and we've got to get ourselves back to the garden

Mrs. P's cousins — Juniper and Veronica — came in for a visit. After a long drive, they finally arrived in Philadelphia and asked if we'd like to meet them for dinner. Of course we said we'd love to. They spotted an Olive Garden across the street from their hotel and decided we'd meet there.

Before I continue, let's get all of our Olive Garden jokes out of the way.

America is home to the strange phenomena of "casual dining chain restaurants." You know what I'm talking about. Places like Applebee's and Red Lobster (Seafood Applebee's), Outback Steakhouse (Australian Applebee's), On The Border (Mexican Applebee's), Texas Roadhouse (Barbecue Applebee's), Buffalo Wild Wings (Chicken Applebee's), Cracker Barrel (Redneck Applebee's with bonus hillbilly yard sale) and, of course, Olive Garden (Italian Applebee's).

In the early 2000s, E! Entertainment, the pop culture cable network, ran a reality series called The Girls Next Door that centered around then-79 year-old Playboy Magazine publisher Hugh Hefner and the bevy of cookie-cutter young ladies that shared his life and home — the notorious Playboy Mansion. I was not an avid viewer of the show, but, when there was nothing else on, I would sometimes stop on it while I perused my options up and down the dial. The show was always good for a laugh, mostly at the expense of  "the girls." Most (if not all) of the humor played on the young ladies' naivete and their perceived (whether scripted or not) lack of intelligence and self-awareness. One particular episode focused on a meeting in Las Vegas with Italian fashion designer Roberto Cavalli, who was contracted by Hefner to design a new take on the iconic Playboy Bunny costume. At a large table in a restaurant at the Palms Resort, Hefner introduced Cavalli to a few of the "girls" who had travelled to Sin City with him. When the "girls" found out that Cavalli was actually from Italy, they began to give him passionate recommendations for places to eat while in town. One of the girls — maybe Holly, maybe Kendra — gushed about Olive Garden. She told him "If you are looking for authentic Italian food that will make you feel like you are at home in Italy, you will love Olive Garden. The food and the atmosphere are just like being in Italy!" The Italian-born designer cocked his head to one side. All expression fell from his face and, I believe, his jaw nearly smacked the table. He said nothing. No response. Then turned his attention back to Hefner and his costume designs.

Now, where was I....?

I have only eaten in an Olive Garden three times. The first time was over thirty years ago and I can say there was nothing memorable about it. Aside from my wife, I don't remember who I was with or what the occasion was. (I'm sure we didn't "just decide" to go to Olive Garden. I don't remember what I ate, how it was, how much it cost... nothing. It was as though it never happened. The second time I ate in Olive Garden was maybe twenty years ago. The first time must have really made an impression on me to get me to return a decade later. Once again, my second visit was a completely forgettable experience. The third time I ate at an Olive Garden was last night. I'm pretty sure it was the same location as my first visit. According to the official Olive Garden website, the chain operates 956 restaurants. They all look nearly identical, so maybe it was a different location. Kind of like that clone episode of The Flintstones. So...who knows? And, honestly, what difference does it make? It's a chain restaurant and they strive to be all the same.

Juniper and Veronica were already inside, waiting for their names to be announced as the next to be seated for dinner. Considering it was 7:30 in the evening, the place was still fairly crowded. Mrs. P chatted with her cousins and I sat quietly. Actually, I assessed my surroundings and secretly hoped for an incident or other out-of-the-ordinary experience to get  the basis for a good blog post. If I couldn't get that, I would settle for horrible food, a surly waiter, a wrong order or something along those lines. Anything along those lines!

Everyone knows about Olive Garden's reputation. Everyone except for those who frequent Olive Garden regularly and rank it high on their list of "fine dining establishments." ("Olive Garden? Oh, we only go there for special occasions! We took Grandma there for her 101st birthday!") Everyone knows that Olive Garden's offerings of Italian cuisine are akin to a native Mexican not being able to identify a single entry on the Taco Bell menu. But for some people — a lot of people, as a matter of fact — Olive Garden is a nice place to get a close approximation of Italian food for a reasonable price. Educated palates, be damned! My palate wants all-you-can-eat breadsticks and endless salad. Oh, and it also wants the waiter to grind a fresh block of Kraft parmesan cheese on my pisghettis.

Olive Garden's menu includes everything you'd expect a chain Italian restaurant to serve. Everything is in English. Everything is familiar. Most every sauce is red, except for that exotic Alfredo sauce.... whoever he is! There is plenty of "fill-in-the-blank" Parmesan and lots and lots of pasta. The menu features enticing "beauty shots" of prepared dishes that bear no resemblance to anything you will be served. After minutes of scanning the menu, I decided on spaghetti with marinara sauce for twelve bucks, topped with broccoli for an additional $2.99. Mrs. Pincus ordered one of the "fill-in-the-blank" Parmesans, with the "blank," in this case, being substituted for eggplant. The cousin sisters opted to split a single order of chicken parmesan over fettucine Alfredo instead of the standard spaghetti. This deviation from the norm momentarily confused our waiter. He nearly brought out a full order of chicken parm and a full order of Alfredo until Veronica politely — but sternly — rephrased the order.

Our waiter brought out a big bowl of salad and a big basket of breadsticks — which are actually just mini loaves of bread. The salad was okay. Not great. Not awful. Just okay. It had too much dressing on it, but it was okay. The breadsticks were okay, as well. My spaghetti, sauce and broccoli was okay. Not great. Not awful. Just okay. The eggplant parmesan, as reported by Mrs. Pincus, also fell into the realm of satisfaction within the "just okay" bracket. Actually, she did not care for the blandness of the spaghetti that formed the bed for the eggplant and she spooned it onto my plate. That, too. was "just okay."

