping up bits of slippery ice with cupped palms. I scooted around with a piece of linen, mopping up as much water as I could. The janitor never showed up, so I spent an extra 15 minutes, while a professor prattled on about study abroad in front of me, skating around on another piece of linen to soak up every last puddle.
Catering can be so much like acting. Clients watch your every move as if you were on stage, making sure you’re playing the role they paid for to the T. On "Friday," I got on stage and not only forgot my lines, but forgot to put my pants on, and I fell down. It’s not that I’m a lousy actor; I’m tired of the role.
I described the soda incident to my boss and she laughed, albeit with a tight jaw. She’s been under too much pressure of late; yet another layer of management has been placed above her, and her shoulders, despite her strong, 6-foot frame, are bowing from the weight. I tell her I had a dream of her leaving Bon Appetit, going to another catering company, a high-end one, where she could do more, better. My made-up scenario was my not-so-subtle way of saying, hey: I’m getting ready to leave too.
We’re standing on the loading dock, smothered in the smells of old garbage, coffee grounds, stale cigarettes. Greasy pigeons flutter down to root in the compost dumpsters. I’ve got mayonnaise on my shirt sleeve and coffee stains on the cuffs of my pants.
This is an institutional food service facility, serving thousands of students and teachers each day. The quality of service is just enough; the quality of food is just enough. There is little incentive to do more and better when you know your clients really have no where else to go.
For me, however, it’s time to leave the institution. Six months of 10-hour shifts and weekend-less weekends and I’ve learned all I’ll ever need--or want--to know about institutional food service. I give notice today, and two weeks from now, I'm on to the next day job, where hopefully, my clothes will stay clean, my legs unbruised, and my mind stimulated.
I ended my Friday (Tuesday, for me) by spilling a large tin filled with 30 sodas and 10 pounds of ice all over the floor of a classroom. My customers scrambled, got down on hands and knees, scooping up bits of slippery ice with cupped palms. I scooted around with a piece of linen, mopping up as much water as I could. The janitor never showed up, so I spent an extra 15 minutes, while a professor prattled on about study abroad in front of me, skating around on another piece of linen to soak up every last puddle.
Catering can be so much like acting. Clients watch your every move as if you were on stage, making sure you’re playing the role they paid for to the T. On "Friday," I got on stage and not only forgot my lines, but forgot to put my pants on, and I fell down. It’s not that I’m a lousy actor; I’m tired of the role.
I described the soda incident to my boss and she laughed, albeit with a tight jaw. She’s been under too much pressure of late; yet another layer of management has been placed above her, and her shoulders, despite her strong, 6-foot frame, are bowing from the weight. I tell her I had a dream of her leaving Bon Appetit, going to another catering company, a high-end one, where she could do more, better. My made-up scenario was my not-so-subtle way of saying, hey: I’m getting ready to leave too.
We’re standing on the loading dock, smothered in the smells of old garbage, coffee grounds, stale cigarettes. Greasy pigeons flutter down to root in the compost dumpsters. I’ve got mayonnaise on my shirt sleeve and coffee stains on the cuffs of my pants.
This is an institutional food service facility, serving thousands of students and teachers each day. The quality of service is just enough; the quality of food is just enough. There is little incentive to do more and better when you know your clients really have no where else to go.
For me, however, it’s time to leave the institution. Six months of 10-hour shifts and weekend-less weekends and I’ve learned all I’ll ever need--or want--to know about institutional food service. I give notice today, and two weeks from now, I'm on to the next day job, where hopefully, my clothes will stay clean, my legs unbruised, and my mind stimulated.
4.19.2004
Drawing lines
J grabbed me off the floor at a catering event and took me aside to where we could talk. Our conversation dynamic is awkward; towering a good foot above me, June is animated, all eyes when she’s speaking seriously, and me, craning my scrawny neck upwards, must look like a baby ostrich begging for food.
Company management had been negotiating a new contract with the members of Local 2, most of who work in our kitchen, for about two months. Although things seemed to be progressing smoothly, there were demands, she said, that probably weren’t going to be met--as saying no, I suppose, in negotiations is just as important as saying yes. There could be a strike, she whispered. We might need you to work more hours this Saturday, she urged, you know, just in case.
Scab. I applaud the person who came up with this derogatory term for someone who crosses a union picket line. A useless piece of skin, dead, flaky, picked off and tossed into nothing. Or more: a covering for a wound, in this case, angry workers who weren’t given the money or respect they felt they deserved. I could just step up, keep the ship afloat, heal the rift between those who get paid 6-figure salaries and drive Mercedes-Benz automobiles to work, and those who work for less than $10 an hour and walk.
I kept my mouth shut as I listened to the litany of preventative measures for the “just in case.” No student worker was to talk, especially not joke, to the kitchen staff about a strike. Daily schedules of events were to be hidden at all times, as they could give union members ideas of good times to walk out--when we needed them the most. Perhaps, I would have to bag sandwiches, or assemble fruit plates. There are at least 12 entrances to the building; so if student workers don’t want to physically cross a picket line, there were plenty of other options for getting to work.
