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

beyond belief

This morning, I was watching a show on the Food Network about (surprise!) food. Specifically, it was a showcase of Southern restaurants, each offering a signature meat dish. During one restaurant's profile, a chef explained that their meat comes from a local farm where the animals are raised humanely and treated with respect. In reality, of course they are. While those cows and little lammies are alive, they may very well be allowed to scamper through a sun-dabbled meadow. They may be fed the highest quality corn and other vitamin-rich nutrients, but — when it comes down to it — they are still bashed between the eyes with a sledgehammer or have their jugular slit and eventually their flanks will wind up breaded, fired or seared on a plate alongside some house made mac and cheese and some chichi sauce. "Humanely-raised" is a euphemistic term that carnivores uses to make themselves feel better about eating domesticated animals.

That said, I have been a vegetarian for almost twenty years. Before I decided to eliminate meat from my diet, I ate a lot of meat. Especially hamburgers. I loved hamburgers. I ate hamburgers my mom made. I ate hamburgers in diners (gingerly picking off the tomatoes and slipping them on to my mom's plate). I ate hamburgers in fast-food restaurants (always careful to ensure that my burger was tomato-free. Why didn't I exercise the same precautions in diners? I don't know. Perhaps I was intimidated by the stone-faced waitresses that called me "hon."). To be honest, there were some kinds of meat I did not like. I didn't care for steak or roast beef, but boy! did I like hamburgers. In 2006, in a decision formed as a testament to my own integrity, I decided to — once and for all — cut meat out of my diet. (The stupid story about how and, more importantly, why I became a vegetarian can be found HERE.) 

In full disclosure, I am not a vegan. Actually, in the eyes of some vegetarians, I'm not even a true vegetarian. I am a pescatarian, because I will eat fish. But, in keeping with the ultra-contradictory Josh Pincus brand, I don't eat all kinds of fish. I eat tuna and salmon and....that's about it. I like sushi, but only certain kinds of sushi. And I will not eat shellfish. I eat dairy products and eggs, so vegans still look at me with judgmental scorn (but so do a lot of people). As far as I'm concerned, I'm a vegetarian. So there.

Over the years, the folks who process food have been working diligently to create meatless versions of meat. These products are — inexplicably — directed at vegetarians. The food "powers that be" think that vegetarians secretly want to eat meat but, for ethical beliefs, they do not. Do all vegetarians harbor a dirty little secret about their desire to consume meat? Probably not. Do I? Maybe a little. My wife still eats meat and sometimes our dinners consist of two completely different meals. When we decide on "cold cuts" for dinner, Mrs P will purchase a package of turkey or corned beef from the kosher section of our local supermarket, while I opt for a vacuumed-sealed slab of slightly tan soy-based pseudo-turkey slices that don't taste anything remotely like turkey. They are good and I will eat them, but turkey aficionados (if that's a thing) would not be fooled... or amused. 

Fake meat food technology experienced major advancements within the past several years. It seems a special gene or molecule or some other science-y thing has been isolated. This gene — if you will — is the element that makes meat taste like meat. It's been processed and synthesized and if I actually understood the procedure, I'd be a food researcher instead of a mediocre blogger. The result, after countless trial-and-error experimentation, is a plant-based, meatless burger that actually looks, cooks and tastes like meat. When Mrs. P and I were first married, she made dinner for my parents — her new in-laws. She made spaghetti and "meatballs." The "meatballs" were actually a tofu-based concoction so as to allow cheese and butter to be served in our kosher-observant home. (Google the laws of kashrut, for a wild read.) At the conclusion of the meal, my father — a butcher by trade — complemented my wife and pushed his plate away. The five or six "meatballs were neatly lined up around the edge of his sauce-stained, otherwise empty, plate. Today, however, I would defy any meat eater (even my father) to tell the difference between the new crop of "burgers" from Beyond Meat® and Impossible® and the Real McCow... er... McCoy.