At the end of our meal, Veronica asked our waiter for a few of the Olive Garden's famous after-dinner mints. Evidently, Mrs. P's cousins are way more familiar with the ways and means of Olive Garden. In their defense, they live in Virginia Beach. a municipality that boasts more shopping centers and chain restaurants than anywhere I've ever seen. There are seven Olive Gardens in the Virginia Beach-Norfolk-Hampton Roads geographic area. As Mrs. P paid the check at the little on-table kiosk, our waiter returned with a take-out container stuffed with foil-wrapped, Olive Garden-logoed mints. They were "okay."

In hindsight, I think Olive Garden gets a bad rap. It's not horrible. It's not terrible. It's not the worst place I've ever eaten. It's a place to get food. Not great food, but food food.

I'll let you know if anything changes when I go back... in another ten years.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

first time

For those of you outside the Philadelphia area, Wawa is a chain of convenience stores that, more recently, have focused on their sandwich, coffee and take-out foods business. With very few exceptions, most Philadelphians love Wawa and visit them often.

There are at least nine thousand Wawas within five minutes of the place where I work. Several times a month, I will stop at one of them to pick up hoagies for Mrs. Pincus and myself. (That might be the most Philadelphia sentence I've ever written!) Last Monday was one of those times.

I usually choose the Wawa at Route 73 and Remington Avenue, just down the street from Pennsauken High School (home of the still politically-incorrect "Indians"). A few years ago, Wawa introduced a convenient touchscreen system to make ordering sandwiches, salads and other prepared foods a breeze. The system is great. It's fast, accurate and requires little-to-no interaction with any other human being. Each step in the ordering process is given its own screen from which a hungry customer can select the type of sandwich, the type of bread, the type of ingredients, the type of toppings and even the amount of said toppings. (Although, the choice of "a little bit of mayonnaise" is still totally subjectable, leaving the customer at the mercy of a hair-netted, name-tagged, minimum-wage earner.) When the order process is completed, a little box spits out a barcoded receipt. The customer takes the receipt to the cashier to scan. The customer pays and returns to the order area to pick up the tightly wrapped sandwich, usually ready and waiting. Regular customers of Wawa are used to the whole procedure and engage in it often. I know I do.

The whole touchscreen system is very intuitive, even for the most technology-fearing customer. This past Monday, while I punched out my selection for two hoagies, I overheard a guy at another touchscreen terminal. Actually, everybody in the place overheard this guy. He was screaming. 

I have noticed that people who insist on talking on their phones everywhere they go, love to scream. They have no issues with discussing personal issues — at top volume — while casually walking down the street, sitting on a bus, standing in a checkout line at Target or just about any public place. Well, this guy in Wawa was screaming into his phone. As the conversation unfolded, it became clear that he was ordering hoagies for someone who had never eaten a hoagie before. It was not clear (but it was a distinct possibility) if the person on the other end of the conversation had ever seen a hoagie. Perhaps these two — the guy at Wawa and his unseen conversation partner — were new to the area. Perhaps they just moved here and were unfamiliar with the local delicacy known as "the hoagie" and how Philadelphians place it in the same esteem as soft pretzels, "wooder oice" and — yes! — Benjamin Franklin and the "Liverty Bell." I would have given this pair the benefit of the doubt — except the guy was sporting a Phillies cap and an Eagles "Super Bowl Champions" t-shirt.

The conversation went a little like this...

GUY IN WAWA: What size hoagie do you want?

VOICE ON PHONE: Size? What do you mean "size?"

GIW: Size! Six inch? Ten inch?

VOP: Well, how big is the ten inch?

GIW(rolls his eyes and stares at the phone): TEN INCHES! Y'KNOW... LIKE TEN INCHES LONG! Y'KNOW BIG!

VOP: Um, then, six inches, I guess.

GIW: What kind of hoagie do you want?

VOP: Well, what kinds do they have? Do they have chicken salad?

GIW: They have the regular kind that everybody has.

VOP: Do they have Italian? Can I get an Italian, but with chicken salad?

GIW: What? No, they don't have chicken salad! You just want an Italian hoagie, then?

VOP: Well, what's on an Italian hoagie?

GIW: I don't know! I guess the regular stuff that's on an Italian hoagie anywhere!

VOP: Do they have cheese? Can I get cheese? Do they have Swiss cheese? Can I get Swiss cheese on my Italian hoagie? You say they don't have chicken salad? I really wanted an Italian chicken salad hoagie.

At this point, the GIW walks — no! stomps! — away from the touchscreen area and ducks down one of the merchandise aisles. After a minute or so, he emerges, still speaking into his phone at the very top of his voice.

GIW: ... you can can get lettuce, if you want. Yes, and tomatoes. What? No, they don't have chicken salad.

The number on my receipt was called and my hoagies were ready. I picked them up and left.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

a plate o' cole slaw

When I was a kid, there was a restaurant near our house called The Heritage Diner. My parents — especially my father — loved The Heritage Diner. My mother liked going there for two reasons. One - it meant she didn't have to cook. The second reason was she could order liver. My mother loved liver, but no one else in the house did (despite the fact that my father was a butcher by trade). My parents were old-school carnivores, with some sort of meat dish featured in practically every Pincus family dinner. Steak, roast beef, London broil, beef stew... but liver... that's where three-fourths of the Pincuses drew the line. So a trip to The Heritage Diner fulfilled my mom's craving for liver. After my mom died, I believe my father ate every meal — breakfast, lunch and dinner every single day! —  at The Heritage Diner. However, I don't believe he ever got the liver.