There is a romance in labor conflicts, the eternal strife between the boss and worker, the haves (assumed) and have-nots (guaranteed). Student workers wanted details, they wanted the sex of it all. When? How? What will happen? Some of the more sober sat me down. Why are we hiding information? How do you feel about all this?
How did I feel? The strike, so far, has been averted; I came to work on Saturday morning, at 5 a.m., as scheduled. Kitchen workers, dishwashers stumbled in wiping sleep from their eyes not shortly afterwards, and we said good morning, and got back to work.
There is no romance in needing a paycheck, in being a 50-year-old dishwasher with three children. There is little room for protest when one might not even understand the dense legal details of the union contract, if one doesn’t speak English as a first language. Strikers get, I have been told, $40 a day and no benefits. Even if there is reason to throw off one’s apron, too often the strings are tied far too tightly.
There still may be a chance to cross, or not cross, a picket line. I look at my savings and think I could possibly take the stand I feel is right; at other times, I remember the panic of unemployment and think again.
J grabbed me off the floor at a catering event and took me aside to where we could talk. Our conversation dynamic is awkward; towering a good foot above me, June is animated, all eyes when she’s speaking seriously, and me, craning my scrawny neck upwards, must look like a baby ostrich begging for food.
Company management had been negotiating a new contract with the members of Local 2, most of who work in our kitchen, for about two months. Although things seemed to be progressing smoothly, there were demands, she said, that probably weren’t going to be met--as saying no, I suppose, in negotiations is just as important as saying yes. There could be a strike, she whispered. We might need you to work more hours this Saturday, she urged, you know, just in case.
Scab. I applaud the person who came up with this derogatory term for someone who crosses a union picket line. A useless piece of skin, dead, flaky, picked off and tossed into nothing. Or more: a covering for a wound, in this case, angry workers who weren’t given the money or respect they felt they deserved. I could just step up, keep the ship afloat, heal the rift between those who get paid 6-figure salaries and drive Mercedes-Benz automobiles to work, and those who work for less than $10 an hour and walk.
I kept my mouth shut as I listened to the litany of preventative measures for the “just in case.” No student worker was to talk, especially not joke, to the kitchen staff about a strike. Daily schedules of events were to be hidden at all times, as they could give union members ideas of good times to walk out--when we needed them the most. Perhaps, I would have to bag sandwiches, or assemble fruit plates. There are at least 12 entrances to the building; so if student workers don’t want to physically cross a picket line, there were plenty of other options for getting to work.
There is a romance in labor conflicts, the eternal strife between the boss and worker, the haves (assumed) and have-nots (guaranteed). Student workers wanted details, they wanted the sex of it all. When? How? What will happen? Some of the more sober sat me down. Why are we hiding information? How do you feel about all this?
How did I feel? The strike, so far, has been averted; I came to work on Saturday morning, at 5 a.m., as scheduled. Kitchen workers, dishwashers stumbled in wiping sleep from their eyes not shortly afterwards, and we said good morning, and got back to work.
There is no romance in needing a paycheck, in being a 50-year-old dishwasher with three children. There is little room for protest when one might not even understand the dense legal details of the union contract, if one doesn’t speak English as a first language. Strikers get, I have been told, $40 a day and no benefits. Even if there is reason to throw off one’s apron, too often the strings are tied far too tightly.
There still may be a chance to cross, or not cross, a picket line. I look at my savings and think I could possibly take the stand I feel is right; at other times, I remember the panic of unemployment and think again.
3.22.2004
Nothing but noodles
It was a stay-in-pajamas day, the kind of day where the dreary sky betrays the passage of time. So my brother calls to make a lunch date, and all I can think of is noodles. Hot soup noodles that require slurping, which means splattering warm salty broth on shirt and lunch date. And if you can’t splatter soup on family, on whom can you?
We ambled to Mifune, a noodle shop in Japantown that looks like a lacquered bento box--blood red and black walls, small booth/compartments filled with happy, slurping customers. Regardless of the time of day, Mifune seems packed to the brim, but somehow, there’s always a table waiting. An older waiter, with thick glasses and a slight wobble in his step, led us to a booth by the window, looking out at the many restaurants packed tight in this section of the mall.
Even if you’ve already eaten, it’s impossible not to build up an appetite--for food, entertainment, or simply entertaining food--walking through this cobblestoned section of the Japantown mall in San Francisco. Every restaurant offers a coming attraction of its specialties in perfect plastic molds outside its doors. Sushi boats at Isobune slide by at an alarming clip with salmon roe and tamago treats. Chefs in traditional garb are put on display at Benihana as they pour batter for takoyaki, octopus and savory fried dough on a stick, into heavy round molds. A chestnut vendor entices passers-by, in Japanese and English, to try a nut or two.
Mifune has become a pilgrimage for my friends and I following a long soak at Kabuki Hot Springs, also located near Japantown mall, behind the Kabuki 8 Theater. Unable to keep our chatter to a whisper any longer in the silence-only soak tub, we flee to the restaurant to gab over udon and veritable piles of ahi sashimi, and as much tea as we can swallow in between stories.