The first time I tried Beyond Burgers® was at my brother-in-law's house (not that brother-in-law, the other one). My brother-in-law, a vegetarian for as long as I can remember, invited us for dinner and, when we arrived, he was frying up some very suspicious looking burgers in his kitchen. I asked him if he finally abandoned the vegetarian lifestyle for "the dark side." He laughed and handed me the opened package of Beyond Burgers®. Seeing those thick, juicy patties sizzling in the pan made me very leery. Biting into one on a Kaiser roll and accented with ketchup, mustard, pickles and such... well, I wasn't convinced that this wasn't meat. As a matter of fact, every time my wife makes Beyond Burgers®, I stare at those patties sizzling away and I say: "Those are soooooo meat."

We have purchased and eaten Beyond Burgers®. They are good. They are very good. They have introduced other plant-based, meat-free, meat-mimicking products, including breakfast sausages, meatballs and little cut-up nuggets that my wife has prepared in a version of the renowned Philly cheesesteak. Recently, after seeing this option on a few different cooking shows, I have requested a fried egg to be added as the crowning glory of my Beyond Burger®. I know people have been doing this for years on their hamburgers. It seemed interesting and I have always been an adventurous eater. In my meat-eating days, I have sampled alligator, conch and buffalo. I have eaten eggs in many forms, so why not add one to a burger. Oh my gosh! It was sloppily delicious, adding a new flavor combination to a tried and true favorite. (I have to stop watching the Food Network. I'm beginning to sound like them!) Now, I can't imagine having a burger without a fried egg.

As long as Beyond Burgers® exist and fried eggs are plentiful, I don't see myself lapsing back into the ranks of carnivores any time soon.

Please... don't make me turn off commenting.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

hot diggity! dog ziggity! boom what you do to me

Every July 4th, I park myself in front of my television and watch the Annual Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest. Why am I obsessed with this annual summer holiday event? Well....

I don't know.

The contest began in the early 1970s, although a Nathan's marketing promoter named Morty Matz told of an impromptu contest held at the famed Coney Island hot dog stand in 1916. The alleged first contest was held between four men boasting over who was the most patriotic. They decided that eating hot dogs - America's beloved main dish - would prove their love of country. The story went on to claim that the contest was judged by then-popular entertainers Eddie Cantor and Sophie Tucker. However, in 2010, Matz revealed that he had made the whole thing up.

So, the actual date of the first Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest was July 4, 1972. It received little to no fanfare. The following year, a fourteen-year old boy won the contest, but due to a nationwide meat shortage, the gluttonous contest was downplayed and eventually denied by Nathan's that it ever took place.

But, Nathan's was determined to make this contest a media event, generating interest as well as  business. They were successful, with the contest gaining national attention in the mid-1990s. Under the regulating eye (or mouth) of the IFOCE (The International Federation of Competitive Eating), the Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest has grown to become the "Super Bowl" of competitive eating events. In the early 2000s, the contest was dominated by Takeru Kobayashi, a cocky, young Japanese citizen who would swoop in on July 4th and down over four dozen hot dogs and buns in 12 minutes. Kobayashi did this for six consecutive years until 2007, when upstart Joey Chestnut consumed an unheard-of 66 frankfurters to unseat Kobayashi. Since then, Chestnut has won the contest handily, out-eating his competition by dozens. In 2021, Chestnut wolfed down a whopping 76 hot dogs and buns in ten minutes to set a still-standing world record. There's even a separate women's competition held just prior to the men's event. In past years, diminutive Sonya Thomas, a sweet young lady who looks like a stiff breeze could knock her over, has eaten 45 red hots to earn the coveted "pink belt" of glory. She has since relinquished her title to up-and-comer Miki Sudo, who holds first place status in other competitive eating events like tamales, buffalo wings and spare ribs.

