baking potatoes, baking in the sun

...and now, a few words about potatoes. 

Who doesn't love potatoes? Kids, adults, everyone loves potatoes. Although technically a vegetable, potatoes are separated in a category all to themselves. On restaurant menus, dinner entrees are noted to be accompanied by potato and vegetable. Potatoes stand alone, while all the other vegetables are lumped together. Similar to steak, you have you choice as to how you'd like your potato prepared — baked? twice baked? French-fried? mashed? You don't get that option with other vegetables. "You'd like your potato baked with butter, sour cream and chives? Very good, sir. And your carrots? Fuck it! You get 'em on a fucking plate!" That's right. Artichokes may be classy, but they are in the same category as lowly peas.

Potatoes were first grown and cultivated in Peru for thousands of years. They were brought to Ireland by Sir Walter Raleigh from a South American exploration in 1599. They didn't make it to the rest of Europe for another forty years and even then, they weren't particularly popular. In the early 1600s, the Governor of the Bahamas sent a gift package featuring potatoes to President Thomas Jefferson as a gesture of goodwill. Jefferson served them at the White House, giving them aristocratic cred. The influx of Irish immigrants to the United States strengthened their popularity among the common citizens and working class. 

Potatoes are part of our being, our culture. If Forrest Gump's friend Bubba decided to use potatoes as the main commodity of his proposed restaurant, he could have offered more varied cooking methods than he imagined for shrimp. Fried, boiled, baked, mashed, au gratin, hash browned, cottage fries, curly fries.... you get it. Potatoes are so revered, for goodness sakes, they are mentioned — by name — in a common idiom. "Meat and potatoes" means "of fundamental importance." While the "meat" is undetermined and unimportant, the potatoes are specific and not to be confused with any other vegetable. "Meat and broccoli" doesn't have that same strong, basic inflection. Neither does "meat and string beans."

In the 1950s, potatoes got into the lucrative toy market with the introduction of Mr. Potato Head. Hasbro marketed the popular toy to children, using the potato as the exclusive vessel on which the plastic-pronged eyes, feet and other molded body parts were applied. It wasn't until almost a decade later that other vegetables (and bandwagon-jumping fruits) muscled in on the celebrated tuber's rightful territory. Mr. Potato Head himself still remained popular. It was the first toy marketed with television commercials. Later, it received a co-starring role in the Toy Story film franchise, even appearing as a major character in the associated theme park attractions. Let's see zucchini make that claim.

Speaking of TV... although used in a derogatory manner, "Couch Potato" is a term for someone who just watches TV all day from the center of the sofa. I have been labeled a "Couch Potato" in my life and I really can't argue. But, once again, "potato" gets the call. Not "cabbage" or "beets" or any other vegetable. Potato! 

When I was a kid, I ate a lot of French fries. I ate a lot of mashed potatoes and I ate a lot of baked potatoes. Funny thing, though. I, like most kids, never ate the skin of my baked potatoes once the fluffy, buttery insides had been scooped out and consumed. I'd scrape the insides of the baked spuds until the skin was nearly transparent, but I wouldn't dare eat it. My mom ate the skin and always tried to convince me how "delicious" it was and how "all the vitamins" were in the skin... like I gave a shit about vitamins. If I wanted more vitamins, I'd just pop a couple more chalky-tasting Fred and Barney shaped tablets from the jar in the bathroom medicine cabinet. In the 70s, restaurants started including "Potato Skins" in the "Appetizer" sections of their menus. Essentially, they were the part of the potato I didn't eat, but loaded with cheese and bacon bits and sour cream. Before becoming a featured trendy menu item, these things were discarded once the white part of the potato was separated and mashed. Every cozy bistro-style restaurant served potato skins to, apparently, huge profits. After all, feeding customers something that was just a few steps away from being tossed in the garbage.

A more recent trend for potatoes, initially triggered by the then-popular film Napoleon Dynamite, is tater tots. In a similar fashion as potato skins, tater tots began appearing on the menus of bars and restaurants. Once only available in elementary school lunch rooms, tater tots (or just "tots") were now offered with a variety of innovative toppings, making them "cool," but they were still potatoes. 

Soon, baked potato stores started popping up in mall food courts. Offering a variety of toppings (like their spuddy cousins, the tots), these eateries were like "make your own sundae" places, but for potatoes. They merely used potatoes as a vehicle to sell chili or Sloppy Joes with a potato instead of a bun. Nobody would dream of covering a hunk of cauliflower with chili and serving it to potential customers, but put that on a big, comforting potato and you got yourself a meal without question.