The menu at Mifune is straightforward; if you’re arriving for lunch, there are pictures of the specials available--however, the images have no description. It’s good to ask what you're ordering if you can’t recognize the items. Most are soba (cold buckwheat noodles served on a tray with a dipping sauce) or udon (thick flour noodles in a hot broth flavored with bonito flakes and seaweed) with a partner of sashimi or sushi, for a little over $8. Although this might seem steep in a city that offers sandwiches for under $5, it is worth the investment on quality.
Most Asian food aficionados will agree that when it comes to soup, it’s all about the broth. Many noodle joints falter in this pursuit--one can always tell when a new broth batch has been put on to brew, as soups are thin and barely meaty. Mifune has never disappointed in this area; its udon broth is rich and savory, not too salty, and surprisingly, consistent. Noodles are never soggy, and tofu or vegetable additions always fresh and crisp. The sashimi is not super-star quality, but plentiful; in most restaurants, sashimi of this quantity alone would cost more than $10.
We slurped well and leisurely. I ordered vegetable udon, complete with shiitake mushrooms, carrots and green onions, with a side of unagi over rice, broiled fresh-water eel with what my brother called a “first-cousin” of teriyaki sauce on top. The sauce is not as cloying as teriyaki, but sweet with a touch of soy. He ordered kitsune udon, topped with fried bean curd and fish cake, with a mound of ahi sashimi on the side. Graciously, he offered me a slice or two, but before I could make up my mind, the pile had disappeared.
It was a stay-in-pajamas day, the kind of day where the dreary sky betrays the passage of time. So my brother calls to make a lunch date, and all I can think of is noodles. Hot soup noodles that require slurping, which means splattering warm salty broth on shirt and lunch date. And if you can’t splatter soup on family, on whom can you?
We ambled to Mifune, a noodle shop in Japantown that looks like a lacquered bento box--blood red and black walls, small booth/compartments filled with happy, slurping customers. Regardless of the time of day, Mifune seems packed to the brim, but somehow, there’s always a table waiting. An older waiter, with thick glasses and a slight wobble in his step, led us to a booth by the window, looking out at the many restaurants packed tight in this section of the mall.
Even if you’ve already eaten, it’s impossible not to build up an appetite--for food, entertainment, or simply entertaining food--walking through this cobblestoned section of the Japantown mall in San Francisco. Every restaurant offers a coming attraction of its specialties in perfect plastic molds outside its doors. Sushi boats at Isobune slide by at an alarming clip with salmon roe and tamago treats. Chefs in traditional garb are put on display at Benihana as they pour batter for takoyaki, octopus and savory fried dough on a stick, into heavy round molds. A chestnut vendor entices passers-by, in Japanese and English, to try a nut or two.
Mifune has become a pilgrimage for my friends and I following a long soak at Kabuki Hot Springs, also located near Japantown mall, behind the Kabuki 8 Theater. Unable to keep our chatter to a whisper any longer in the silence-only soak tub, we flee to the restaurant to gab over udon and veritable piles of ahi sashimi, and as much tea as we can swallow in between stories.
The menu at Mifune is straightforward; if you’re arriving for lunch, there are pictures of the specials available--however, the images have no description. It’s good to ask what you're ordering if you can’t recognize the items. Most are soba (cold buckwheat noodles served on a tray with a dipping sauce) or udon (thick flour noodles in a hot broth flavored with bonito flakes and seaweed) with a partner of sashimi or sushi, for a little over $8. Although this might seem steep in a city that offers sandwiches for under $5, it is worth the investment on quality.
Most Asian food aficionados will agree that when it comes to soup, it’s all about the broth. Many noodle joints falter in this pursuit--one can always tell when a new broth batch has been put on to brew, as soups are thin and barely meaty. Mifune has never disappointed in this area; its udon broth is rich and savory, not too salty, and surprisingly, consistent. Noodles are never soggy, and tofu or vegetable additions always fresh and crisp. The sashimi is not super-star quality, but plentiful; in most restaurants, sashimi of this quantity alone would cost more than $10.
We slurped well and leisurely. I ordered vegetable udon, complete with shiitake mushrooms, carrots and green onions, with a side of unagi over rice, broiled fresh-water eel with what my brother called a “first-cousin” of teriyaki sauce on top. The sauce is not as cloying as teriyaki, but sweet with a touch of soy. He ordered kitsune udon, topped with fried bean curd and fish cake, with a mound of ahi sashimi on the side. Graciously, he offered me a slice or two, but before I could make up my mind, the pile had disappeared.
3.03.2004
At the Golden Dragon
LOS ANGELES--I spent Monday morning looking for a new colony of artists’ galleries amid trinket shops and travel agencies on wide streets that border what Angelenos call their Chinatown. The main thoroughfares cater to pedestrian tourists who while ambling gawk at garish yellow and orange lanterns, ceramic dragons, Oriental kitsch. Disneyland knows no borders.