But why.... why? .... am I fascinated by this event? I haven't eaten a meat hot dog in almost twenty years. When I did eat hot dogs, it wasn't more than two or three at one sitting... and certainly not under a time constraint. I think it's the way the contest is presented that I what I enjoy most. First of all, it is broadcast on sports network ESPN as though it is a real sporting event. It draws thousands of spectators who pack the corner of Surf and Stillwell Avenues in Brooklyn's Coney Island to cheer on their favorite eater. The faux pageantry is hosted by the charismatic George Shea, the co-founder of the IFOCE. George is a character, setting the stage for the tongue-in-cheek attitude that contest exhibits. Sporting a straw skimmer, George announces each contestant with a lengthy, often-exaggerated, mostly-nonsensical introduction worthy of a heavyweight boxer or a Greek god. Once the competition begins, he offers play-by-play that rivals Monday Night Football and sometimes sounds like the narrative of a Dr. Seuss book.

The competition itself is downright disgusting. Hand-held cameras provide close-up coverage of every bite, gulp, teeth gnash and swallow. Participants are permitted to dunk the hot dog buns into their choice of liquid (usually water or lemonade). This provides added splashes and sloshes that heightens the excitement. The visuals are so "in your face" that the camera lenses are often splattered with bits of hot dog buns, specks of meat and even a little sweat. Not only do you feel as though you have a front row seat, you actually get a "hot dog's-eye-view" of the action. It's frenzied and fun and — in a word — barbaric. The whole thing plays out like a modern take on the Christians being fed to the lions (with the Christians being hot dogs, in this case).

So every July 4th, while folks are enjoying a day off from work, a family get-together, a backyard barbeque, or perhaps a day at the beach, I can be found gazing at my television at high noon, watching a bunch of guys prove their self-worth by jamming dozens of hot dog into their gullets for a shot at a few minutes of fame and glory... all while trying not to choke to death.

What better way is there to celebrate America?

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

when the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie

I love pizza. My father used to joke (although I don't really think he was joking) that all I ate was pizza. Three meals a day. Breakfast, lunch and dinner — pizza! He wasn't that far off, to be totally honest. I have eaten a lot of pizza in my life.

I am not — nor do I claim to be — a pizza connoisseur. I firmly believe that all pizza is good pizza. Before you start criticizing that statement or attempt to guide or educate me, please read that sentence again. I said "I firmly believe that all pizza is good pizza." "I" believe. Not you. I'm writing this. If you feel differently about pizza, go write your own blog. Are we clear? I truly believe that it is pretty difficult to screw up pizza. I have had good pizza. I have had very good pizza and I have had bad pizza. And guess what? Bad pizza is still good pizza.

When I was a kid, there was a large discount market near my house. It had a number of individual businesses under one roof. It wasn't exactly a mall or a shopping center. They called themselves a "mart" and it was more along the lines of a farmer's market. There was a selection of food counters at the mart, including my first exposure to pizza. The concession was owned and operated by two women who, in hindsight, didn't know the first thing about making pizza. But, in my memory, that pizza was good. Cheese. Sauce. Crust. What else did one need?

I recall at my elementary school, those angry women in the hairnets would concoct their version of the Italian staple on hamburger rolls left over from the day-before's lunch menu... the one where they thought they were giving McDonald's a run for their money. The surplus rolls were placed crust-side-down on a large tray. They each got a dollop of red sauce straight from an industrial size can and topped with a half slice of American cheese. Then the tray was set under the giant broiler until just before the burning point... usually. For 35 cents, you got two "burger bun" pizza, a scoop of limp string beans and a cup of Jello — the last two items, of course, never to be eaten. I even liked that pizza. Even the ones that passed the burning threshold.