Of course, French fries are ridiculously popular. Every fast food establishment prides themselves on their French fries, each claiming to be the very best of the best! Who hasn't strolled a seaside boardwalk with a giant, grease-soaked container of French fries in one hand? French fries make an excellent between-meal snack or something to hold the kids over and keep them quiet while on a marathon road trip. After all, they're healthy... right? They're natural... right? They come from the good earth! Sure, they are deep fried in old, over-cooked, fat-laden oil, but.... I did mention that they are a vegetable, right? 

Potatoes are served at every meal. Hash browns (or home fries) at breakfast. Potato chips or French fries at lunch and baked or mashed potatoes at dinner. No one asks for Brussels sprouts with their eggs. Yeah, you can get onions and peppers mixed in with your home fries, but those potatoes have to be there first. Onions and peppers alone next to a stack of pancakes just won't fly.

Recently, my wife and I have been watching what we eat very carefully. We maintain a regular diet consisting of nearly the same dinner every night. That dinner usually includes a baked potato. At first, we made them in the microwave. They were good. Actually, they were just okay. Now, they are prepared in the actual oven, where they bake directly on the middle rack for over an hour. They come out hot and fluffy with a crispy skin. How do I know the skin is crispy? I am an adult now, so I eat it. I eat potatoes like they are apples — skin and all. And no one needs to cajole me with promises of "vitamins" and "deliciousness." I found that out on my own.

That's it. Just a few words of praise — and thanks — to our friend the potato. 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the french inhaler

After being stuck in the house for a full year, I seem to write only about food or television. Well, to be honest, that is pretty much all that goes on around here. I eat food and watch television. So, until I leave the house, get used to it. It's gonna be one or the other.

By the way, this one is about food.

I remember going with my mother to a McDonald's near my house to pick up dinner. It was usually a summer night when my mom didn't feel like cooking. My father — a simple guy who turned his nose up at "fancy food" — was just as happy to have a Big Mac and fries for dinner... just as long as it wasn't every night. He expected my mom to cook on most nights. Getting food from McDonald's every once in a while was okay, as long as my mother didn't make it a habit. Not that my mother was in fear of my father. She wasn't. It's just that in those days of the late 60s to early 70s, husbands expected to find their wives "slaving over a hot stove" when they came home from work. Lucky for my father, my mom actually enjoyed cooking. And his imagined status a "King of the Castle" remained in tact. On the days my mom wasn't motivated to cook, my father yielded to McDonald's as a gesture of his benevolence. My mom picking it up was — in his mind — him still running things with an iron fist. In reality, my mom didn't mind going. And she liked to drive.

One of the best parts about going to McDonald's with my mom was the extra order of fries she would get for drive home. She'd order a Big Mac for my dad, one hamburger each for her, my brother and me, along with an order of French fries for each of us. Then, she'd tack on a fifth order of fries that we'd secretly share across the bench front seat of her big green Rambler. I'd steady the big bag of burgers and such on my lap and my mom would pull out a single order of fries and lay it on a paper napkin between us. We ate them all up by the time we pulled alongside the curb in front of our house. My dad and my brother were none the wiser that we had gotten a head start on dinner.

When Mrs. Pincus and I began dating, I was pleased to learn that I had found someone who shared my love of French fries. I worked at an ice cream parlor not too far from my future wife's apartment. On nights when I would work late (sometimes until one in the morning), I would stop at one of our favorite restaurants — Copa Banana on Philadelphia's storied South Street — and bring home a big order of their locally-famous Spanish fries for the two of us to share as a bedtime snack. (Sometimes, I'd even wake her up.) Copa's Spanish fries were standard thin-cut French fries smothered in grilled onions and jalapeño peppers... and boy! were they good! Since bringing home an order of Spanish fries became a regular practice, I started bring two orders because I was accused of (and rightly so) scarfing down more than my fair share of the fries from a single order. To this day, I still have a difficult understanding of the concept of "sharing."

