Category: DINING

Rotting Fast and Faster.

A Lesson About the New World.

There was a time, not so long ago, when I would buy a head of lettuce, a bunch of tomatoes, and a box of mushrooms, or other kinds of fresh food.  They would last for a week, maybe ten days before any initial spoiling would show its ugly face.  Nowadays, that head of lettuce, bunch of tomatoes, and box of mushrooms will start spoiling three or four days from when I brought them home.  It goes for much of the produce I buy now.  Sure, the “fresh by” date might still be two weeks in the future but spoil they must.

What a rotten new world we live in!

 

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A Saturday Night in Candlelight.

A Lesson in Dating.

My best friend and I did a little something different last Saturday night for our standing date and decided to indulge in something a bit more refined than usual.  We dressed in our best clothes, he was in a black suit and tie, me slipped into a lilac silk dress.  We set off for the most elegant Italian restaurant in our area, a place that always feels like a small escape from the ordinary.

Traffic was light, which was a surprise for a Saturday night, which brought us to the restaurant sooner than our reservation time.  We parked the car and decided that since we had about twenty minutes to spare, we would take a leisurely walk in the adjoining park that is part of the restaurant property.  The evening air was cool and fresh, and the night sky held starry constellations and a full moon.  The soft lights lit our way on the curved paved walkway, and by the time we made the full circuit, it was time to meet our reservation.

We stepped through the glass-and-wood doors and entered the lounge, which is our favorite room in the entire establishment.  A carved oak bar was well-stocked and gleamed beneath soft lighting.  Together they created a warm, inviting ambience that seemed to embrace us the moment we arrived.

A poised hostess, dressed head‑to‑toe in black and adorned with a star sapphire necklace, remembered us and greeted us with a gracious smile.  She guided us into the main dining room, where we were soon settled into a high‑backed booth.  The varnished oak table covered with a crisp white linen tablecloth held tall, elegant salt and pepper grinders, and a large votive candle flickered at its center, casting a gentle glow.  We placed our drink orders, a Peroni for Best Friend, a pinot noir for me.  Our waitress brought warm slices of fresh bread accompanied by herbed olive oil and took our orders.  I was blissfully content.  Restaurants of this caliber are rare in our area, ones that have heavy silverware, substantial furniture, chandeliers, leatherette seating, and soft, unobtrusive music that completed the atmosphere.

As we settled in, we lingered over conversation until our first course arrived: a crisp, chilled salad for Best Friend and a steaming cup of Italian Wedding Soup for me. Before long, our entrées followed.  Best Friend’s pollo con verdure and my pollo alla cacciatora, were both fragrant, beautifully plated, and still releasing curls of steam.  Our waitress completed the moment with a delicate snowfall of freshly grated Parmesan atop our entrées.  Each bite was rich and comforting, and we allowed ourselves the luxury of eating slowly, savoring both the food and our company.

Then the music began.  A pianist’s gentle melody drifted through the restaurant, subtle, unhurried, and perfectly attuned to the evening’s mood.  It wrapped itself around the room like a soft ribbon of sound, enhancing the glow of the chandeliers and the warmth of our little corner.  In that moment, with good food before us and quiet elegance all around, the night felt complete with a small reminder that even familiar rituals can become something extraordinary when shared with someone dearly loved.

 

 

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Cutting Cardboard.

We had just ordered our meal, when a party of four was seated two tables from us.

Grind.  Grind.  Grind.

“Where is that sound coming from?” I asked Best Friend as he sipped his drink.  “It sounds like somebody cutting corrugated cardboard with a serrated bread knife.”

“What’s that?”

“I hear someone cutting corrugated cardboard with a serrated bread knife.  It’s that specific of a sound.  Listen.”

Grind.  Grind.  Grind.

“It’s the dog,” Best Friend nonchalantly quipped as he put down his drink.

“Whoa!” I whispered.  I leaned over a little bit to the left and looked past Best Friend’s shoulder.  Sure enough, at the table where the party of four sat, was a Yorkie on the man’s lap, chewing on food from the man’s plate and making a sound like somebody cutting corrugated cardboard with a serrated bread knife.  Then I witnessed the man put down one of those doggie pads on the floor and set the Yorkie on it, whereby Yorkie promptly did his business.  Everyone else at that table was oblivious and didn’t bat an eye.

Ewwww.