It was 10 a.m. and dim sum time, according to the screaming sign on one restaurant on Hill Street called The Golden Dragon. Small gaggles of Chinese women, older and slightly stooping, huddled outside the entrance to shelter from the wind and occasional rain sprinkle. Two elderly men negotiated newspaper umbrellas as a third spit and walked resolutely inside. Rainy day dim sum is one of my favorite treats, so I scooted in the large tiled entryway and headed for the door.
Local dives are an elusive lot. It’s not often apparent to strangers what exactly it is about a place that has neighbors returning, day in and day out. Perhaps it’s the hostess, who at this early hour is wearing a hot pink shirt that gathers tightly at her cleavage, and pads around in patent leather boots. Perhaps it’s the gust of hot air that caresses patrons as they enter the main dining room crammed with dozens of tables, covered in yellow tablecloths, as cheery as a spring flower bed. Maybe it’s the subtle, elusive charm of the dim sum cart ladies, wrapped in black aprons, hair greasy and falling in eyes as they hawk their wares with mute gestures and the occasional staccato grunt.
At the Golden Dragon, however, it’s definitely not the food. Most Southern Californian restaurants are subject to a rating system by their respective Departments of Health. The sanitation police rate each establishment like a term paper: with either an A, B or C. Any lower and your doors are padlocked until you get that body out of the dish washing system and tell the roaches to find a new motel.
I’ve never seen any restaurant with a rating lower than an A. The Golden Dragon, however, had a C, displayed quite proudly on its greasy glass front doors, right next to its hours of operation. Apparently the Golden Dragon never closes, and, it never cleans. Oddly enough, this didn’t deter me. The old adage always has its place with local dives: Whatever doesn’t kill you will make you stronger. At least for me, if I did keel over at least I would with a full stomach. I do have priorities.
I was whisked into the dining room by the lady in pink and showed a table at the perimeter, but along an aisle so I could flag down the bored dim sum cart ladies without much difficulty. Much to my dismay, a tourist family from some pasty Midwestern state was almost immediately seated directly across from my table. One started playing percussion with his chopsticks. I sighed audibly, and clanked the top of my teapot.
Right then the lady with the fryer cart started down the aisle, and I flagged her before the Midwestern troupe had a chance to put down their toys. Instant gratification would be mine, and just in time, as three cups of scalding Oolong tea had already put my nerves on a jagged caffeinated edge.
The fryer lady had an impressive set-up. A griddle on wheels, her cart gleamed with oil and sweat, no doubt her own. Plexiglas shielded nosy diners from sputtering pot stickers, shrimp noodles or turnip cakes as she turned each over to crisp, bathing each dumpling liberally with oil from a squirt bottle. I asked for shrimp noodles and she put some pot stickers on. Not wanting to insult, I sat there not playing drums with my chopsticks while she idly flipped a few porky pot stickers around her griddle, staring vacantly into the hungry crowd that grew larger and louder.
I received my pot stickers on a plastic plate. They looked injured, beaten, burned unevenly by someone’s errant cigarette. The oil smelled of plastic and soap. I looked at the fryer lady and asked her for shrimp noodles again. She blinked, as if waking up, and stared at me clutching her hot spatula. I sank a bit lower in my seat, contemplating what was worth more: shrimp noodles or a forehead with griddle marks. I opted for the noodles and stood my ground. She sighed and started flipping again.
I got my noodles with a side of peanut grease and hoisin sauce. The fryer lady stormed off in a huff, only to be replaced by the lady with-the-treats-under-glass, which you cannot touch. Most are fried balls of dough, or fried sticks of dough, or just steamed dough. One particularly colorful glass bowl of red and yellow Jell-O sported a paper umbrella that wiggled as the cart wobbled. I was immediately offered egg rolls, an understandably safe offering for a non-Asian patron. I shrugged them off, pleading premature artery clogging. She scooted over to the Midwestern group, who collectively ordered three plates without shame.
A liberal application of chili sauce and soy masked most of the oil from the noodles, and warmed the shrimp dumplings long enough for me to swallow them whole. I did shoot one off the table, its doughy skin turned impenetrable from overcooking. I’m sure the staff will find it later; if they don’t, the Health Department probably will.
A pot of tea later and I had swallowed my fill. Two men next to me had thrown a few silver coins on their table and left; their plates were covered in the aftermath of almond cookies. I had barely noticed them eating as their hands spent most of the time in the air, gesturing story after story. Three ladies sat barking and giggling at another table, nibbling on a plate of sesame balls almost as an afterthought. One middle-aged man with rough hands folded and unfolded a Chinese newspaper, and said hello to every bow-tied waiter that sped by. He didn’t order a single dish, but nursed his cup of hot tea while he read.
I had walked into the neighborhood coffee shop, the gathering spot for early morning risers and grandpas out to stretch their legs, or office women needing a quick break in between typing and filing. Sure the food stunk, but it wasn't the main course; the tea was warm and the conversation deafening. Even though I couldn’t understand a word of the language, it was easy to hear the laughter. Next time, I'll just stick to the drinks, and be sure to bring a friend.
