Photo Prose
by Gary Rabenko
I must admit, I am not happy with the title of this article. But the issue is not the title. The issue is food. My food. The food I put in my body. Is it my right to expect that when I order matzah ball soup, in a place with exquisitely delectable matzah balls and delicious broth, that both the broth and the ball be hot. That is how it was. Recently, the balls are cold. Or tepid. Certainly not hot. I like them hot! I ask for them to be hot. I point out to the one of several waitresses that they are always cold. Make sure they are hot, like they used to be.
They arrive cold!
Bagels, bialys, buns, and rolls. They are perfect –waiting and ready for my sandwich. First thing I explain – most important: Do NOT cut the sandwich. You got that? Sure, what you want on it? It doesn’t matter – tuna fish, salmon spread, lox, egg and cheese. Whatever is freshest. Just don’t cut the sandwich. OK. No problem. So I pay, take my lunch over to a table, start reading the paper, and next thing I know, half the sandwich has fallen from my grasp, severed as it had been by the clowns behind the counter. What part of do not cut did they not understand???
I was visiting my friend on her birthday. The beautiful warm weather had us stop for lunch on the avenue. We go back a long way, and she knows my tastes to a T. So she went inside to order. I alone occupied a sole solitary table outside and an equal number of customers she reported were inside. Three burly twenty-somethings, arrived shortly. They sat at the table to my left, having probably just come from a three-hour gym workout. Someone took their order and soon they were eating. Laura and I waited. Finally someone came out to find out which was our order. Which was our order?!? They only had three customers! Yes, we were the ones who wanted the burger made on the flatbed, not the grill, and wanted it on an unheated bun. Well that is how I wanted it. They advertised, custom burgers, and that is how I wanted mine. Is that so bad? Do I have a right to expect what I ask for?
The bun was scorched! More significantly, so was the burger. It had lines like from a grill. A young pleasant enough but clueless chap came out to determine the problem. Oh, I am sorry, he said, that is how we make the burgers; on the grill. But we asked, and were told specifically that it would be no problem. Well that was wrong information. The owner does not allow it. So what am I supposed to do now? We’d been waiting half an hour. The bun was toasted and the burger charred.
I am writing this, because one of the three guys to my left, hearing me ask incredulously why I would want to eat, or be expected to eat burnt food, chimed in, with the strongest of attitudes. He said I was rude. Rude? Are you kidding me? The place had no customers. I had been waiting for half an hour. They lost my order. Then filled it wrong. Most importantly, they managed to miss or ignore, the prime directive. Look, it is very simple. I have a right to control what I put in my body. I also should be able to expect simple agreements to be adhered to. Laura specifically asked if they can make the burgers on the flat bed… you know the one that eggs are made on…one continuous panel. Not the bars that singe and scorch. Yes, I understand that some people like the fat to drip down. Some people like that just so perfect burned, barbequed, or fired flavor. But not me. To me, those lines, are bitter. They taste bitter. I do not eat bitter, except on Pesach. I like the burger stewed on the grill, until it is nicely golden brown inside and out. Should I be ridiculed for my taste? I cannot be wrong. It is my body. And I am the customer.
I asked, they said OK, and then only after keeping me waiting with anticipation and baited breath, and delivering foul-flavored foods, did I find out that while they do have a grill, the owner has specific instructions, not to use the grill. So Laura went in to get a refund, and my friendly neighbors, said I disgusted them – was I a food critic they asked? Well, yes. I know what I like, and what I want to eat.
It turns out the custom burger place can use the flat bed. But the owner wants to discourage just how custom the various products are and so he has “strict” orders, not to use it for burgers. He uses it for steaks!
An artist has to have opinions. Hopefully they are opinions based on good judgment. Everyone has judgment, but only some have good judgment. My better judgment keeps me from smoking, or drinking. It also leads me away from molecules of burnt meat coinciding with the black lines from the grill.
Is it more rude to complain and bristle with impatience over a ruined lunch, than it is to deceive me into believing that my food would be prepared as agreed and then fail? Perhaps the article should be titled Chutzpah: False Foods.