I liked going the The Heritage Diner, too. I marveled at the big display of desserts that greeted diners as they entered the establishment. I was fascinated my the enormity of the menu. I was given free reign to order whatever I like from the Heritage Diner's vast selection. There were burgers, hot turkey sandwiches covered with bright yellow gravy, even omelets were available in the evening hours and "breakfast for dinner" was always a welcome treat. On Sundays, the already -huge menu was bolstered with a typewritten sheet listing several dozen additional entrees to make choosing "what's for dinner" even more difficult. Each entry on the supplemental menu included soup or salad and dessert along with two — count 'em two — vegetables from a list of about fifteen or so choices. My go-to dinner (if I didn't feel like having a hamburger) was a massive slab of breaded fried flounder. Served on a large oval plate with smoky red trim, the hunk of fried fish was so large that it covered the entire platter, the edges flopping over the sides. Sometimes a second, slightly smaller piece of fish would come out on the plate, as though the first piece wasn't big enough. As part of my order, I was required to state which two vegetables from the list of the evening's offerings I'd like. I was not the most ravenous eater when it came to vegetables. I read the list of vegetables over and over, turning my nose up at things like "Harvard beets" and "French cut string beans." Those were things my mom ate at home and I turned my nose up at them there, too, so I was certainly not going to order them in a restaurant. I was cautioned about ordering two kinds of potatoes, as I narrowed my choices down to French fries and a baked potato. I was also not permitted to get corn and French fires. Something about "two starches" that — to this day — I still don't quite get. Well, I knew I wasn't going to get spinach or peas, so I settled on the final item on the list to share my plate with my fries... and that was cole slaw. I already knew that I wasn't going to actually eat the cole slaw. Sure, it came in a tiny plastic ramekin containing less than two forkfuls worth of shredded cabbage, mayonnaise, celery seed, carrots and vinegar. I knew that as soon as the waitress brought my dinner plate, that little cup of cole slaw would be pushed onto my mom's plate before it hit the table.

As I got older and became a more adventurous eater, I began to like cole slaw. I discovered that if it was added to a corned beef sandwich and slathered with Russian dressing, it made a sandwich that was unmatched and positively delicious. If the corned beef was substituted with turkey, it created an equally-delicious assemblage. I would sometimes order fried fish and eat all the accompanying cole slaw first.

Somewhere around 2006, I became a vegetarian. I stopped eating red meat and poultry. However, I did not eliminate fish from my diet (after all, fish are just asking for it) so, I continue to order and enjoy cole slaw with fried flounder — which is still a favorite of mine. I will sometimes finish my dinnermate's cole slaw, just because I know that most people don't really like it. 

There is a writer whose blog I have been reading for years. His regular job is writer and producer of the Garfield cartoon, but he has been a comic book writer for years. He also hates cole slaw and doesn't hide his hatred. In 1978, he wrote a story that appeared in the Hanna Barbera TV Stars issue Number 2. The story, illustrated with drawings by Jack Manning and featuring characters from a short-lived NBC cartoon called "C.B. Bears," was entitled "The Great Cole Slaw Conspiracy." He wrote the story to — and I quote — "educate children on the evils of cole slaw." He explained, in a blog post, that his editor shared his dislike for cole slaw and the story was given an enthusiastic "green light." He also regularly reminds readers of his blog how much he hates cole slaw and wishes for its removal from existence — in case you had forgotten. I continue to read his blog, but I bristle when he derides cole slaw. (Sort of how you cringe when I insult Ringo,)

On October 28, 2009, while the rest of Philadelphia was glued to their televisions to watch the Phillies in a return trip to the World Series, my son and I went to see off-the-wall comedian Emo Philips at a little comedy club. With Game One of the World Series as competition, the entire audience was comprised of just four people. Emo, in top form, sat on the edge of the tiny stage and delivered his hilarious routine while leaning forward with his elbows resting on the surface of our stage-side table. After the show, Emo came out and mingled with the audience... if you can call talking with four people "mingling." I asked him if he would sign our admission ticket. He obliged, taking the ticket from my hand and — without prompting or any sort of suggestion on my part — wrote "To Josh, King of Cole Slaw! Emo"

Even Emo knew.

Maybe one day, I'll tell you about my love of Cream of Wheat. But, not today.

www.jopshpincusiscrying.com

mashed potato time

Mrs. Pincus and I had Thanksgiving dinner at our son's house this year. This has all the makings of an annual tradition, as this is the third consecutive year that we have had the holiday dinner there. As plans were beginning to be made, my son's girlfriend requested mashed potatoes as a side dish. My wife usually takes care of preparing and bringing dessert, but this time she happily volunteered to fulfill the mashed potatoes request, as well.

In past years, mashed potatoes were a cinch. Just pop open a box of instant mashed potatoes — readily available at any and all supermarkets in a variety of brands and flavors (well, all are basically "potato" flavor) —  add in some milk and, after just a few minutes of stirring — voila! — you got yourself some mashed potatoes! However, the request for mashed potatoes came with the stipulation that they be actual, real-live mashed potatoes. Like from actual whole potatoes. So, on our weekend shopping trip to stock up on required items for our Night Before Thanksgiving dessert party (now in its 40th year!), we grabbed a big bag of potatoes. Like actual, from the ground potatoes. And we were going to make us some good old fashioned mashed potatoes. Just like the pilgrims and the pioneers and our mothers made! Those cardboard boxes of  dehydrated flakes would be passed over in favor of the "Real McCoy" or the "Real McPotato," as the case may be.