LOS ANGELES--I spent Monday morning looking for a new colony of artists’ galleries amid trinket shops and travel agencies on wide streets that border what Angelenos call their Chinatown. The main thoroughfares cater to pedestrian tourists who while ambling gawk at garish yellow and orange lanterns, ceramic dragons, Oriental kitsch. Disneyland knows no borders.
It was 10 a.m. and dim sum time, according to the screaming sign on one restaurant on Hill Street called The Golden Dragon. Small gaggles of Chinese women, older and slightly stooping, huddled outside the entrance to shelter from the wind and occasional rain sprinkle. Two elderly men negotiated newspaper umbrellas as a third spit and walked resolutely inside. Rainy day dim sum is one of my favorite treats, so I scooted in the large tiled entryway and headed for the door.
Local dives are an elusive lot. It’s not often apparent to strangers what exactly it is about a place that has neighbors returning, day in and day out. Perhaps it’s the hostess, who at this early hour is wearing a hot pink shirt that gathers tightly at her cleavage, and pads around in patent leather boots. Perhaps it’s the gust of hot air that caresses patrons as they enter the main dining room crammed with dozens of tables, covered in yellow tablecloths, as cheery as a spring flower bed. Maybe it’s the subtle, elusive charm of the dim sum cart ladies, wrapped in black aprons, hair greasy and falling in eyes as they hawk their wares with mute gestures and the occasional staccato grunt.
At the Golden Dragon, however, it’s definitely not the food. Most Southern Californian restaurants are subject to a rating system by their respective Departments of Health. The sanitation police rate each establishment like a term paper: with either an A, B or C. Any lower and your doors are padlocked until you get that body out of the dish washing system and tell the roaches to find a new motel.
I’ve never seen any restaurant with a rating lower than an A. The Golden Dragon, however, had a C, displayed quite proudly on its greasy glass front doors, right next to its hours of operation. Apparently the Golden Dragon never closes, and, it never cleans. Oddly enough, this didn’t deter me. The old adage always has its place with local dives: Whatever doesn’t kill you will make you stronger. At least for me, if I did keel over at least I would with a full stomach. I do have priorities.
I was whisked into the dining room by the lady in pink and showed a table at the perimeter, but along an aisle so I could flag down the bored dim sum cart ladies without much difficulty. Much to my dismay, a tourist family from some pasty Midwestern state was almost immediately seated directly across from my table. One started playing percussion with his chopsticks. I sighed audibly, and clanked the top of my teapot.
Right then the lady with the fryer cart started down the aisle, and I flagged her before the Midwestern troupe had a chance to put down their toys. Instant gratification would be mine, and just in time, as three cups of scalding Oolong tea had already put my nerves on a jagged caffeinated edge.
The fryer lady had an impressive set-up. A griddle on wheels, her cart gleamed with oil and sweat, no doubt her own. Plexiglas shielded nosy diners from sputtering pot stickers, shrimp noodles or turnip cakes as she turned each over to crisp, bathing each dumpling liberally with oil from a squirt bottle. I asked for shrimp noodles and she put some pot stickers on. Not wanting to insult, I sat there not playing drums with my chopsticks while she idly flipped a few porky pot stickers around her griddle, staring vacantly into the hungry crowd that grew larger and louder.
I received my pot stickers on a plastic plate. They looked injured, beaten, burned unevenly by someone’s errant cigarette. The oil smelled of plastic and soap. I looked at the fryer lady and asked her for shrimp noodles again. She blinked, as if waking up, and stared at me clutching her hot spatula. I sank a bit lower in my seat, contemplating what was worth more: shrimp noodles or a forehead with griddle marks. I opted for the noodles and stood my ground. She sighed and started flipping again.
I got my noodles with a side of peanut grease and hoisin sauce. The fryer lady stormed off in a huff, only to be replaced by the lady with-the-treats-under-glass, which you cannot touch. Most are fried balls of dough, or fried sticks of dough, or just steamed dough. One particularly colorful glass bowl of red and yellow Jell-O sported a paper umbrella that wiggled as the cart wobbled. I was immediately offered egg rolls, an understandably safe offering for a non-Asian patron. I shrugged them off, pleading premature artery clogging. She scooted over to the Midwestern group, who collectively ordered three plates without shame.
A liberal application of chili sauce and soy masked most of the oil from the noodles, and warmed the shrimp dumplings long enough for me to swallow them whole. I did shoot one off the table, its doughy skin turned impenetrable from overcooking. I’m sure the staff will find it later; if they don’t, the Health Department probably will.
A pot of tea later and I had swallowed my fill. Two men next to me had thrown a few silver coins on their table and left; their plates were covered in the aftermath of almond cookies. I had barely noticed them eating as their hands spent most of the time in the air, gesturing story after story. Three ladies sat barking and giggling at another table, nibbling on a plate of sesame balls almost as an afterthought. One middle-aged man with rough hands folded and unfolded a Chinese newspaper, and said hello to every bow-tied waiter that sped by. He didn’t order a single dish, but nursed his cup of hot tea while he read.