As my life experiences expanded beyond my little Northeast Philadelphia cocoon, I encountered actual pizza. Pizza made by actual trained pizza chefs. Burly guys in athletic shirts, a red cloth tied tightly around their necks, expertly tossing a huge circle of pizza dough in the air like those jugglers I saw on the Ed Sullivan Show. They'd shove prepared pies into a hot narrow oven and extract the same a few moments later on a large wooden paddle — all in a choreographed ballet. They had names like "Piasano's" and "Luigi's" and "Frank's" (short for "Francesco") and the slices they served were as big as your head. And they were good. Of course, they were good. When I was in high school, I frequented Philadelphia's famed South Street nearly every weekend. It was the epicenter of "what was happening" among my peers. Whether you went to see a weekly midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, or just came to hang out, South Street was hopping with activity. And where there was teenage activity, there was pizza. When my friends and I would descend upon South Street, our first stop was the aforementioned Franks, a small pizzeria next to a cool little stationery store. Frank, who I don't believe spoke a word of English, made great pizza. It was hot and cheesy and spicy and the slices, once lifted off the flimsy, grease-coated paper plate, needed to be supported by both hands. And — boy! — was it good!

I've had pizza all over Philadelphia. I've had pizza in other states — near and far. I've had pizza in the few other countries I've been to. I've even had pizza in the wee hours of the morning aboard several different cruise ships. And they were all good. All of them.

I reiterate. It is pretty hard to screw up pizza. You may have your particular favorite pizza place. A place that is your "go-to" place. A pizzeria to which you are loyal. One that you insist — insist! — is the best pizza in the world and where you bring friends in an effort to convince them to share your affection. You may engage in hours-long debates about who has the best pizza you've ever eaten, during which you reveal a little known hole-in-the-wall in an unexplored alley with no street address that is run by the great-great-great-great-grandnephew of the actual guy who invented pizza. You may turn your nose up at places like Pizza Hut or Little Caesars. You might cringe at the very idea of Ellio's or DiGiorno. Please. Argue among yourselves because I don't do any of that.

I just love pizza. And all pizza is good pizza.

www.joshpicusiscrying.com

ice ice baby

I have been to two professional hockey games in my life. The first one was in 1975. My father, who was (at the time) a main office executive for a chain of east coast of supermarkets, was given tickets to a Sunday afternoon Flyers game. In 1975, the Philadelphia Flyers were pretty hot stuff. They were the defending Stanley Cup Champions and they were the sworn enemy of every other team in the NHL. Tagged with the notorious (though fitting) moniker "Broad Street Bullies," the Flyers were a living punchline for the popular joke "I went to a fight the other day and a hockey game broke out." Because the Flyers were so popular, I watched with feigned interest when my brother would tune the game in at home. I had a Flyers T-shirt, but everyone in Philadelphia in 1975 had a Flyers T-shirt, too. But, I was not a sports fan by any stretch of the imagination, so I can't imagine why my father chose to take me instead of my more sports-leaning older brother, but he did and we went. I remember it was really, really cold inside the Spectrum, the one-time state-of-the-art multi-purpose venue where the Flyers played their home games. I had been to the Spectrum a handful of times prior to the Flyers game. I saw Alice Cooper's "Welcome to my Nightmare" concert a year earlier. I saw the folky pop group America play their greatest hits there and I saw Elton John give a high-energy performance... but I don't remember it being so cold at any of those events. Granted, there wasn't 17,000 square feet of ice at any of them, so that could have played into it. Watching the game, I remember being unable to keep track of the puck as it was fired all over the ice. I also remember having absolutely no idea what exactly was going on. I was there to see a fight. Just like everyone who goes to an air show doesn't really want to see planes fly. If they did, they would just go to the airport and sit all day. You go to an air show to see a crash... and, in 1975, you went to a hockey game to see a fight. On this particular Sunday, the Flyers did not disappoint. Somewhere during the first period, Dave Schultz, the Flyers' infamous left wing (nicknamed "The Hammer" and for good reason) got into a melee with Detroit Red Wings' center Dennis Polonich. After a few minutes of a stoppage of play to allow Schultz to pummel the living shit out of Polonich, the ice was cleared, Schultz entered the penalty box (a very familiar spot for him) and maintenance crews came out to scrape an amount of Polonich's blood off the ice. I don't remember the score, but I remember that.