Now, I will happily admit that I don't know the first thing about cooking. I can make toast — that requires a legitimate kitchen appliance, so, in my opinion, that may count as cooking. But anything that takes place on top of the stove and combines multiple ingredients in some type of pot or pan... well, that's out of my wheelhouse. My lack of cooking skills considered, Mrs. Pincus would be preparing the mashed potatoes for our Thanksgiving dinner. First, she peeled a generous amount of potatoes. Then she put the potatoes in a large pot on top of one of the lit burners on our stove top. (The pot was larger than the one I had previously used to make hard-boiled eggs. Hey! Wait a second! Maybe I do know how to cook.... a little!) To be honest, I got bored. I left the kitchen briefly and missed out on what actually took place with the potatoes and the pot and the flame from the stove. I returned to the kitchen to find my wife working the soft, now-boiled, potatoes in the pot. She asked me to "google" a recipe for mashed potatoes to see what other ingredients were to be added. I said, "Why do you need a recipe? Everything you need to know is right in the name! Mashed potatoes! It's right there!"  She gave me a look as she added a few pats of margarine and a splash or two of almond milk. (The potatoes had to remain vegan-friendly.) She continued chopping and mixing... and  mashing. It looked like fun and something I could probably do without risk of ruining them. 

Our kitchen has a lot of gadgets and implements and such, but, curiously, we do not own a proper "potato masher." Instead, Mrs. P was breaking down the boiled tubers with a metal spatula, using its long blade to cut the bulky potatoes into smaller pieces. And it seemed to be working. Very well, as a matter of fact! I wanted in! I gently took the spatula from my wife's hand and began to mimic the chopping motions I had observed. "Are you sure you want to do this?," Mrs. P asked. "Sure!," I replied with all the confidence of a contestant on Chopped who fancies himself the greatest chef in the world. I continued the task of breaking those big potatoes in to small potato pieces. 

After a long period of time — longer than I expected (a time frame based on nothing in particular) — these mashed potatoes looked like the mashed potatoes I had seen over the years. They looked like the ones my mom made often to please my demanding "meat and potatoes" father. They looked like the ones I never ate but was forced to order in restaurants when my dinner order came with my choice of two vegetables and "French fries" was not an option. Goddamn it! They looked like mashed potatoes!

We began to pack up everything we would need to take to my son's house for Thanksgiving dinner. It was decided that the mashed potatoes would make their debut in the very same pot they were prepared in. This way they could just be heated up on his stove. 

The table was set at my son's house and he was busy in the kitchen making last minute preparations. He brought every component of the meal to the table, except the pot of Pincus-style mashed potatoes, which he left on the store. Everyone would have to scoop them from the pot themselves, as his dining room table was now fully loaded with other items. There was just no room for a giant pot of potatoes. Everyone's plate accommodated a big slice of "turkey," (Three of the four people at dinner were vegetarians, so Tofurky was served as the main course. None of your fucking comments, please.) some homemade cranberry sauce (a Mrs. Pincus specialty), a chunk of pumpkin cornbread (provided by my son's girlfriend) and not one.... not two.... but three kinds of potatoes! That's right! Our first attempt at mashed potatoes faced competition from canned sweet potatoes (not yams! do not call them "yams!") and little roasted fingerlings that I thought, at first glimpse, were mushroom caps.

Everything was great! I even had seconds — an entire duplicate of my first plate. And the mashed potatoes? Well, they were eaten. With little to no fanfare. No one said: "Hey! These are the best mashed potatoes I ever had! And they are mashed so well, too!" They mostly just said: "Please pass the potatoes" because there were so many to pass.

A few years ago, I had a job interview for a position of writing a blog for a pharmaceutical company. I am not now, nor have I even been, a professional writer. But I told them, if given enough information, I think I could write a blog about anything. I told them that I had maintained two personal blogs for over ten years and had written about many topics. At the time of the interview, I had just written a lengthy post about hard-boiled eggs. And now I just wrote nine paragraphs about mashed potatoes. Needless to say, I didn't get that job. 

But I can boil eggs and, now, I can make mashed potatoes.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

oh, oh domino

 Oh jeez.... another blog post about pizza? 

Since I began this blog, I have written exclusively about pizza eight times and mentioned pizza too many times to count. Well, whether you like it or not, here is another tale/rant about pizza, which now, I suppose, has revealed itself to be a favorite topic of mine. Right up there with television. When I was a kid, my dad was convinced that the only food I ate was pizza. I'm not sure if this was some kind of "diss" in his mind, but I do not recall ever seeing my father consume a single slice of pizza. Ever. I don't know if he was truly expressing concern for my questionable eating habits or if he was just repeating one of those "I'll never understand these kids today" fallacies that seem to attach themselves to generation after generation.

I like pizza. I have always liked pizza. And, as I have mentioned previously, I am not very discerning when it comes to pizza. I firmly believe that there is no such thing as "bad pizza." Recently, a less-than-pleasant experience at a conveniently-located and frequently-visited Little Caesar's Pizza forced me to seek another purveyor of pizza close to my home. While this new place — which has been open since 1966 —  is a little closer to my house than Little Caesar's and serves up a decent enough pizza, their prices are ridiculous for a little neighborhood pizza joint. A basic 18" circle of dough with a generous spread of tomato sauce and mozzarella cheese runs a little over twenty bucks. I don't know if this is the going rate for pizzas at independent establishments, but, to be honest (or at least "out of the loop"), most chain pizza places are constantly in a price war. I guess the idea is: if it's cheap, you don't mind the shitty quality... and, again, there is no such thing as "bad pizza," so a twenty dollar pizza should be — by my nonsensical logic — be spectacular. 