I had walked into the neighborhood coffee shop, the gathering spot for early morning risers and grandpas out to stretch their legs, or office women needing a quick break in between typing and filing. Sure the food stunk, but it wasn't the main course; the tea was warm and the conversation deafening. Even though I couldn’t understand a word of the language, it was easy to hear the laughter. Next time, I'll just stick to the drinks, and be sure to bring a friend.
2.24.2004
A fois gras fantasy
I was placing a bag of iceberg lettuce into my shopping cart when the raid took place. The officers hungrily stormed the store, heading straight for the butcher counter. Bullets flew, ricocheting off walls and shattering the just-arrived cases of mock Beaujolais -- a pity, as I had yet to pick up a few bottles. Shoppers huddled under carts, clutching children and carob bars, on sale. One never knows what the luxury police will be after next.
The officers surrounded the sole butcher left behind the counter. His hands hung limp at his sides, offering no resistance -- this wasn’t the first time the police had been by this former gourmet food shop. Aiming a revolver at the meat display, piles of pink sausages and brisket, the lead officer grunted at the butcher to lift a gray flank steak. Underneath the meat lay one, solitary, plump liver -- contraband in this state, and worth more than its weight in gold. Not that my children would understand what gold is: that luxury was banned years ago, too.
Since the Ban, fois gras is only found on the black market, or on occasion, in stores with well-connected ties to the Old Country, where they still engage in a practice called “dining.” Our family tries to buy it, of course, for special occasions -- perhaps a gram or two to split between our family of four.
I’ll head to the store around midnight, wearing a wig and my shabby overcoat. Often I’m not the only one wandering the aisles, pretending interest in the instant mashed potatoes, or tofu-flavored gluten balls. When no one’s looking, I’ll steal quickly to the meat counter and ask in a whisper, “Liver. Just a gram will do.” I take my treasure and slip it into the inside pocket of my trench coat -- I usually pay at the counter, in small bills, and I always leave a generous tip for the butcher. Then I’m off into the night, keeping an eye on the young boy delivering the morning’s paper, the homeless woman sleeping in the corner of the parking lot. One never knows who will narc on you next.
The Ban raids are more frequent now, in stores and even in private homes. The fois gras farms were destroyed years ago, confused ducks and geese running mad just before freeway commuters ran them down. Jealous neighbors fibbed on the few among the community who decided to house the frightened birds that survived. There are always rumors: a small farm in the foothills that has bred mute ducks, wandering silently in spacious pens, fresh meat and liver aplenty. Newspapers report stories of real French fois gras seized, hidden in suitcase hollows, or inside stuffed animals carried by unsuspecting children. One local man swallowed a pound of liver, wrapped in balloons, in the style of drug smugglers of decades past. He had a heart attack the moment he got on the plane on the East Coast. Authorities used it as an example of how high-fat foods can kill. We knew better. We knew that man died happy.
A friend gifted me a copy of the magazine Bon Appetit, now out of print, for my birthday last March. It featured a full-color spread on summer feasts in Perigord, with more than a dozen recipes. Since most travel to France has been prohibited on grounds of “culinary contamination,” we can only flip pages, salivate in private.
The authorities didn’t stop with fois gras. Prosciutto disappeared, then shiitake. Truffles, then chocolate. One afternoon cases of champagne were loaded into the square and summarily smashed in an orgy of anti-bubbly sentiment. Some people talked of wine makers setting fire to their own vines to save their families. Most local chefs are under house arrest, or forced to cook in grammar school commissaries as part of their community service. They do make lovely fish sticks, and thankfully, my children adore them. It’s the only fish they’ve ever known.
The authorities say we don’t need these “luxury” food items in order to survive. Food purity is food simplicity; meat is murder, taste is sin. The buzz phrases are everywhere. My children look at me questioningly when I tear up at the meat counter, faced with a choice between frozen tempeh patties or breaded spelt sticks. How will I ever explain to them the richness of goose liver pate on crisp crostini? The mouth feel of Roquefort? The kick of champagne?
I dream of picnics, of cool white wine and summer breezes. I am planning, in private. A black-market visa to Europe is expensive, but not unattainable. If I must live without taste, then really, why live?
I was placing a bag of iceberg lettuce into my shopping cart when the raid took place. The officers hungrily stormed the store, heading straight for the butcher counter. Bullets flew, ricocheting off walls and shattering the just-arrived cases of mock Beaujolais -- a pity, as I had yet to pick up a few bottles. Shoppers huddled under carts, clutching children and carob bars, on sale. One never knows what the luxury police will be after next.
The officers surrounded the sole butcher left behind the counter. His hands hung limp at his sides, offering no resistance -- this wasn’t the first time the police had been by this former gourmet food shop. Aiming a revolver at the meat display, piles of pink sausages and brisket, the lead officer grunted at the butcher to lift a gray flank steak. Underneath the meat lay one, solitary, plump liver -- contraband in this state, and worth more than its weight in gold. Not that my children would understand what gold is: that luxury was banned years ago, too.
Since the Ban, fois gras is only found on the black market, or on occasion, in stores with well-connected ties to the Old Country, where they still engage in a practice called “dining.” Our family tries to buy it, of course, for special occasions -- perhaps a gram or two to split between our family of four.