This past Sunday, I went to my second professional hockey game,  putting a 48-year gap between the two games I attended. A lot had changed since I witnessed my first hockey game. First of all, the venue was the Wells Fargo Center, a new state-of-the art venue that is the current home to the Philadelphia Flyers. The Spectrum was demolished in 2011. The Flyers have retired the uniform numbers of several of the former players, some of whom I saw play in '75. Despite not being a hockey fan, I knew the names of every member of the 1975 team, as well as the coaching staff. Honestly, I couldn't name a single player on the current roster. Or any roster for the past ten years. (Okay, maybe Claude Giroux, who may or may not still be playing. Don't answer, because I don't care.) Why, you may ask, would I go to a hockey game? Well, I suppose, it's because my wife is a Dead Head.

While surfing around the internet, as one does, Mrs. Pincus discovered that the Philadelphia Flyers were having "Grateful Dead Night" at their game on January 8. We had attended a Phillies game last summer when they honored an upcoming concert by Dead and Company, the current incarnation of former members of the venerable 60s jam band still hanging on to a dream. Between innings, Grateful Dead songs were played over the stadium PA system... until they weren't (somewhere around the fourth inning).  Costumed characters of the iconic "Dancing Bears" frolicked with the Phillie Phanatic as sort of an afterthought. Mrs. P thought it would be fun to see what the Flyers would do "Grateful Dead-wise," so she bought tickets. A pre-game concert by local Dead cover band Splintered Sunlight was announced, as well as special "Dead" themed T-shirts for a limited number of special ticket holders. We bought those "special tickets" and they weren't cheap! A few days before the game, we got an email explaining that due to a pre-game conflict with the Philadelphia Eagles (who play right next door at Lincoln Financial Field and are playing much better than the Flyers are), the pre-game concert with Splintered Sunlight would be rescheduled for a Sunday in March. However, because the Flyers are playing so poorly this year and having difficulty getting people to fill the 20-thousand-plus seats in the Wells Fargo Center, we would be given (read: for free!) tickets to that game in March... in addition to the tickets we already held! 

To be honest, we were just looking for an excuse to see the inside of the Wells Fargo Center. Neither my wife nor I had been inside to see an event, except for a post-season sale of sports team merchandise held on the floor of the facility. We really had no intention of staying for the entire game. We are not hockey fans and don't expect to be hockey fans in the future. Our main goal was to check out the place, get something to eat and, possibly get a glimpse of Gritty, the most reviled mascot in the NHL and the second most popular mascot in the city. I had scanned the food offerings available at the Wells Fargo Center. Most were decidedly "meat-heavy." I am a vegetarian and my wife follows a strictly Kosher diet, so we had to look very closely at what was to be had for two people with specific dietary requirements. Surprisingly, there was quite a selection. Several concessions offered Beyond Burgers, the hit trend in meatless hamburgers. One stand had falafel (although it was closed for this particular game). A stand selling tacos and such had a mushroom and kale version that looked tempting but, we settled on something called a "Za’atar Cauliflower Cheesesteak." New this season, the Za’atar Cauliflower Cheesesteak was touted as a vegetarian-friendly alternative to the Philadelphia staple. Instead of thin strips of steak, a mixture of cauliflower and spices was the main ingredient, complimented by caramelized onions and harissa (a peppery condiment from the Middle East) Cheez Whiz. Now, before you stick your tongue out in disgust, remember, not everyone is you. Not everyone likes what you like. I happen to love cauliflower and I have actually had a similar sandwich at a little hole-in-the-wall steak and hoagie shop in Atlantic City.