In the last several years (before a worldwide pandemic brought the industry to a grinding halt), Mrs. P and I had taken a number of cruises. Along with the trivia games, the campy stage shows and the obligatory reggae cover bands, one of the things we really enjoyed about cruising was the obscene amounts of food that was available 24 hours per day. Throughout the day, ridiculous quantities of food were presented buffet-style and we took full advantage of it. I believe we started a tradition on our very first cruise of grabbing a soup bowl full of French fries before making our way to our next scheduled activity. The fries at the ship's buffet were nothing special — probably frozen, then dropped into a constantly-operating deep fryer as needed. But, they were our comfort food and they were included in the cost of the cruise. And as we all know, the goal of any patron of a buffet is to put that place out of business. Sure, it never happens, but we all give it our darndest effort. Plus, they sure were comforting.

On more recent cruises on the Carnival line, we were treated to TV celebrity chef Guy Fieri's take on French fries, as most Carnival ships are outfitted with a Guy's Burger Joint, adjacent to the top deck pool. While we did not partake of the hamburger offerings (to be honest, they are pretty disgusting-looking heaps of sizzling grease), the French fries were pretty good. They were the "skin-on" variety that may or may not be fresh-cut on board. There were massive sacks of potatoes surrounding the open-air counter-service eatery, but they might have just been for show. Nevertheless, a plateful of fries can be dressed to your liking at the nearby condiments bar, that offers grilled onions, mushrooms, peppers and a slew of squeeze-on sauces including Guy's patented "Donkey Sauce"... whatever the fuck that is. On many a cruise, I have assembled (and subsequently wolfed down) my own version of Copa's Spanish fries. Curiously, Mrs. P, who at one time fought me for an equal share of those Catalan spuds, opts for the regular fries from the buffet. I think she just doesn't like Guy Fieri. Can't say that I blame her.

Two years ago, Mrs. P and I decided to stop eating like ten-year-olds at a birthday party and start eating like thoughtful, responsible adults. We have each eaten a large salad topped with salmon and a baked potato as our dinners for going on two years now. We have supplemented our diet by walking daily. We have both lost weight and feel better as a result. But we have also cut a lot of our favorite foods out of our diet altogether — including our beloved French fries. But, a month or so ago, Mrs. Pincus purchased an air fryer. Immediately we began experimenting with different foods and temperature settings. First, Mrs. P made potato latkes (pancakes) and they were a drippy, runny mess (although they tasted good). After a little more trial-and-error, she made dried apples and bananas. She made "fried" eggplant and mushrooms and peppers.  But, just this week, our old friends French fries made a return appearance at the Pincus household. Our usual nightly baked potato was instead sliced into wedges, sprayed with a light coating of calorie-less olive oil and popped in the marvelous air fryer for twenty or so minutes. Out came a bounty of crispy, crunchy pieces that satisfied our long unfulfilled craving for French fries. Heck, we even had to buy a bottle of ketchup for the first time in two years. They were so good, we had them again the next night and the next as well. Last night, we put a couple of sweet potatoes through the same process. They were delicious, too.

Who would have imaged that the humble French fry would play such a unifying part in my life? Where would I be without them?

Okay... now on to television.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

big bottom

All this and candles, too.

After seeing countless commercials for the casual dining chain restaurant Red Robin (yummmmm!), Mrs. Pincus and I got the opportunity to dine at one of their 538 locations on our most recent trip to Virginia Beach. Earlier in the day, Mrs. P's cousin Juniper chauffeured us around nearby Williamsburg with our actual destinations being several local wineries. The penultimate stop on our whirlwind tour of the historic city (of which we saw no sites of any historic significance) was a Yankee Candle® store of theme-park proportions. (Oh, you read that right! It's an enormous building that resembles a hotel, jam-packed with display after fragrant display of the stout, glass-potted, wax-'n-wick beauties. The multi-room complex is supplemented with cookware, handbags, candy and other unrelated, non-candle items — just to fill the place out.)

We'll meet 'neath that giant Red Robin sign
that brings this fair city light.

As the sun set and our thoughts turned to dinner options, we surveyed the landscape. I am convinced that the geographic area known as the Eastern Shore of Virginia has more fast food and chain restaurants per square foot than any other place on earth. Along both sides of Interstate 64, some of America's favorite restaurants can be spotted. National heavyweight advertisers like Outback Steakhouse, Carraba's Italian Grill, Olive Garden, TGI Friday's and hundreds of Starbucks, along with regional entries like Smokey Griddle Pancake House and Southern Pancake & Waffle House (the South sure loves them some pancakes!) were among the wide array of evening meal choices. Juniper suggested Red Robin (yummmmm!) and said there was one just ahead. I checked the GPS on my phone and — sure enough — 100 or so feet ahead, in a shopping center that looked just like a dozen shopping centers we already passed, was a Red Robin (yummmmm!), its channel-lettered logo glowing bright red, reflecting off the adjacent Dick's Sporting Goods. We found a parking spot, then entered the restaurant. We joined a fairly large group of hungry patrons, all gripping now-silent pagers, poised for a vibrating explosion of LED lights informing the holder that seating and menus were mere moments away. 

