Most Memorable Meals
Polley and I were driving home the other day, when one of our favorite DJ’s shared some trivia involving fast food. His claim was that a fast food chain featuring Mexican food produced the first crisp taco. Polley’s reaction was swift and forceful. “I know that is not true. In the early sixties my family stopped in a small café in Colorado Springs which served free nachos and cheese, and we ordered tacos and they were crisp tacos. The walls were decorated with paintings of tall cactus, and the pork filling of the tacos was delicious.” I never argue with her about restaurants and meals we shared. Her memory in this regard is far superior to mine. On the other hand, when it comes to memories, I usually wrap them in failures and successes in fly fishing. I have a hard time recalling what I had for breakfast this morning, but I can tell you that in early July 2004 at the Big Bend underneath an overhanging aspen tree 300 yards below Hamilton, Montana, I caught an 18 inch brown trout on an olive streamer. Or in 2006 3 miles above Milner Pass on the Cache La Poudre River in Colorado in a Lodge Pole Pine tree I lost one of my favorite flies, a Missing Link Caddisfly pattern. I bet it is still there, and I know that if I return I can find the tree and attempt, again, to retrieve the fly. Polley is not nearly as good at remembering this important stuff.
Funny how memory works. Years ago I read an article about anthropology and the way females and males give directions. The author was suggesting that in early humankind, women were basically gatherers, their directions were placed-oriented. “To get to the stream go down to the berry patch look for the big cactus. At the big cactus go downhill to the big black rock–there is the stream.” I do not know if this is true or not, but I have heard women say, “Drive to the first gas station on your left, across from the mall, make a right, and by the Schultz bakery make another right, and next to the police station is the body shop you want.” According to the article, men, searching for and following herds of game, give directions differently. My personal opinion is that early males not only hunted for food, but went on these trips to escape child rearing responsibilities. “Me no can watch little Fred. Must join other men to hunt mastodon. Be back maybe seven moons.” If one asked Big Fred how to locate a herd of wildebeest, he might say, “Go north for two days, follow canyon wall till feet tire. Go south along river till you see herd.” I tend to give directions this way. “Drive about five miles north on highway 95, get off at the Barclay exit, make a right, go down a half mile, and on your left is the peanut factory.” I don’t know if the premise of the article is accurate, but it is fun to consider.
What I do know is that Polley and I have our memories peppered with culinary high points and low points. “When did we last see Aunt Marge?” I might ask. “It was the time we stopped for lunch at that small Italian restaurant and had that delicious Caprese salad with the smoked mozzarella.”
Our earliest recalls of our relationship are notched by famous…..and infamous…..meals. When we were graduate students at Indiana U. (Go Hoosiers!) driving back from a visit to a friend in Kentucky, we stopped at a roadside eatery. We were both very hungry. Scanning the menu, Polley decided, “I am going to get the fried chicken platter. I love fried chicken.” That sounded good to me. “Me, too. I’ll order that as well.”
Polley peered over her menu. “Sweetie, that might not be enough for you. Get the chicken dinner. Peas, mashed potatoes and chicken. I know you are hungry. Get that.” There was a three dollar difference, and we were surviving on a student’s tight budget. “No, I’ll get the fried chicken platter.” “Honey,” the voice of Eve insisted, “the platter only has maybe two or three pieces. Get the dinner.” The picture of the fried chicken platter made my mouth water, but I was hungry. “Okay. I’ll spring for the dinner.”
When our orders arrived, Polley’s plate was piled high with engaging aromatic fried chicken—wings, drumsticks and thighs. My dish had a mound of mashed potatoes, a pile of green peas, and two skinny slivers of boiled chicken, barely a forkful which I ate in one bite. Polley laughed as she apologized. “Sorry I talked you into that one.”
A few years later on our honeymoon in Montreal, we discovered that French Onion Soup could be delicious and dangerous. I wanted to treat my new bride to a classy and memorable meal. I could sense that she was getting tired of the A&W menu. I was successful. St. La Mere Michel was an upscale, richly decorated (and richly priced!) classical French restaurant where the waiters spoke only French and the interior was decorated in rococo or late Baroque ornamentation and the clientele dressed in suits and evening gowns. We ordered French Onion soup. In a few minutes the sounds of clinking crystal goblets and Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, and the hushed patter of French was accompanying by my new bride’s gagging on a glob of melted cheese that withstood slithering down her esophagus. The sounds of St. La Mere Michel stopped as Polley finally gained control of that blob. Ever since I consider the danger factor when ordering any dish.
One non-dangerous but curious eating engagement occurred on a trip back from St. Louis visiting inlaws. The ride back in the hot July sun was especially tiring, the sun glare wearing down the eyesight which is pretty important to driving. Zanesville, Ohio had four motels, all of which were full. Exhausted we pushed on into West Virginia and found a room. The establishment also had a restaurant, and, far more importantly to me, a bar. At that moment of my life history all I wanted was a drink, a little something to munch on, and a pillow…in that order. The hostess guided Polley and me to a nice table in the air conditioned dining room, and Polley ordered her usual glass of Sauvignon Blanc. I knew what I wanted five hundred miles earlier.
“A Gibson, please.”
Our waitress’ face twisted into a visage of puzzlement. “I’ll go ask the bartender.” For those of you who still have a shrine to Carrie Nation on your front porch, a Gibson is a dry martini (six to one) with a cocktail onion instead of an olive.
Our waitress returned. “Sir, the bartender says he does not know what a Gibson is…but he heard of it in bartending school.”
I was hoping he graduated. “Sure, a Gibson is a dry martini, six parts gin to one part dry vermouth with an onion instead of an olive.’
Our young waitress’ face broke into a very pretty smile. “Okay. I’ll be right back.”
Several minutes later, she walked toward us holding a martini cocktail glass. Behind her in the partially opened doorway to the kitchen, were three heads, one atop the other, like a Mo, Larry and Curly movie. The bartender and his associates were awaiting my reaction to their concoction.
The waitress placed in front of me my drink. Floating like seaweed among the incoming tide was a slice of onion, skin still on. I looked at my cocktail, at the suspense-filled heads, and at the waitress. Hell, when you get the opportunity to make someone happy, you should jump at it. I lifted the cocktail, watching the quarter-of-an-onion slosh back and forth, and extended my arm in salute toward the stacked heads. I took a sip. I smiled and nodded. Four faces broke into huge smiles. It had been a long day.
There are good memories as well. We might return to Carbondale, Colorado and the Red Rock Diner just so we can enjoy the double decker hamburger which included a soft taco and its filling. That would be fine with me, because nearby is the Frying Pan River where I caught a twenty inch rainbow trout just two miles east of Basalt on an Elk Hair Caddis fly.
This habit of recording our common history is basically a good thing, but sometimes we are trapped by our historical habits. For example, Polley possesses an almost religious avoidance of having any food delivered to our door—whether the door is at home or on the road. We could be in the middle of a blinding blizzard where the drive to the restaurant for a pickup meal is fraught with hazards, and she will insist on making the drive instead of having it delivered. I do not know why this is, but I am working on it. I figure she still owes me for that chicken “dinner” she talked me into. But rethinking the whole memory thing, it is not so much the experience, the meal or the fish caught that frames the memory. It is the person I shared it with. And that fact makes it memorable.