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

I know what I like

When I was a kid, going out to a restaurant was not that big of a deal because my family did it a lot. I'm not talking about an extravagant, fancy place that required my dad to wear a tie and my mom to call ahead and make a reservation. My family most frequently ate at the Heritage Diner, an unassuming establishment just outside the confines of my Northeast Philadelphia neighborhood. My father — a staunch traditionalist, very set in his ways — ate breakfast there most mornings and it was always the same. So much so, that the waitresses knew what to bring without even taking an order. Two scrambled eggs, toast and coffee. Never — I repeat never! — would his breakfast platter ever include "home fries," as the sight of potatoes in the morning made my father nauseous. Fifteen cigarettes before 7 AM were just fine, but potatoes.....

Besides my father's solo, potato-less breakfasts, my family would often have our dinner at the Heritage Diner. The Heritage had standard diner fare — a menu the size of a small novel and a two-sided, typewritten page of "Daily Dinner Specials" that included soup or salad, choice two vegetables, bread and butter, a beverage and a limited selection of desserts — all for one low price. (Or so I imagined. The price of dinner didn't matter to me. I was a kid, after all. My dad was picking up the check.)

Eating at The Heritage during the week, the unspoken rule was to order a hamburger or a tuna sandwich or maybe an omelette. The "Daily Dinner Specials" were reserved for weekends, specifically Sunday. We had Sunday dinners at The Heritage probably twice a month. Those were the times when we were permitted to order off the "Daily Dinner Specials" menu. I would scan the two sides of that poorly typed sheet, reading each and every entry — even the ones I had no intention of ever ordering... which was most of them. I was always intrigued when my mom — after reading those enticing offerings — would tell the waitress that she would like liver. In my little mind, I would think to myself: You can have anything you want! Why would you order liver in a restaurant? That's like punishment! Once, I actually asked my mom why she always gets liver. She smiled and explained that she loves liver, but no one else in the family does (not even my dad — who was a butcher by trade). So restaurants presented the only opportunity she had to get liver. And she didn't have to cook it! Made perfect sense — even if the end result was a plate of liver.

I, however, usually ordered one of two entrees — alternating on alternate Sundays. Sometimes I would get roasted turkey because it reminded me of Thanksgiving. It came with a salad, which I would automatically slide over to my mom just as the waitress set the plate in front of me. It also included a baked potato, which I would eat (except for the skin) and (at my mother's insistence) string beans, which I would stare at. Alongside the mound of sliced turkey drenched in that unnaturally-yellow gravy, was a small souffle cup containing a dollop of cranberry sauce, which I also never ate. My other "go to" dinner was fried flounder, which was essentially a giant fish stick. It, too, came with a second salad for my mother, a serving of French fries and a liquidy bowl of cole slaw which I stared at like it was a bowl of string beans. One time, I think I may have asked for, as my two side orders, French fries and a baked potato.

For me?

The choices of available vegetables that the Heritage offered to accompany their "Daily Dinner Specials" read like "Nixon's Hit List," if it was compiled by an eight-year old. String beans, broccoli, a mixture of broccoli and cauliflower, peas, carrots, a mixture of peas and carrots, a mixture of peas, carrots and string beans, apple sauce, creamed spinach, French fries or a baked potato. This was food for old people. I suppose that was the target audience for the "Daily Dinner Specials." I guess whoever decided what would go on the "Daily Dinner Specials" each day presumed that any children along for the ride would order from the special children's menu (with its entrees whimsically-named in honor of cartoon characters and storybook heroes, presented along with a 6-pack of crayons and a ready-to-be-colored place mat). They knew darn well that no kid was asking Mom if it was okay to order creamed spinach.

But a funny thing happened. I grew up. And I grew up to surprise myself.