Recently, in my search for a new place to get a quick pizza when the back-and-forth debate over "well, what do you want for dinner?" rears its famished head, I have relented and gave our nearby Domino's a redeeming chance. I haven't been to Domino's since my son was in high school and we'd get pizza on a Friday night when my wife was working late at her family's store. (My son is now 37 and my wife's family's business has been closed for nearly two decades.) It wasn't that I had anything against Domino's, it's just we found good "bad" pizza elsewhere for cheaper. But, just this past weekend, Mrs. P and I decided to give Domino's  a call... except, as you probably already know... ordering a pizza doesn't work like that anymore. It's now done — like most automated, contact-free processes — online through an app.

I downloaded the Domino's app. I found it to be very user friendly and very easily navigable, although I did nearly order a pizza with no cheese until the intuitive app guided me back to the toppings section of my order. After I placed my order, paid with a credit card and received an emailed receipt and confirmation, the Domino's app sprang into action. When I signed up for an account, I was asked for my cellphone number. I assumed it was merely for identification purposes. Oh, no, no, no. I immediately received a text with something called "Domino's Tracker." The Domino's Tracker offered me real time, step-by-step progress of how my pizza was doing. It skipped the "Order Received" Level 1 and moved right ahead to the Level 2 "We're Firing it up!" This was exciting. As I readied a couple of paper plates and a stack of paper napkins before I set out on the eight-minute drive to Domino's, I was alerted that my prepared pizza had entered to oven, which is Level 3 on the Tracker. 

On my drive, my phone signaled me several more times. When I finally reached the tiny parking lot at my nearby Domino's, I parked and checked my phone before entering the store. My phone had logged three progress reports from Domino's, including a final request to let the good folks inside that I had arrived and was on my way in to collect my pizza. This could be easily accomplished by clicking a big red button that read "I'M ON MY WAY IN!" Simple enough! 

There was a huddle of workers behind the small counter inside Domino's. Some of the young men were busily assembling pizzas. Others were surveying a computer screen, searching for the correct order to stuff into their insulated bag and speed off to deliver to a hungry family or single stoned guy in his mother's basement. Upon spotting me walk in, a young man greeted me with a standard, "Can I help you?" I told him I was picking up an order for "Josh." He asked me to repeat my name while he scanned a stack of similar-looking boxes with receipts taped to their fronts. As I finished the "SH" in "Josh," he plopped a box into my hands and thanked me for choosing Domino's.

I brought the pizza home and Mrs P and I ate our dinner. It was fine. It was nothing special. It was just okay. During dinner, however, I received another text and two emails from Domino's. Over the course of last week, I received at least two emails per day — per day! — from Domino's. Each day brought a new offer or reminder or discount from the marketing staff at Domino's. I just needed to make one more order from Domino's to receive a free pizza said one email. Another email informed me of a free "emergency pizza" could be ordered from my local Domino's at any time, as long as that time occurred before November 21st. (Technically, isn't every pizza an "emergency pizza?") I am expecting a few more messages of enticement from Domino's any minute now.

So far, I have only placed the one order with Domino's. Who knows if and when I will place the next one. If my father was still with us, he'd probably say that order will be placed as soon as I finish writing this blog post. But he didn't know what a blog post was.

Pizza... that he knew.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I can no longer shop happily

I am never, ever, ever setting foot in the fucking Giant Supermarket in Huntingdon Valley for as long as I shall live! Dammit!

I live within a convenient driving distance to five supermarkets. I have no loyalty to any of them, because — on some level — there is something I don't like about each one of them. I do most of my supermarket shopping at a Walmart SuperCenter that is a further driving distance than the five nearby supermarkets. But, the prices at Walmart are so ridiculously cheap that I cannot justify going to one of the closer stores when I know I can get the same groceries at as much as half the price on some items. Yeah, I know. Walmart treats their employees like shit and they allegedly have questionable business practices, but who doesn't get treated like shit by their employers? Besides, if I can get a 20 ounce bottle of mustard for 98 cents, I honestly don't care if Walmart kicks their help in the balls when they arrive at work. As the great philosopher/cartoon character Super Chicken once said: "You knew the job was dangerous when you took it."

There's an Aldi near my house. At first I didn't like Aldi. I likened it to shopping in the Twilight Zone, based on their store-branded products so closely mimicking the package designs of national brands. But over time, I have come around to Aldi. They have great produce. Their prices are cheap and their own products — despite their TV prop package designs — are comparable in quality to national brands. The problem with Aldi is they don't carry everything. It is impossible to do a full, old-fashioned shopping trip at Aldi because of their limited variety on a number of products.

Also close by is a Shop Rite, an Acme (part of the Albertsons family of stores) and a Giant (a subsidiary of the multi-national retail conglomerate Ahold Delhaize, not to be confused with the Giant Eagle Mid-West supermarket chain). Shop Rite is a last resort for me, as I always find the place poorly lit, poorly stocked and dirty. They do have pretty good store-brand coleslaw, but that's not enough of an enticement for me. The Acme, which is the closest to my house, is expensive and filled with employees who would rather be anywhere else in the world except in that store. Also, they have this uncanny knack to stop carrying a product that I discover and like on a random visit. It never fails. It's as though they have a list and check off the box that says "Josh Pincus likes this. Do Not Order."