We wended our way through a knot of typical Philadelphia traffic, parked and walked excitedly towards the Wells Fargo Center. Once inside, we passed through the obligatory metal detectors (where Mrs. P found a quarter on the floor!) and started our trek around the brightly lit concourse. Our seats were on the top level of the arena, but we were in no rush to get to them. We were having a better time seeing the sights, the excited fans and taking in the whole electric atmosphere. Near a free-standing souvenir stand (where Flyers sweatshirts were selling upward of a hundred bucks, a small table was set up with an array of Flyers logo items. My wife approached and asked the young man about the items. He smiled and began explaining all about purchasing Flyers season tickets. My wife politely listened to his pitch, nodding on and off as he ran down the various options and price points. I stood by silently. "Are you interested in purchasing season tickets?," he asked. My wife convincingly replied, "Sure!" She was not interested in purchasing season tickets. She was, however, interested in obtaining some of the Flyers promotional items displayed on the tabletop. As Mrs. P filled out an electronic form on an iPad, the young man turned to me and asked where our seats were tonight. I just pointed skyward. "Top section," I said with a sheepish frown. He dug into the pocket of his sport jacket and said, "How'd you like to sit closer?" He handed me two tickets for seats just behind the goal, in, what we would soon discover, one of the coldest sections in the place. Now, upgraded, we were off to find that faux steak sandwich.

Actual.

We located First Line Steaks behind Section 110, just a section over from our new, upgraded seats. We approached the counter and ordered two Za’atar Cauliflower Cheesesteaks and two bottles of water. I was not convinced that the fellow behind the counter actually worked there. He stared at us expressionless as we ordered. We had to repeat our order several times before he fully grasped what we wanted, my wife confirming, "That's cauliflower, right? No meat." He did not acknowledge. He asked if we wanted onions, to which we both replied in the affirmative. He returned from the order pick-up counter with two cheesesteaks. Two of meatiest meat-filled cheesesteaks I have ever seen. It may have even still been "moo-ing." We looked suspiciously at the sandwiches. 

"These are cauliflower?," we asked in unison. 

He stared at us and said, "Cheesesteaks." 

"Yes," Mrs. P continued, "I understand. We wanted the cauliflower sandwiches."

I examined the sandwiches a bit closer and determined that they were filled with meat, with not a trace of cauliflower anywhere. "This is meat." I said, coming to an informed conclusion and pointing to the evidence.

"Huh?," shrugged the fellow behind the counter.

"Meat!," I repeated, slightly raising my voice. Mrs. Pincus, a bit calmer, added, "We wanted the cauliflower sandwich." She pointed to the illuminated menu above our heads, but I don't believe this guy could read. He went back to the pick-up window and had a few words with the man at the preparation area. He nodded towards us and may have even given us a confident wink. He scooped a big serving of what was definitely cauliflower into a long roll. With a shiny pair of tongs, he added long strips of browned onions and topped it all off with a ladle full of orange cheese sauce from a different dispenser than the other guys were using. The fellow behind the counter took the two original meat cheesesteaks and deposited them in a nearby trash can. 

"Oh!," sighed Mrs. Pincus, "That's a shame."

"Huh?," shrugged the fellow behind the counter.

Cauliflower.

My wife pointed in the direction of the now-discarded steak sandwiches. "What a shame you had to throw those away.," she clarified

"Oh," shrugged the fellow behind the counter. (This fellow shrugged a lot!) He pushed our two cauliflower sandwiches towards us and plopped two $5.25 bottles of water right behind them. We found our way to our seats and I passed out the fistful of napkins I grabbed, as I knew this would be a messy undertaking. I was right, but — boy! — was it good. Yes, my friends, it was actually very good. 

Soon the lights dimmed and starting players were announced. Gritty made his first appearance to a mixture of cheers and boos. The players skated around the ice. The Zambonis smoothed out the playing surface while two scantily-clad young ladies — wielding snow shovels — scooped up loose ice crystals, mostly for show. A horn blew and the game began.

And, within seconds, I lost interest. I didn't recognize a single name on either team's roster. The action moved way too fast for me to keep tack of who had control of the puck. I don't know anything about hockey, but I could tell — I just had a feeling — that the poor Flyers were definitely being out-played. Gritty came to visit our section, messing with some fans, relaxing in an empty seat (there were a lot to choose from) and posing for pictures. But, it wasn't enough to keep us there for the whole game. We left midway through the last inning..... I mean period. And not a single mention of the Grateful Dead was made by anyone in an official Flyers capacity.

We have one more game to go.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

at last

Several years ago....