I am not a fan of dogs or any sort of animals in restaurants and stores.  I find it dirty, and it puts the question of health codes out there.  Service dogs are okay, but not “emotional service” or those “just because I can’t live two minutes without Fluffy” animals inside stores and especially restaurants.  Bleh.

One of the grocery store chains in our area put a stop to people bringing dogs or any animals into their stores, except for service animals.  I agree with that.  And, please, no dogs in grocery carts.  I saw that exact thing at one grocery store a couple years ago.  Where have those rear ends been?  I never saw anyone wash those grocery carts, either.

It’s so gross!

 

 

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Cutting the Mustard.

A Lesson in Gluttony and Control.

Finally, there is only French’s® yellow and Gulden’s® brown on my pantry shelf.

Once upon a time, that space was also shared – packed, in fact – with small jars holding other variations: champagne, chipotle, curry, honey, jalapeno, siracha, Dijon, . . .

Then, one day, I said aloud, “That’s it!  No more of these yuppified wannabees!”

And Lo!  The clouds parted and the sun came out.  Best Friend assented my exclamation with a “Hear!  Hear!”

We do like mustard.  It was easy to pick up a small jar of something a little different when we stopped by our local winery.  What’s a two-ounce jar of champagne honey mustard?  It didn’t take up much refrigerator shelf space along with the other six or seven two-ounce jars.

Yet, that one day, I had enough.  Those “specialty” mustards began tasting pretty much alike.  There wasn’t anything special about them anymore, except perhaps their unusually shaped jars that really had no further purpose for me after the last bit of mustard was scraped from the sides.

I was throwing money out the proverbial window.  And for what?  To feel like we were indulging in something special or upper class?

Pfffft.  It was a waste.  We said right then and there that those types of mustards won’t darken our doors again.  From then on, it will be a bottle of yellow, a bottle of brown, and a jar of Dijon.  That’s all!  No more yuppy mustard, as we call it.  No more fancy-this and fancy-that.

Along the same lines, in fact, the equivalent goes for fancy horseradish – I have a bottle of siracha horseradish that I bought a few weeks ago from a mom-and-pop grocery store in a neighboring town.  Is it anything special?  No, not really.  It’s really not what I expected; it’s not any hotter or spicier than regular horseradish, and it has a strange, sweet background taste to it.  I could kick myself for not reading the ingredients list better, because this bottle of weirdness has corn syrup in it.  (We’re cutting out corn syrup from our diet).  So, if I want the kick that siracha gives to my bowl of pho or broiled chicken or vegetable stir fry, I can get the siracha bottle from the refrigerator and squeeze a shot or two on my plate.  If I want horseradish, I can make my own fresh or buy a jar of straight horseradish.  I don’t need an odd yuppie horseradish-siracha concoction. Keeping it simple, silly!

So, we’re cutting the mustard.  We’re keeping it unpretentious.  Now on the refrigerator shelf sits a container of yellow, a bottle of brown, and there is a space for Dijon because I need that specifically for making Steak Diane.  Otherwise, any other types of strange mustards will remain on the store and winery shelves, available for other shoppers and connoisseurs to fill up their refrigerators and sate their taste buds with frou-frou table mustards.

It’s minimalism for us now.

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Wigged Out.

At dinner the other evening at the country club, we sat at a table at the back of the restaurant, nestled in a cozy alcove dimly lit by a warm, flickering candle in a glass votive.  Our wine glasses of glimmered in the low light.  The clinking of silverware and the soft hum of chatter filled the air, punctuated by bursts of laughter from a boisterous group near the bar.

Across from us, a couple sat at the immediate table opposite ours.  They immediately drew my attention with their striking contrast.  She was a petite, frail-looking woman, her presence almost ephemeral, yet undeniably elegant.  Her baggy, sequined blouse sparkled faintly under the muted light, a deep emerald green that complemented the intricate plastic pearls cascading down her neck.  Her white pants, cut high to mid-calf, were snug and showed off her caboose.  Every gesture of hers was deliberate, placing her napkin, adjusting her sleek clutch, moving her wine glass, as though she were orchestrating a performance of refinement.

Across from her sat the undeniable foil to her practiced image.  He was a large man, his frame spilling over the edges of the overstuffed dining chair.  His attire was an amusing affront to hers: a pair of sagging khaki shorts, socks with sandals, and a faded, nondescript polo shirt, the type that might have been gray once but had since resigned itself to a black, lavender, taupe ambiguity.  His bulbous nose was faintly red, matching the ruddiness of his face.