The Giant is the worst and, as I began this blog, I have made my last trip to Giant ever. Mrs. Pincus and I decided to have hot dogs for dinner tonight. A typical summer meal, mine would be of the vegetarian variety and hers would be from the good, God-fearing folks at Hebrew National. We had picked up a bag of chips from Walmart on a previous supermarket run, but had failed to grab a couple of cans of baked beans. And, as you know, Mrs. P cannot be expected to eat hot dogs without the accompaniment of baked beans. That would be like eating peanut butter without jelly or pizza without pineapple. (Oh lighten up! It was a joke!) We like Heinz Vegetarian Baked Beans. We just do. We both grew up eating them and we are very used to their taste. Sure, over the years, we have buckled to store brands on some grocery staples, but we will not yield in some cases — and Heinz Vegetarian Baked Beans is one of those cases. Besides, Heinz is a popular brand and readily available. I happily volunteered to go out in the morning to grab a few cans of baked beans before the start of the afternoon Phillies game. I decided that Giant would be my choice of store this time.

I actually dread going to Giant. I cannot remember a time that I went to Giant and completely filled my shopping order. They are always out of something or they don't carry something or I can't find something after looking in the most logical places. I find their staff to be plentiful, although less than helpful. They usually answer questions like "Where would I find Rice Krispies?" with "Did you check the cereal aisle?" I have often left Giant with bags full of groceries only to head directly to another supermarket to pick up those few items that Giant did not have. And there are always — always —items that Giant does not have.

I drove over to Giant, parked and went into the store. I quickly scanned the signs that hang above each aisle that list the items that could be found within. The one that read "canned vegetables" was the one I wanted. I passed peas and corn and string beans and a range of exotic offerings until I arrived at a small section stocked with baked beans. The shelves were filled with every conceivable flavor of Bush's Baked Beans. There was Original, which contains bacon and, if Mrs. Pincus is partial to Hebrew National hot dogs... well, you do the dietary math. There were other flavors of Bush's Baked Beans — Garlic, Homestyle, Slow-Cooked, Fast-Cooked, Medium-Cooked, Sweet Heat, Brown Sugar, Maple, Country Style, Boston Style and about a hundred other flavors occupying every single shelf. Near the bottom of the section, Campbell's Pork & Beans and Hanover managed to muscle in and grab a sliver of shelf space along side a few rows of Giant's own brand.

But no Heinz. No where. There wasn't even a shelf tag alerting me that I was too late to get a can. There was no room at the inn for Heinz. It was as though the Heinz brand didn't exist on the Giant Supermarket astral plane. I stared at those shelves for a good, long time. I even walked up and down the aisle, thinking maybe — just maybe — Giant relegated Heinz Vegetarian Baked Beans to their own special section. But that was a pipe dream. Giant seemed to be mocking me. As far as Giant was concerned, I could get the fuck out of their store and pound Heinz Vegetarian Baked Beans up my ass in the process. By this time I was fuming. I reluctantly snapped a can (a small can) of Bush's Vegetarian Baked Beans off the shelf and made my way to the checkout area.

My father-in-law's favorite pastime — beside studying the Torah — is leisurely strolling the aisles of Giant the way most people visit an art museum. He peruses the shelves slowly and meticulously, as though he is viewing and appreciating works by Picasso and Renoir. I can't understand his obsession with Giant, but he seems to be there nearly every day. I suppose Heinz Vegetarian Baked Beans is never on his shopping list.

So, Giant is off my list. I'm done! Finished! Through! One down. Four to go.

UPDATE: Shop Rite does not carry Heinz Vegetarian Baked Beans either. Uh-oh.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

weird scenes inside the goldmine

One night for dinner, Mrs. P wanted spaghetti. Now, we are — in no way — "food snobs." We are not particular about where we go to get spaghetti. I am not one of those people who turns up their nose at ordinary, unimaginative, run-of-the-mill, neighborhood Italian restaurants that serve the basics. You know the type of place to which I'm referring. It's a big, boxy, dimly-lit place with a zillion teenage girls bustling behind the counter, a pen perched behind an ear and cracking chewing gum while they juggle a tray filled with generic-looking and plainly-prepared pasta dishes. Over in the corner is an older, balding gentleman in a white t-shirt and a  sauce-smeared apron, his overly-hairy forearms flexing as he grabs a knurled wooden peel and extracts a piping-hot pizza from the oven. A younger fellow — a family relation to the older man — is barking orders to the girls in a combination of broken English and fluent Italian. That sort of place. I know there's one in your neighborhood. It's usually called "Vincenzo's" or "Pizza Palace" or "Mama's Place," although "Mama" is no where to be seen.

In our neighborhood, that place is called "Roman Delight." It is only vaguely "Roman" and not anywhere near a "delight." Despite this misnomer of a name, it's been supplying mediocre, overpriced, somewhat Italian food to the northern Philadelphia suburbs for decades. Mrs. P and I have been infrequent patrons for about as long as we have lived in our house. (That's almost forty years!) Once we have whittled down our dinner options and Mrs. P doesn't feel like cooking, we will reluctantly call Roman Delight and get a perfectly okay meal for a little bit more that I think it should cost. Our order is usually the same each time. I get baked ziti in marinara sauce. Mrs. Pincus gets eggplant parmigiana over spaghetti and we will split an order of greasy garlic bread. Call-in orders sometimes need a bit of explaining and clarification with the order-taker — primarily to make sure they understand which items from their expansive menu I would like. Twenty or so minutes after my call-in order, I'll drive over to pick it up. We eat and that's it. It's not great. It's not horrible. It just serves as "dinner."

So when Mrs. Pincus wanted spaghetti for dinner, we just automatically thought to call Roman Delight. 

But, I stopped. "Let's try someplace different!," I suggested.