(I love to start stories with "several years ago" because I know, as I get older and my perception of time becomes more distorted, that the actual time period that I am imagining is — in reality — much further in the past that I remember. That's why I favor the adjective "several." It's non-specific and I don't spend a lot of time wracking my failing memory over how long ago it really was. That's why I feel pretty safe in using it. My concept of the time period may differ from yours, but we both understand that this incident did not begin yesterday. Now.... if you are still with me.... I'll continue...)

Several years ago, my wife and I accompanied my in-laws to a restaurant in Northeast Philadelphia. This seems pretty insignificant, so let me explain why this was a rare event. My in-laws and my wife (and to a far lesser and more lenient extent — me) keep kosher. Philadelphia is notorious for its lack of certified kosher restaurants considering the size of its Jewish population. It ranks seventh in the United States and boasts 214,600 folks who identify as Jewish. (For goodness sakes, Philadelphia ranks 14th in the world!) Granted a very small faction of those actually adhere to the laws of kashrut. With this in mind, Philadelphia has seen kosher-certified restaurants come and go like flights at an airport. Most have closed for different reasons, but the biggest reason is lack of support. The Jewish community (at least within my community) bitches and complains about the "slim pickins" as far as kosher eateries go, yet, when one opens up, they will rarely patronize the establishment and it will invariably fail....only to lead to more complaints. The other reason for failure is these places are not run by business-minded people. They only exist to fill a void and are opened by folks who have never run a business before, specifically a restaurant... and running a restaurant is particularly difficult. So, these places end up being a mixed-up, unorganized mess. They are usually filthy, overpriced and staffed by rude people. Or as I like to say — "The Triple Threat." So, finding a nearby kosher restaurant that meets my in-law's finnicky standards is difficult. Almost as difficult as getting them to leave their house.

But, we found one.... several years ago. 

No explanation.

I have no qualms about eating in any restaurant. I have been a vegetarian for nearly twenty years, but I would never ask anyone to make special accommodations for me. It will not be the last meal I will ever eat. I'm sure there is something on every restaurant's menu that I can eat (even a Brazilian steakhouse, although I've never had the opportunity to try). My in-laws are a little more discerning. Not only does a restaurant have to have posted kosher certification, but that certification has to come from a mashgiach (certified kosher certifier) whom they respect and with whose practices they agree. (There's an old saying "Five Jews. Six synagogues.") Well, this particular restaurant checked all the correct boxes. It was not an especially appetizing place. It was short on décor and any sort of ambience. However, based on the price range of their menu, you'd think the owners perceived their establishment among the most elite in the city. As I perused the Mediterranean and Middle Eastern-influenced menu, which was heavy on meat-centric offerings, I spotted something with which I was not familiar. Aside from the consumption of meat, I consider myself a pretty adventurous eater. I'll try anything once (except if it contains coconut). This item of intrigue was listed at the bottom of the "Appetizers" section and it sported a pretty hefty fifteen dollar price tag for an appetizer. It was merely identified as "shakshuka." Unlike some of the other items on the menu that included a brief subheading that described what would be expected when the plate arrived at your place setting should you choose this item, shakshuka sat there unexplained. Boldly undefined. Defiantly enigmatic. You ordering shakshuka? You better damn well know what you're getting, 'cause we ain't fucking telling you.

Earworm.

I continued to read over the menu, scrutinizing everything, including descriptions of chicken shawarma and a plethora of burgers and a whole bunch of other things that I had no intentions of eating. Among the vegetarian options were concoctions of tomatoes and cucumbers and other vegetables of which I am not a fan. There was falafel — traditional deep-fried chickpea balls which I have grown to like after initially turning my nose up... so that was an option. But I found myself going back and staring at that one word — shakshuka. Shakshuka. Shakshuka. Suddenly, I found myself absent-mindedly humming the chorus of the 1980 Kate Bush song "Babooshka" under my breath. The cadence fit perfectly and I realized I had just infected myself with an earworm I would carry for hours. (And now, you have been infected, too. You're welcome.) Still performing Kate Bush karaoke to myself, I looked up at a large, hand-written "Specials" board hanging on a wall and decided to order salmon skewers with two vegetables which was listed among the limited-time offerings.  (Yeah, I eat fish. Not all fish. I don't eat fishy fish, like trout, or shellfish, but I'll eat salmon, tuna, mahi mahi, tilapia and other "mild" fish. So, I guess I'm sort of a pescatarian, but that is really none of your business. I'm sure you don't eat some food just because you don't like it.) We all placed our orders and I caught one last glimpse of shakshuka as I closed my menu and handed it to the waitress.