Lately, I found myself actually ordering broccoli in a restaurant. Broccoli! Me! Little Josh Pincus! Imagine! I have done this more than once, too. I have ordered peas and carrots. I have ordered cole slaw. I have even ordered string beans and eaten them. I honestly can't believe that so many foods I shunned as a child have become some of my favorites. I don't even pick the lettuce off of my (veggie) burger! Me! And I'll eat the skin from a baked potato. My mom was right! It is the best part.

I became a vegetarian in 2006. (Not a vegan, a vegetarian. If I was a vegan, you'd know it. Every blog post would be about me being a vegan.) Since then, I have eaten more vegetables than I ever had in my entire life. I've even become more adventurous, venturing out into the world of succotash, asparagus, Brussels sprouts, Harvard beets, artichokes.... and enjoying every one of them. Okay, maybe not Brussels sprouts so much. Because I am a vegetarian, I won't order liver in a restaurant, but, I no longer pass the salad off to someone else.

My mom would be proud.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

tell me what you want, what you really really want

Nearly ten years ago, I became a vegetarian. Not because I have any great love for animals (I don't), or any commitment to healthy eating (I don't). I actually have one of the dumbest reasons for becoming a vegetarian: my favorite meat-serving restaurant closed. I pride myself on being true to my word and keeping promises — even promises to myself. I once said if that restaurant ever closed, I would become a vegetarian. Of course, I never expected them to close. When I made that proclamation, they were a thriving operation and had been in business for over fifty years. But, they did indeed close. (You can read the entire stupid account here.) In the meantime, I haven't eaten meat since 2006 and I seem to be doing just fine.

It's everyone else that seems to have a problem.

Sometimes in restaurants, if I ask a waitresses if certain menu items contain meat, I have received replies like: "Well, it's cooked with meat, but we strain it out before it's served." or "It's got a little bit of meat in it" — as though "a little bit" is okay. If you eat a little bit of strychnine, it's still gonna kill you.

I have had people apologize to me for talking about meat meals they have eaten. "We ate at that Brazilian steakhouse last night. Oh, I'm sorry. I know you don't eat meat." I'm not offended by meat. I acknowledge the existence of meat. For goodness sake, my father was a butcher! I don't have a dog, but you can talk about dog food, if you like. I don't eat that either. Hell, you can talk about cauliflower, too. As a vegetarian, I know I'm probably required to eat cauliflower, but I don't like it. But I'm not offended by it.

I'm not militant or angry or demanding about being a vegetarian. I don't require that my eating habits be accommodated. I realize it is my choice to be a vegetarian and I don't want to make it your problem. I can usually find something to eat at a restaurant or at a party. Potato chips, salad, pickles, bread. And if I can't find anything, I'll refrain and I'll eat something when I get home. I don't want to inconvenience anyone or have anyone put themselves out on my account. If a host does make special preparations on my behalf, I will express my gratitude and appreciation for the extra — albeit unnecessary — effort.

However, sometimes, telling someone "I'm a vegetarian," I get a look like I have six heads. Just this past week, my employer offered its annual office holiday lunch for its employees. A caterer is contracted and, on the designated day, a full, lunchtime spread is set out in our office in a large conference area. A menu is distributed prior to the event and it usually includes at least one vegetarian friendly entree, usually there is plenty for us non-meat eaters. So, around noon, a co-worker (a fellow vegetarian) and I set out for the 38th floor to check out this year's offerings. We grabbed a disposable plate and plastic utensil and queued up for lunch. One of the servers on the other side of the table, a young lady, grabbed a large serving spoon and removed the big silver lid from the first chafing dish. When the huge steam cloud dissipated, it revealed a trough-load of penne pasta covered in a light red sauce.

I spoke up. "Which items don't have meat?," I asked with a smile. She pointed at the pasta with her spoon and barked, "This don't." I extended my plate and she deposited a golfball-sized serving of pasta - approximately nine noodles. I kept my plate in its "please serve me some more" position and she shoved the spoon back into the pasta and replaced the lid. Then she turned to another young lady stationed further down the line, manning several more chafing dishes, and snarled "He don't want no meat.," cocking a thumb in my direction. Then she stared me down, defiantly, not attempting to offer me anything from the concealed meat dishes and certainly no more pasta. The next server dotted my plate with a small portion of mashed potatoes and four slices of grilled yellow squash. Not five. Four. 