My wife gave me a puzzled look. "Where?" she questioned.

Several jobs ago, I worked for a place that designed and printed take-out menus for area restaurants. I remembered there was a place a block or so away from Roman Delight that boasted a similar menu. I pulled the place up from a quick Google search and scanned their menu. Their prices and selection were comparable to Roman Delight. "Let's give this place a try," I pressed on. Mrs. P appeared indifferent. So, we went.

The place I proposed is in a shopping center that we rarely visit. The last time I was there, the "Michael's Craft Store" that occupies the far end of the strip of businesses was a supermarket. The Rite Aid at the opposite end is now closed, a casualty of the pharmacy chain's slow and inevitable demise. In-between is a nail salon, a beauty supply store and a Chinese restaurant that never looks open. There's a Chipotle that I wrote about in 2014 and — in a space once occupied by a Baja Fresh — our destination Italian restaurant.

We entered the front door. The place was totally devoid of customers. It was 6:15 PM — dinner time for most — on a weekday evening. Not a single one of their dozen tables and booths were occupied. Behind the big, tile-front counter, two young ladies were staring off into space. Alongside the counter, a man in an apron sat in a chair. He greeted my wife and me with a big smile and a hearty "Hello!"

As I reached for a take-out menu from the small counter display, the man in the chair said to me: "Do you believe in UFOs?"

"Excuse me?," I replied, taken off-guard.

"Aliens! You know.... from outer space!," he explained.

Mrs. Pincus looked at me with wide eyes. Having seen those eyes over the past 42 years that we have been acquainted, I knew the message they were silently expressing. "I am not comfortable here." That's what my wife's eyes were telling me. We pretended to read the menu a little bit longer. The staff — the man in the chair and the two young ladies — did not say anything further to us. They didn't even look in our direction. They continued their conversation about aliens and UFOs.

I placed the folded menu back into the counter display. Mrs. P and I slowly — and as inconspicuously as possible — backed out of the empty restaurant towards the door. Still, no one said a word to us.

As we made our way to our car in the parking lot, I was already on the phone with Roman Delight — explaining which items from their expansive menu I would like.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

fishin' blues

On Father's Day, my son took my wife and I out for sushi — the traditional Father's Day meal.

To be honest, I only started eating sushi a few years ago. The thought of raw fish was not exactly an appetizing concept to me. It was only on rare occasions that the thought of cooked fish was something I would happily and voluntarily consume. As a vegetarian (actually a pescatarian, for those of you keeping score), my "fish" preferences are limited, because in addition to being a vegetarian, I also loosely follow the guidelines of kashrut (keeping kosher). I do this not so much for religious reasons, but more out of respect for my wife who follows the stipulations in a much more stringent manner. According to the  rules of hashgacha (Google it, if you're that concerned), shellfish and certain other varieties of seafood are off-limits on a kosher diet. So when I decided to "take the plunge" and subject myself to the wonders of sushi, I was limited to the all-vegetable selections first. Once I found those to be palatable, I ventured on to the ones topped with a slice of salmon or tuna. Eel, shrimp and octopus — common ingredients in traditional sushi — were off the menu for me. I don't think I would have eaten them anyway. Didn't matter, as I was surprised by how much I liked the sushi I had eaten. So, along with broccoli, cauliflower and gefilte fish (as mentioned in previous posts), a new item entered the JPiC diet that would surprise my mother.

In the short amount of time since I began eating sushi, I didn't exactly seek it out. The scenario has been pretty much the same. I either discovered it as one of many offerings on an all-you-can-eat buffet (either at a casino or on a cruise ship) or I got it from a take-out station at a market or — oddly — a pizza place that I happened to be in. The place that my son took us to was neither of those. This place was an honest-to-goodness sushi only restaurant... and I don't think I had ever been to a sushi only restaurant.

Kura Sushi is a chain straight from Japan. If you are reading this and you live in California, you are lucky enough to have nearly twenty Kura locations from which to choose — a dozen of them in the Los Angeles area alone! If you are reading this on the East Coast, then the Kura location near you is the Kura location near me. The Philadelphia location just opened a few months ago and my son has been there quite a few times already. He figured Father's Day was a good enough time to introduce his "recently adventurous" parents to what is fast becoming his favorite restaurant.

And, honestly, it's hard not to love this place.

Kura is no ordinary sushi restaurant. Upon first glance, the place appears very sterile with small booths situated in the center of the main room. Between the lines of booths run two conveyor belts, upon which a wide variety of sushi selections are silently delivered. Once you are seated, just pick your favorites from the seamlessly never-ending parade of sushi as it quietly glides by your table. Each selection is "announced" by a sign explaining what dish will follow on two plastic-domed serving vessels. If this piece of sushi piques your interest, simply grab the exposed edge of the plate accessible through as small notch cut out of the plastic dome — at which point the dome pops open and the plate is yours! You may add soy sauce, wasabi or pickled ginger (my favorite!) if you like. When you're finished that plate (or even if you're not finished), you start the simple procedure all over again. When my son explained the process to me, I immediately thought "Wow! the plates must really pile up on the tables!" But, alas, the good folks at Kura have that problem licked. 

Every booth is equipped with two unusual components not found in most conventional restaurants. First, there is a large touchscreen mounted just above the conveyor belts. This serves as a menu, as well as a source of information for each available sushi offering that whizzes by your table. With a few taps on the screen, you can find the ingredients of each piece of sometimes unidentifiable sushi. For the impatient, each sushi dish can be ordered straight from the unseen kitchen, arriving with a whoosh! on a separate conveyor belt just above the communal one — the ordered plate stopping miraculously right at your table. Drinks can be ordered from the touchscreen, too. Soft drinks as well as alcoholic beverages arrive by — get this! — a robot! Yep! A robot, whose electronic eyes wink as it spins around, revealing your drink order on its rear shelves... ready for you to remove and  transfer to your table. That's right. I said a robot!