Objects may appear larger
in our commercials.

Soon, our pager's lights began blinking and a young lady in a popped collar, logoed polo shirt led us through a maze of booths and bistro tables to a semi-circular booth in the far corner of a room that boasted three gigantic screen televisions as its main decor. We all slid awkwardly into our booth and perused the menu. Now, I'll be the first one to admit that my silly, self-imposed dietary restrictions severely limits my choices in most restaurants, but, rest assured, I can always find something to eat on nearly every menu. And Red Robin (yummmmm!) would be no exception. I settled on the vegetarian-friendly version of their signature Banzai burger, piled high with grilled pineapple, cheddar cheese and a thick teriyaki sauce, in addition to lettuce and mayo. This, as are all entrees, was accompanied by the highly-touted "bottomless" fries. Oh yeah! The centerpiece of Red Robin's (yummmmm!) advertising is their promise of an endless supply of generously-cut steak fries, always available and always plentiful, even long after you've gobbled up the last of your burger. The implication was that fries could continue to be delivered through dessert and coffee, as long as the customer desired.

Really? REALLY??

We ordered. When our meals arrived, I scrutinized the tiny chrome-plated cup that stood in the shadow of my burger in the corner of my plate. Eight, maybe nine, broad steak fries stood upended in the confines of the scant metal container. I thought about the images I had seen in Red Robin's (yummmmm!) effective advertising campaign. Visions of fresh-cut potatoes, mounds of golden-brown fries fanned out and overflowing from the blond-wood cutting board — far, far too many for one person to consume, but readily available for the taking. The puny cupful of fries next to my burger? Damn! I could down them in one, fairly effortless gulp. Between bites of my burger (which, I will admit, was pretty good) I finished my fries. I looked around the bustling eatery for our server, but he was nowhere to be found. (In all fairness, the servers — with their gelled-up hair and shirt collars standing at attention — all resembled one another.) I finally picked out our guy (Chip or Dave or Bruce or something) and requested another round of fries. Chip (or whoever) winked and shot me a "thumbs up" sign, then disappeared into the crowd. A few minutes went by. Then a few more. Then a few more. I slurped at my water glass and poked around at the crumbs and sauce remnants on my mostly-empty plate. Juniper and Mrs. P, both normal-paced eaters (I am a particularly fast eater), were still enjoying their dinner. Each still had plenty of fries left in their initial order. I was craning my neck and diligently scanning the place for a sign of our server and my second round of supposedly "bottomless" fries. More and more time passed before Chip finally arrived to place a plate of fries before me. There were approximately twice the amount of my first order, this time arranged on a plate instead of in a little cup. I tried my very best to leisurely devour the fries, but I could not. My lightning-fast eating habits, coupled with my lack of patience, had me wolfing down this supplemental portion in record time. Of course, I wanted more. After all, they — not me — made the "bottomless" offer first. But, now I was wise to their game. They were a bunch of "fry-teasers," weren't they?!? Those potato-tempting bastards! They were worse than drug dealers! They get you hooked, then they take their sweet time bringing out more, forcing you to be too embarrassed to order a third round, daring you to risk eating them while the custodial staff is mopping the floor and stacking the chairs on the tables.

I reminded my wife of the time we went to an all-you-can eat Dim Sum night at a Philadelphia Chinese restaurant. We ordered the special and our waiter brought out a considerable selection of vegetarian dim sum (traditional Chinese food served in bite-size portions). We ate the first round and ordered more. Round number two was equally as tasty, but half the amount was offered. The third round was brought to us on two small saucers, a size usually reserved for a tea cup or after-dinner mints. The fourth round was the check. It was determined for us that we had had all we could eat. It seems that Red Robin (yummmmm!) had taken a page from that Chinese restaurant's playbook.

I don't think I will go out of my way to find a Red Robin (yummmmm!) closer to home. The bottomless fries may not have a bottom, but they sure have a catch.

(yummmmm!)

www.joshpincusiscrying.com