But the pièce de resistance became the highlight of the evening.   It was his hair.  His hair—or rather, what aspired to be his hair was . . .  “different.”  A Just for Men “Darkest Red Brown” masterpiece of a wig was perched atop his head, so incongruous with the rest of his appearance it felt like a punchline to a joke only he didn’t quite get.  The thick, wavy wig seemed precarious, as if it might slide off at the slightest provocation.  It sat too high, too perfect, too ruddy-brown and defying both gravity and reason.

He leaned back in his chair with an air of self-satisfaction, plucking at a breadstick while his lady friend sipped delicately from a wine glass.  They exchanged sporadic words, her responses curt and his booming laugh echoing through the restaurant, prompting raised eyebrows and glares from nearby diners.

They were a spectacle, a living contradiction, a joke, an editorial cartoon.  The woman seemed to be holding onto a bygone era of sophistication, while the man seemed content to bulldoze through it, unbothered by appearances or subtlety.  Yet, there was something oddly appealing about them with a mystery to unravel, a story hidden beneath the surface of their mismatched personas.

 

 

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Morning at The Kalamata.

Saturdays bring a delight to our weekends, especially when we change our routine.  For something a little different, last Saturday, mid-morning, we headed out to The Kalamata Kafé.  We weren’t disappointed.

The simple brunch was nothing short of pleasant; it was one of those simple meals that somehow feels like a small private celebration.  Soft violin music emanated from the ceiling speakers.  The waitresses were modestly dressed in pure white short togas tied at the waist with gold belts.  My companion ordered a knish—a strangely sweetened roll made from a dough similar to pillowy Hawaiian‑style bread.  It was filled with soy chorizo and melted queso chihuahua (an imported cheese), a combination that gave it a savory kick and a five-fingered punch beneath the sweetness.  I took a small bite and so did my companion; it was unlike anything either of us tried before, unexpected in the best way, and definitely memorable.  I ordered an almond croissant sprinkled with sugar and sliced toasted almonds, still warm from the oven, its flaky layers giving way to a soft, fragrant center touched with just enough sugary depth.  A cup of weak lemongrass tea sweetened with mesquite honey for the two of us gave the oomph our light brunch needed.

Afterward, we strolled up the bay, the morning light glinting off the water, then we looped back along the main road where the breeze carried the scent of salt and sun-warmed sand.  The walk stirred up memories for both of us—those long rides we used to take on the Indian Chieftain, chasing the horizon with nothing but vast open road ahead.  Only this time, the adventure came with greater comfort, steadier footing, and a quiet sense of security that felt like its own kind of freedom.  We eventually found our car, hopped in, and headed back home.  Later that day, the soy chorizo-queso chihuahua knish thing didn’t agree with my companion and we spent the late afternoon paying for it dearly.

We’ll go back to The Kalamata, but with a different menu ordering plan.

 

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Shhh… in a Modest Trattoria.

It was a genuine treat to go out for lunch recently, mostly because eating out is not a daily, nor even a weekly, occurrence for us.  I enjoy cooking at home, but every now and then it’s nice to let someone else do the sautéing while I simply sit there and enjoy the novelty of it all.

We chose a little local Italian place, the kind where the fat breadsticks arrive in generous baskets and the garlic in the air is present but polite.  We settled into our booth, ordered our meals, and chatted about this and that.

Somewhere between topics, a waitress passed by and began checking on the tables in her section.  I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but her voice carried just enough for me to catch her asking a couple nearby, “Pash‑ta Fa‑shool for you” and “Mini-shrone soup for you.”

I paused.  I blinked.  I nearly choked on my ice water with lemon slice.

I have heard many pronunciations of Italian dishes in my life, but this one was new— an unexpected hybrid of culinary enthusiasm and what sounded like an anchovy lodged squarely between her incisors, forcing every “s” into a prolonged “shhhh.”

“Pash‑ta Fa‑shool,” she repeated, as if auditioning for a role in a whispering contest.

I smiled into my linen napkin.  It was the kind of small, harmless moment that makes dining out worth the trouble: good food, good company, and the occasional linguistic adventure courtesy of a well‑meaning waitress and a menu she was determined to conquer—one shhh at a time.

 

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Losing It with Quiet Discipline.