Searching.

As soon as I got home, I "googled" shakshuka. I discovered that it is a centuries-old Northern African dish, popular among Arab cultures. While there are noted variances among ingredients, in its most basic form, shakshuka is eggs poached in a sauce of tomatoes, olive oil, peppers, onion and garlic, most often spiced with cumin, paprika and cayenne pepper. This sounded really good. (Oh, yeah, I eat eggs, too. I am not a vegan. If I was, you would have known by the first sentence of this post.) I told Mrs. Pincus about it and lamented about not ordering it earlier. I promised I would order it the next time we went to this restaurant. Well, we don't go to this restaurant often — or ever — so I would have to look elsewhere for my first sampling of shakshuka. 

It was briefly mentioned to my neighbor, who is Israeli, and unashamedly proclaimed to be the best producer of shakshuka in the world. Unfortunately, this promise led nowhere, as I was never invited to taste his shakshuka, not that I would have anything to compare it to. After bringing it up enough, my dear, ever accommodating spouse conceded to the following: if I could find a suitable simple recipe for the egg dish in question, she would agree to buy the proper ingredients and attempt to make shakshuka — just for me. So, we bought eggs and tomato sauce and peppers and onions and all the other stuff. I read and re-read the process for making the dish. Plans to prepare shakshuka were made and forgotten and made and forgotten again. And here we are, with a couple of ignored cans of tomato paste in our pantry and peppers that have long been chopped up and tossed in our evening salad and eggs that have since been consumed as part of a celebratory cake. And still I have not tasted shakshuka.

Surprisingly, two-plus years after the world was locked down by a global pandemic, the kosher restaurant in Northeast Philadelphia was still open for business. After so many years, my in-laws have become less mobile and less anxious to venture out into the big bad world. But, they do have to eat. Another relative offered to treat my in-laws to dinner at a restaurant of their choice in honor of their 67th wedding anniversary. With the choices slight, they selected (or perhaps "settled for" is more apropos) the kosher restaurant in Northeast Philadelphia. The plan was my wife would place the order, pick it up and bring it to her parent's house. As long as were were going, we'd place a dinner order for ourselves. And — goddammit! — I was getting shakshuka. All fifteen bucks worth! Still wary of its inclusion in the "Appetizers" section, I ordered some "assemble it yourself" falafel to split with my wife, in case one fifteen dollar order of shakshuka wasn't enough to satisfy my appetite.

Well, the moment of truth arrived. A moment I have played and replayed in my mind for years.... probably more years than I realize. Arriving home, I unpacked a number of nondescript white Styrofoam containers, popping the lid on each to identify the contents. The last one I extracted from the bag, by process of elimination, was my shakshuka.

Holy shit! LOOK AT IT! LOOK AT IT!!!!! Sure, this picture doesn't it do it justice. But you are lucky to get a picture at all! It sure didn't last long! There were four little poached eggs enveloped in a delicious mixture of sweet tomato sauce, spiked with spicy peppers and a blend of piquant spices bringing an amount of zesty heat that I savored. It was delicious! I mean really delicious and well worth the wait! I could have eaten twice... maybe three times... the amount I was given. Was it worth the fifteen bucks? Um... well it was well worth the wait. Isn't that enough?

Will I order it again? Maybe I'll try again to convince Mrs. P to make another attempt. We still have those cans of tomato paste and the expiration date is still a few years away.

Hit it, Kate....

www.joshpincusiscrying.com