The other feature at your table is a slot into which you deposit your empty plate once you've eaten the delicious contents. My worry about the possibility of "plates piling up" on the small table was alleviated once my son pointed out the small slot at the end of a short, metal incline and its purpose. But the "self-bussing" of your table doesn't end there. No sir! As plates are fed into the little slot, the touchscreen displays a running tally of how many plates have been accepted. Once the total reaches 15, a vending machine, behind the screen just out of immediate view, dispenses a small, round, non-descript capsule containing either stickers or a keyring charm or a cable tie or another cute novelty. The novelties feature little anime characters, most of which change on a monthly basis. And the prizes keep coming with each fifteen plates finished. When the touchscreen isn't serving as a menu or a research tool or a plate counter or a prize distributor, it entertains guests with short cartoons centering on characters trying to steal Kura's coveted recipes.

For a long time, I have joked about waitstaff at restaurants condescendingly asking patrons: "Have you been here before?," as though the concept of going to a restaurant is something totally unfamiliar to humans in a city the size of Philadelphia. My answer has usually been (delivered with a certain amount of palpable sarcasm), "Not here. But I've been to restaurants before and I kinda know how they work." Upon entering Kura, my son politely asked me to put my smart-ass comments on hold. I would soon find out that this place didn't work like any other restaurant I had ever visited. In reality, the robot that brought our drinks would have probably ignored my snide remarks anyway.

This was a Father's Day to remember. Actually, the day after Father's Day was the more memorable... because all I could think about was sushi.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

go down moses

Well, we just wrapped up Passover a couple of weeks ago. While Passover is not my favorite holiday, I can safely say that Passover is not my favorite holiday.

Growing up in the Pincus house, Passover meant that a box of matzo joined the ubiquitous loaf of bread on the kitchen table. My mom bought a jar of gefilte fish and, over the course of eight days, consumed the contents of that jar herself. There was no way in hell my father was going to let a morsel of that stuff cross his meat-and-potatoes tempered lips. Passover or no Passover, tradition of thousands of years or no tradition of thousands of years, Harold Pincus didn't change his daily eating habits for no one — not even the God of Abraham. My brother ate those macaroons from a can and avoided the bread. I enjoyed the fried matzo that my mom prepared. I watched as much of the annual airing of The Ten Commandments on television as I could. I think I even went to a seder at an uncle's house when I was very young. We probably left when my father just about had enough. And that was my Passover.

Until I met my wife.

Mrs. Pincus came from a very traditional Jewish background. Very traditional. (To be honest, compared to the way the Pincus family celebrated Jewish holidays, Pope Francis came from a more traditional Jewish background.) Mrs. P's family went all out, especially for Passover. They cleaned the house. They changed their kitchen over to all Passover dishes and utensils. They "sold off" their chametz (food that is not kosher for Passover) and they staged an elaborate seder on the first night of Passover, with an encore performance on Night Two.

My mother-in-law prepared food from scratch that would last for the duration of the holiday. She made soups with hand-formed matzo balls. She made brust (brisket) and chicken and an array of side dishes, most of which contained some form of matzo My father-in-law prepared his own gefilte fish, grinding real fishy fish and shaping the concoction into little oblong footballs. There were boxes and assorted packages of baked goods from a special New York bakery that my in-laws would travel to and make purchases, not only for their family, but for the families of their fellow congregants at their synagogue. Passover was a big deal. It was all new to me. I participated out of respect to my wife and in-laws, but I wasn't a fan.

Soon, the Pincus family expanded by one. My son, who went all through Jewish day school, became an expert in all things Jewish and very well-versed in all Passover traditions, leading certain parts of the seder year after year. I proudly watched, but still remained nonplussed at the whole Passover thing. I didn't care for the food and I didn't care for the eight-day interruption in my daily routine. Surprisingly, I was looking at Passover the way my father looked at Passover.

It's funny how things change when you get old. Older! I mean older!

2023 marked the third consecutive year without a traditional seder at my in-law's house. This is due to several factors. In 2020, Passover came just weeks after the entire world was shut down by the uncertainty of a global pandemic. Families sequestered themselves from contact with other family members out of fear, out of safety and out of concern. Mrs. Pincus and I sat at our little kitchen counter and ate matzo. Mrs. P braved the looming cloud of COVID-19, donning a protective mask and making her trip to the supermarket as quick and efficient as possible. Under the circumstances, she bought jarred gefilte fish. Her father had given up the lengthy process of making his own and he certainly wasn't going to re-start the practice during a pandemic. At dinner time, Mrs. P fished (no pun intended) a piece of gefilte fish from the jar and plopped it down on a paper plate. I looked at it. Suddenly, a wave of adventure washed over me. "I'll take a piece of that.," I said... much to my wife's surprise.

This year for Passover, in an effort to be less like my father and more like... like.... a mensch, I ate gefilte fish again. A few times, even taking more than one piece at a time. Of course, I drown that little beige lump in a generous helping of electric purple horseradish-and-beet accompaniment. Y'know, if you cover anything with enough horseradish, it can actually be palatable... provided you like horseradish. And I do. And gefilte fish really isn't that bad. It's an acquired taste that I guess —over the years — I have acquired.

Every year, when I try something at Passover I never ate before, Mrs. P marvels and says: "Your mother would be proud."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com