W3: The Dark Side of The Grill

For a period of roughly two years, off and on, my brother and I worked alongside each other at Steak and Shake. When I began my fledgling career at the age of sixteen, I saw little of my elder brother at the restaurant—as a seasoned member of the fast food community, his insider connections allowed him access to the coveted, higher-paying nighttime shift from midnight to eight in the morning. Only after a month or so of working did I finally share my first daytime shift with my brother—it and subsequent shifts with him were painful moments of bitter disillusionment.

Seeing that I had some difficulty increasing my efficiency on the grill, my brother took it upon himself to share with me some of his secret techniques. I watched in horror as the production of grilled cheese, a stubborn and time-consuming item, was streamlined by placing two slices of cheese directly onto a greasy grill for several seconds and then scraped onto unbuttered pieces of toast. I wept as our pre-cooked pepperjack bacon was made crispy not on a grill, but in a microwave. Perhaps most alarming to me was my brother’s refusal to follow protocol by lightly toasting each bun on the grill before plating a sandwich, considering it to be a “waste of energy.” Watching my sibling destroy my preconceptions of him as a cook with integrity brought me back to the first time I watched him play soccer in high school: expecting him to be an assertive confident player, I was disappointed to see him leave the bench late into the game, only to inadequately chase after opposing players like a timid child.

I do not, however, mean to imply that all of my brother’s actions at Steak and Shake were driven by The Dark Side. During his tour of duty at the restaurant, he created—and shared with me—a number of original, unauthorized concoctions that the two of us provided to friends as a part of our secret menu. Many originals came and went over the years, but there were a number of standouts that survived the test of time: Pasta A La Troy, the Strawberry Cheesecake Shake, the Cold Cut Steakburger, and the Jill special—a chicken sandwich with guacamole and Fritos, created for and named after our favorite night shift waitress.

My brother’s magnum opus was, without a doubt, his Fiesta Fries. To prepare the dish, hot chili was poured on top of a plate freshly prepared French fries, and then topped with shreds of spicy pepperjack bacon, jalapenos, and nacho cheese. The fries were then covered with a layer of pepperjack cheese and heated further in the microwave to give them a gooey outer layer. A second sprinkle of bacon bits and pico de gallo topped of the fries—I liked to eat them with a side of guacamole. Special consideration had to be given to the fries—if they were too crispy they would distract from the delicate flavors of the added topping and if they were too limp they would need to be eaten with a spork. There was some disagreement between us when it came to the quality of pre-fiestafication Steak and Shake fries; I considered them to be just right, while my brother felt they were too thin and under-salted. Regardless, we could both agree that the final product was an orgasmic, mouth-watering piece of fast food artistry that allowed taste buds to briefly taste the Sublime and managed to wash away my bitter tears of disappointment in a sea of spicy chipotle sauce.

W2: Pawpaws [And Potatoes Olé]

“At least you were able to experience Taco John’s.” said my brother in the tone of a guilty child. True, it was partly my fault that we ended up in the horrific establishment, but fury visibly seeped through my flesh much like the grease of my mini hash browns seeped through my napkin. The tiny deep-fried potato circles are the pride of Taco John’s: Potatoes Olé. They are pathetic and revolting, just like me.

Earlier, the two of us had set out for the Pawpaw Festival, prepared to arrive just in time for Pawpaw 101. We had on hand a set of directions from Google Maps scrawled in shorthand by my printer-less brother, who agreed to provide me with transportation to the festival on the condition that I buy him a meal afterward. Suffice it to say, things did not go as planned. After getting off of US-50 and onto US-33—diligently following my brother’s dubious directions like the fools that we were/are—we eagerly searched for an “East Bentbrook Drive” that would supposedly carry us straight to Lake Snowden. We never discovered the mythical road, but did learn that once taken far enough, Route 33 is essentially a nightmarish racetrack into the hell that is Meigs County. Although we realized soon enough that we were headed in a hopeless direction, there were no roads to turn off on until 681 popped up out of nowhere. We were led through some quaint country scenery, admired a lovely sign advertising “SLABS” and eventually found ourselves in Albany. Sadly, we were far too late to attend Pawpaw 101.