Luckily, the salad was self-serve. I ate what I was given and didn't dare return for seconds, fearing another round of herbivore shaming.

It's not easy eating green. If only the carnivores could understand why.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

it's not easy being green

Yesterday, I emerged from the train station stairs at 16th Street and was handed two bottles of V8 Heathy Greens® by a young lady manning a large, gaily-decorated cooler. A swarm of my fellow commuters and fellow members of the Philadelphia workforce surrounded the young lady, all with eager hands extended. Obviously, most humans like free things. Pretty much anything, as long as it's free. Grab it while you can! Don't worry, there will be time later to give it a careful examination to determine if it is of any merit. If it's something of value, great! You just scored it at no cost. If not, it can always be tossed. No time wasted and no harm done. So, I grabbed a couple of the free, brightly-labels bottles and crossed the street to my office. Once at my desk, I fired up my computer, set the bottles aside and went to work.

I have been a vegetarian for nearly ten years (you can read that stupid story here). Over the past year, however, I took a good, hard look at my food intake. I cut out all forms of sweets — cookies, candy, ice cream, cake. I have made a conscious effort to include more fruits, vegetables and nuts in my regular diet. I began snacking on trail mix (without chocolate chips or M & M's) and banana chips instead of my usual Reese's Cups. I rarely drink soda, choosing to quench my thirst with flavored sparkling water. I have gotten more adventurous, actually eating string beans and broccoli and even the trendy kale — stuff I would have never previously touched in a zillion years. 

As the noon hour rolled around, I glanced away from my computer screen for a second and caught a glimpse of the two bottles V8 Heathy Greens® that I had shoved off to the side this morning when I sat down at my desk. I picked one of the bottles up and scanned the ingredients panel. It included such healthful ingredients as "yellow carrot juice, cucumber juice, celery juice, green bell pepper juice" and other vegetables that I was not aware has a single drop of juice in them. Less appetizing components of the product were "spinach water and romaine lettuce juice." To make the combination more palatable, it also contained apple juice and pineapple juice, two actual juices that I have had (and enjoyed)  before.

Green is the color
of my true love's juice.

I filled a cup with ice from our office's communal ice dispenser and returned to my desk. I popped the lid of one bottle and poured the contents over the ice. The opaque label had concealed the true color of the product. It was the color of some liquid that, if discovering it on your driveway, you'd be prompted to have your mechanic give your car a thorough inspection. Cautiously, I raised the cup to my lips and took a hesitant sip — probably too big a sip for something I was unsure about in the first place.

It tasted like old peas — cold, withered, left on a forgotten dinner plate in the sink.

I looked at the cup, now only partly filled with the dark green liquid. The more I looked at it, the more it resembled antifreeze. Old antifreeze.

I reread the ingredients, trying to identify the various vegetables by the aftertaste on my tongue. I couldn't pinpoint a single one. Instead, the full combination left my mouth with the flavor of a freshly-cut lawn. I wondered about a possible meeting of the Research and Development Department in the V8 Divison at Campbell's Soup (V8's parent company). "Hey," I imagined a food scientist declared, "I think I have the perfect combination!" As the other members of the team sampled the prototype, someone must have commented on the color and taste — only to have the criticism shot down by a supervisor. "No, no! It's fine! Who cares about the color of a drink anyway? Especially not the health nuts that are in our target demographic! Besides, Coca-Cola is the color of shit, and look how that stuff sells!"

I got up from my desk, walked to the sink near the office coffee machine and dumped the remaining V8 Heathy Greens® down the drain. I poured myself a cup of cleansing water and took a healthy swig.

Water is healthy, too.... right?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com