I’ll head to the store around midnight, wearing a wig and my shabby overcoat. Often I’m not the only one wandering the aisles, pretending interest in the instant mashed potatoes, or tofu-flavored gluten balls. When no one’s looking, I’ll steal quickly to the meat counter and ask in a whisper, “Liver. Just a gram will do.” I take my treasure and slip it into the inside pocket of my trench coat -- I usually pay at the counter, in small bills, and I always leave a generous tip for the butcher. Then I’m off into the night, keeping an eye on the young boy delivering the morning’s paper, the homeless woman sleeping in the corner of the parking lot. One never knows who will narc on you next.
The Ban raids are more frequent now, in stores and even in private homes. The fois gras farms were destroyed years ago, confused ducks and geese running mad just before freeway commuters ran them down. Jealous neighbors fibbed on the few among the community who decided to house the frightened birds that survived. There are always rumors: a small farm in the foothills that has bred mute ducks, wandering silently in spacious pens, fresh meat and liver aplenty. Newspapers report stories of real French fois gras seized, hidden in suitcase hollows, or inside stuffed animals carried by unsuspecting children. One local man swallowed a pound of liver, wrapped in balloons, in the style of drug smugglers of decades past. He had a heart attack the moment he got on the plane on the East Coast. Authorities used it as an example of how high-fat foods can kill. We knew better. We knew that man died happy.
A friend gifted me a copy of the magazine Bon Appetit, now out of print, for my birthday last March. It featured a full-color spread on summer feasts in Perigord, with more than a dozen recipes. Since most travel to France has been prohibited on grounds of “culinary contamination,” we can only flip pages, salivate in private.
The authorities didn’t stop with fois gras. Prosciutto disappeared, then shiitake. Truffles, then chocolate. One afternoon cases of champagne were loaded into the square and summarily smashed in an orgy of anti-bubbly sentiment. Some people talked of wine makers setting fire to their own vines to save their families. Most local chefs are under house arrest, or forced to cook in grammar school commissaries as part of their community service. They do make lovely fish sticks, and thankfully, my children adore them. It’s the only fish they’ve ever known.
The authorities say we don’t need these “luxury” food items in order to survive. Food purity is food simplicity; meat is murder, taste is sin. The buzz phrases are everywhere. My children look at me questioningly when I tear up at the meat counter, faced with a choice between frozen tempeh patties or breaded spelt sticks. How will I ever explain to them the richness of goose liver pate on crisp crostini? The mouth feel of Roquefort? The kick of champagne?
I dream of picnics, of cool white wine and summer breezes. I am planning, in private. A black-market visa to Europe is expensive, but not unattainable. If I must live without taste, then really, why live?
2.17.2004
Raw ingredients
Fernando hobbles up the kitchen steps, slick with dishwater and discarded foodstuffs, carrying a box of Twix candy bars in one hand. His other hand hangs limp and swollen at his side. It’s a Sunday, and as usual, we’re at work--the practice of weekends off a concept unknown to the hospitality industry. Students have to eat, even on weekends. So here we are at the university, at work.
I ask Fernando how he feels, noticing his set jaw, his swollen hand. Apparently he was in a car accident not two days ago. He was driving fast, as many 25-year-olds are wont to do in fast cars, and got clipped going through an intersection. Not 48 hours later and he’s back at work, carrying boxes of Twix bars with his good arm, grimacing through pain not-so-concealed by a too-pale face, a weak smile. I tell him to take it easy and he stumbles off to the cafeteria.
I work with a lot of Fernandos, young people who work ridiculous hours for marginal pay. It is hard work, work that makes you sweat, work that can burn or cut your skin, work that offers more physical hours than tangible rewards. For many it is the job that they can get, simply, to make ends meet. Although we all work in a university, probably less than five percent have attended one. English is often a second or third language. Upward mobility for these people is achieved through an elevator, not a career counselor. I am the only employee, I am sure, who has run away from Corporate America, its perks and job security; most of my coworkers would gladly run to it for a chance to earn more than $10 an hour.
There is Sami, with three children all under the age of 7, who works nights and mornings cleaning up after the thousands of undergraduates we feed daily, most of whom wouldn’t know a garbage can if it was dumped over their heads. He is the responsible one, chastising other employees for their shrugged “I don’t knows” when asked about this spilled soup, that improperly placed chemical. He offers small nuggets of wisdom when he gets a moment to stand still--blue smock greasy with food and dirty dishwater, scratching his forehead. People don’t want responsibility, he says. They would rather play dumb. He wears a waist belt to support his lower back, and plastic gloves to protect scars collected over the years. I often give him cookies to take home to his kids, who are finicky and eat little at school.
Javier works in the dish room and carries books on Dianetics under his right arm, the tomes covered in gift-wrap as grade school kids do to math textbooks. He quizzes me over lunch. Do I know Einstein? Shakespeare? Kant? He hums 70s rock ballads under his breath while breaking down cardboard boxes. His partner in the washroom doesn’t speak English at all except to bum cigarettes, but stares hungrily at every female who walks in the room. He’s never looked at my face, but I can feel his eyes on me as I leave, balancing clean dishes in one hand, utensils clenched in the other.