Feeling jaded and without purpose, the two of us spent little time at the festival. After briefly loitering about, we grabbed a pawpaw and made a hasty exit. Once in the privacy of our vehicle, we set to work: A Swiss army knife was used to saw through the skin of the fruit, seeds were discarded, and two young men who once had dignity dug into their pawpaw halves with their fingers. The pawpaw has a texture quite similar to that of a banana, which makes clawing it with your fingers fairly easy, but also intensely embarrassing. The flavor of the pawpaw brought bananas to mind as well, but it was, to my surprise, considerably sweeter. The night before, to prep myself for the festival, I ordered a cinnamon and sugar-covered pumpkin and pawpaw pastry.Based on the experience, I would have suggested that the pawpaw fruit tasted remarkably similar to pumpkin and cinnamon.

As a man of my word, I entertained my dear brother’s desire to go to Taco John’s, despite his lackluster performance as a chauffeur.If you’re unfamiliar with the restaurant, as I once was, it is essentially Taco Bell with hash browns and insulting prices. It’s not that I hate the idea of Taco John’s—apparently “West-Mex” represented by tacos and potatoes—but in practice, the combination does not work for me. Potatoes Olé are presented to you in a bucket so that your likely already dwindling self-respect can be crushed further. They were even considerately inserted into my burrito, so that I could better appreciate their greasy, potatoesque flavor inside instantly recognizable, slimy meat ooze—an ooze that I will defend, as long as it costs me little over a dollar at Taco Bell. Despite being filled to the brim with ice, my sweet tea was warm. It failed to compliment the subtle flavors of my meat and potato burrito.

After jiving to musical classics like “Whoomp! (There it is)” and “It Wasn’t Me” we grabbed two churros and went on our way.While biting into his (admittedly delicious) sugar stick on the way out to our car, my brother turned to me and said, “What Athens really needs is a festival for is churros.”

“I hate you.” I whispered under my breath. “I have always hated you.”

W1: My shame.

As a product of two parents with little available time for preparing meals and even less available knowledge regarding how to prepare them, I typically relish food of any kind. I cannot recall any childhood dishes that force me to recoil in nostalgic pain. I can, however, remember years of shame brought on by one of my darkest vices: canned, stinky fish. From popularly accepted canned tuna and salmon to infamous choices like sardines and anchovies, I love them all.

As a child, I found traditional lunch meats like bologna and turkey boring and lacking in flavor, pungent or otherwise. I found that a serving of chunky tuna with mayonnaise and a slice of tomato, however, provided a unique, mild flavor and a sensual fishy odor that made my nostrils dance. I was amazed by how intense and savory anchovies could make a pizza. I also appreciated the way sardines canned in mustard or hot sauce saved me the trouble of adding a condiment and admired their potential practicality as non-perishable staples when preparing for a nuclear winter.

I found, however, that a genuine appreciation of smelly fish—even middle-of-the-road options like tuna—aroused levels of suspicion and deep-seated resentment comparable only to that of McCarthy era whistle blowers. Claims to “like the taste” or “not mind the smell” seemed to provide an insufficient argument for daring to consume anything out of a tin. Fellow students made jabs at my post-lunchtime breath. Adults thought my taste for fish was an affectation or a desperate bid for attention. After requesting anchovies on my allotted quarter of our family pizza at a restaurant, waitresses would inevitably raise their eyebrows and glance at my parents as if to ask, “Did you hear what your son just said? Does he kiss his grandmother with that mouth?”

Despite my trials, I never ended my affair with canned fish. At one point I became eligible for my school’s free lunch program, and even then I would trade my meals for a friend’s daily ration of tuna salad and crackers. The two of us came to value our unique lunchtime transactions and maintained a long, healthy business relationship. Still, underneath my companion’s fair dealing and begrudging friendliness, I suspected that he, too, recognized me as a canned fish sympathizer not to be trusted. I knew that, like the North Pole-patterned Beach Cliff lighthouse, I would stand alone, forever, on the shores of Sardine Isle.

"...and if you gaze into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you."

photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/cattle_class/