I have long known that the most reliable way to lose weight is also the least glamorous: change the way I eat, and do it without powders, liquids, pills, or any of the other gimmicks that promise transformation without effort.  They don’t work.  Real change comes from willpower, ordinary food, and an honest attitude.  These matter more than any trend.

This year, my efforts began even before Lent arrived.  A goal of losing eight pounds is losing eight pounds for more energy and just feeling better overall.  As January unfolded, I found myself preparing not only my interior life but also my habits.  I started cutting down on unnecessary snacking that crept in after supper.  Sure, I still indulged in a snack here and there, but it wasn’t gorging myself.  I continued my quiet campaign against corn syrup and the sugary additives that hide in so many foods.  And I returned to simpler cooking—meals that didn’t need to resemble anything from a fancy restaurant menu.  I proved to myself that I can cook anything well, so why do it every day?  That should be saved for special occasions.  Then I returned to meals that I grew up on that nourished rather than entertained.  There was a certain relief in that simplicity.

By the time Ash Wednesday arrived in mid‑February, I wasn’t scrambling to begin anything new.  I was simply continuing what had already taken root and ramping it up a bit.  The weight began to come off, slowly and steadily, and it still does.  But more importantly, the discipline of eating differently began to shape the discipline of living differently.

Attitude is half the work.  I stopped letting the noise of the secular world dictate my mood or my focus.  I ignored the foolishness that swirl around in headlines and conversations.  Instead, I turned my attention toward things that actually strengthen the soul: spiritual reading that lifts and edifies the mind and praying the Rosary with attentive meditation rather than mindless haste.  These practices didn’t just support my physical goals—they steadied my interior life.

There is a quiet joy in sacrifice when it is chosen freely and offered with purpose.  Lent simply gave me the structure to continue what had already begun: a return to simplicity, a clearer mind, and a heart more anchored in God than in the world’s distractions.

In the end, this has reminded me that caring for the body and caring for the soul are not competing tasks but parallel ones.  The more I simplified my meals, the more I found myself craving a simpler interior life as well — one less cluttered by noise, distraction, and the endless commentary of the world.  Lent simply gave shape to what I already sensed: that discipline is not a burden but a quiet form of freedom, and that small, steady acts of intention at the table and in prayer can reshape a life from the inside out.

 

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Time Blindness.

Once upon a time, my spouse was the President of our condominium association.  He was the designated point‑man for every vendor, handyman, contractor, and the property manager.  And without fail, something out there seemed to decide that the exact moment we sit down to eat was the perfect time for someone to call him.

It didn’t matter when we ate:

11:00 AM?  Phone rings.

12:15 PM?  Phone rings.

4:45 PM?  Phone rings.

7:30 AM?  Phone rings, because apparently breakfast is also fair game, too.

It was as if people had a sixth sense for when a fork was about to touch a plate.

Even the other board and committee members who should have known better seemed to be compelled to call precisely when we were eating, and not all of these calls were emergencies, either.

Appointments were no better.  If someone was scheduled to arrive at 9:00 AM, they absolutely, without hesitation, called at 8:15 AM to announce:

“I’m here.”

Not “I’m on my way.”  Not “I’ll be there soon.”  No.  They were already standing outside like a time‑traveling courier from the future.

And as if the mealtime ambushes weren’t enough, his phone also believed in a 24‑hour discipline of interruption.  Text messages arrived at 5:55 AM, before the sun, before coffee, before a bagel, and texts continued rolling in as late as 10:30 PM when we were just about to drift off to Sleepyland.  Ostensibly, the entire world has silently agreed that he was available at all hours, like a one‑man emergency hotline for condo‑related existential and non-crises.  I was convinced the only time his phone doesn’t buzz is when nothing in particular is going on in our home.  Oh.  It doesn’t ring or buzz when we are at Mass; our phones are turned off completely then.

It got to a point that I was convinced our condo was either:

  • bugged;
  • under surveillance by a secret intelligence agency; or
  • being monitored by people with remote‑viewing abilities who can see the moment we sit down with plates of food.

I’m kidding, and honestly, who knows?  But if someone knocked on the door the next time we even thought about lunch . . . I would’ve d just laughed.  I continued to laugh it off.

The most important part of this hilarity is that my spouse and the rest of the board at the time were doing an outstanding job getting the formerly poorly self-managed association back on the right track.  They were righting the ship . . .

 

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