Virgil sits on milk crates at the loading dock and smokes cheap cigarettes in succession on breaks that make up a whole morning, barking at every passerby a greeting both cheerful and unintelligible. “Sure you’re right! Everything’s just squishy-squashy. Good morning number one!” He eats with gusto and with mouth open, spraying fried chicken in many directions as he attempts to keep a conversation with the three real employees on the dock, the walls, and any available ears perhaps floating in the vicinity. He is never quiet, and never unhappy. He has been an employee of the university for 30 years, and used to wash professors’ cars for extra cash. I have no idea what his job really is. Now he asks me for work “on the side,” and I can’t do much for him. Every day he asks for a pack of matches, and every day, I give him one. He’s gone through five boxes in the months I’ve been employed.
I work with felons and children, mothers and men twice-divorced. We gave a cake to an employee to celebrate his first complete year out of prison, using a cigarette as a candle, since he smokes a pack and a half a day. We clapped and sang, “Happy Anniversary!” and he smiled. One kid’s in AA, and practicing transcendental meditation to kick his drug habit. He’s not old enough to drink, let alone buy cigarettes legally. We are a fabulous, dysfunctional family, and oddly enough, one that works like an oiled machine when put to the task. For all the hysteria, I still don’t miss my desk job.
Fernando hobbles up the kitchen steps, slick with dishwater and discarded foodstuffs, carrying a box of Twix candy bars in one hand. His other hand hangs limp and swollen at his side. It’s a Sunday, and as usual, we’re at work--the practice of weekends off a concept unknown to the hospitality industry. Students have to eat, even on weekends. So here we are at the university, at work.
I ask Fernando how he feels, noticing his set jaw, his swollen hand. Apparently he was in a car accident not two days ago. He was driving fast, as many 25-year-olds are wont to do in fast cars, and got clipped going through an intersection. Not 48 hours later and he’s back at work, carrying boxes of Twix bars with his good arm, grimacing through pain not-so-concealed by a too-pale face, a weak smile. I tell him to take it easy and he stumbles off to the cafeteria.
I work with a lot of Fernandos, young people who work ridiculous hours for marginal pay. It is hard work, work that makes you sweat, work that can burn or cut your skin, work that offers more physical hours than tangible rewards. For many it is the job that they can get, simply, to make ends meet. Although we all work in a university, probably less than five percent have attended one. English is often a second or third language. Upward mobility for these people is achieved through an elevator, not a career counselor. I am the only employee, I am sure, who has run away from Corporate America, its perks and job security; most of my coworkers would gladly run to it for a chance to earn more than $10 an hour.
There is Sami, with three children all under the age of 7, who works nights and mornings cleaning up after the thousands of undergraduates we feed daily, most of whom wouldn’t know a garbage can if it was dumped over their heads. He is the responsible one, chastising other employees for their shrugged “I don’t knows” when asked about this spilled soup, that improperly placed chemical. He offers small nuggets of wisdom when he gets a moment to stand still--blue smock greasy with food and dirty dishwater, scratching his forehead. People don’t want responsibility, he says. They would rather play dumb. He wears a waist belt to support his lower back, and plastic gloves to protect scars collected over the years. I often give him cookies to take home to his kids, who are finicky and eat little at school.
Javier works in the dish room and carries books on Dianetics under his right arm, the tomes covered in gift-wrap as grade school kids do to math textbooks. He quizzes me over lunch. Do I know Einstein? Shakespeare? Kant? He hums 70s rock ballads under his breath while breaking down cardboard boxes. His partner in the washroom doesn’t speak English at all except to bum cigarettes, but stares hungrily at every female who walks in the room. He’s never looked at my face, but I can feel his eyes on me as I leave, balancing clean dishes in one hand, utensils clenched in the other.
Virgil sits on milk crates at the loading dock and smokes cheap cigarettes in succession on breaks that make up a whole morning, barking at every passerby a greeting both cheerful and unintelligible. “Sure you’re right! Everything’s just squishy-squashy. Good morning number one!” He eats with gusto and with mouth open, spraying fried chicken in many directions as he attempts to keep a conversation with the three real employees on the dock, the walls, and any available ears perhaps floating in the vicinity. He is never quiet, and never unhappy. He has been an employee of the university for 30 years, and used to wash professors’ cars for extra cash. I have no idea what his job really is. Now he asks me for work “on the side,” and I can’t do much for him. Every day he asks for a pack of matches, and every day, I give him one. He’s gone through five boxes in the months I’ve been employed.
I work with felons and children, mothers and men twice-divorced. We gave a cake to an employee to celebrate his first complete year out of prison, using a cigarette as a candle, since he smokes a pack and a half a day. We clapped and sang, “Happy Anniversary!” and he smiled. One kid’s in AA, and practicing transcendental meditation to kick his drug habit. He’s not old enough to drink, let alone buy cigarettes legally. We are a fabulous, dysfunctional family, and oddly enough, one that works like an oiled machine when put to the task. For all the hysteria, I still don’t miss my desk job.
