January 30, 2015--Best of Behind: Osso Bucko

Here is another early Snowbirding story. This one from April 27, 2010. If these had subtitles, it might be called Dinner With Cousins--

If you’re looking for French food and happen upon Chez Provence, forget it.  Even a quick glance at the menu would reveal that, in spite of the place’s name, everything is Italian:  Veal Parmigiana, Chicken Parmigiana, Eggplant Parmigiana, Zitti Parmigiana, Penne Parmigiana, and Parmigiano Parmigiana.

With Parmigiano Parmigiana I am having a little fun.  But nothing else here is exaggerated. 

If you do not want something Parmigiana, there is Chicken Marsala, Chicken Picatta, Chicken Scarpiella, Chicken Marinara, and the same preparations in veal—Veal Marsala, Veal Picatta, etc.

And then there are the specials to give one hope.  Maybe there will be something lower-gluten, something Francophile, something almondine.  Trout peut-être?  But before you are able to get to the almondines section, the waitress appears to explain the pricing.

She tells you to ignore all the prices on the menu. 

“Come again?” I say.

“If you look closely you will see that everything is either $15.95 or $16.95.  And a few items say $2.00 extra.  But as I said, forget all of that.”

“You mean the listed prices?”  I was totally confused.

“Yes, those.  Except if tonight was Saturday.”

“Then the prices would be . . .?

“As they are listed.”  Our waitress was bright and beautiful and seemed to enjoy the give-and-take.  “But since today is Friday, I mean since tonight is Friday,” she broke into a broad smile, “everything is either $13.95 or $14.95.  Or if it was Monday through Thursday it would be the same.  $13.95 or $14.95.  What’s listed as $16.95 tonight is actually $15.95, and . . . ”

I interrupted her, “I get it.  And those dishes listed as $15.95 are $14.95.”

Glowing with delight she nodded, bouncing up and down.

“But what about the $2.00 extra? Is that different tonight as well? Say, $1.50?”

“Yes, it’s the same every night.”

“But what about the Mussels Marinara?  There’s no price listed next to them.  It just says ‘$2.00 extra.’”  I didn’t allow myself to point out that “Mussels” was misspelled.  On the menu it read
“Musscles.”  Sort of a hybrid mash-up spelling that combined the bivalves with the contractile tissue.

She said, “Oh, no one ever asked me about that before.  To tell you the truth, no one I waited on ever ordered them.  But I can find out for you if you want some.”

“No, thanks.  I was just asking.”  I didn’t mention that if no one had ordered them recently, in spite of them sounding French, I was not going to risk getting hepatitis by eating unfresh mussels.

Now that we had that settled, she added, “But also notice that it says right down there in the lower right-hand corner,” I slipped on my reading glasses, “It says that if you pay by credit card instead of cash, we apply a surcharge of a dollar a person.   So you can save a dollar more by paying in cash.  Then, with all the prices tonight $2.00 less than what it says on the menu and if you pay with cash, you will see that you can save $6.00 a couple.” 

Pleased with herself, she clapped her hands in triumph and her smile broadened even further so that she was now fully aglow.  “Any question?”

One of my cousins said we might have some.  Not about the pricing but maybe about some of the items on the menu.  And, turning back to the specials discussion, asked if there were any more not on the menu to tell us about.

“Oh, yes,” she said as perky as a human is capable of being, “We have some lovely ones.  But before I describe them to you I have to tell you we have to charge either $15.95 or $16.95 for them.”  Noticing our confusion she quickly added, “But that’s only because they are special.”

“How much would they be if we came back on Monday?”  Again, I was being bad.

“Like with the mussels that’s not something anyone ever asked me.  But I could find out for you if you’d like.”

“No, since we’re here and it’s Friday, that will be fine, thank you.  Just please tell us what’s special,” still hoping maybe something French.  But as it turned out the soup was Minestrone, the special pasta was with artichokes, and the fish was Livornese style.  With a tomato. onion, caper, and black olive sauce.  “The sea bass will be $16.95,” she chirped, “Fish always costs a little more.”

Then before anyone could raise another question, perhaps thinking we were concerned that the specials were $2.00 more than any of the regular items—with the exception of the mussels/musscles—she quickly added, “But everyone should know that, at no extra charge, everything comes with soup or salad, rolls and butter, of course the entrees, and coffee or tea, and dessert.  We have six very nice ones, which if you’d like I can tell you about right now.  Many of our customers like to know in advance about the desserts so they can think about what to order for their main dishes.”

Being drawn into thinking about dessert and coffee before ordering I noticed for the first time that in addition to the traditional table setting of cutlery, napkins, bread plates, salt and pepper, there were also coffee cups at each of our places.  Not a good sign I thought.  The only other places where they do this, I realized, were in the dining rooms of assisted-living facilities.  I was hoping that the food, Italian though it be, would not be of the institutional type.  A good sign was that the knives and forks were not made of plastic.

I quickly put that thought out of mind.  Though looking around Chez Provence I did notice canes and walkers stashed at most of the nearby tables. Taking note of this kept my gastronomic hopes further restrained.

But we were there for the camaraderie, not gourmet dining, and thus commenced to order.  Alice asked for the bass, which actually turned out to be fresh and well prepared; one cousin ordered the Eggplant Parmigiana, which was so massive that what he left over overflowed a large Styrofoam takeout box; Hal asked for the Veal Marsala, which arrived dry and chewy; Chicken Cacciatore was another order and when it arrived it looked indistinguishable from the Veal Marsala; and I ordered the Osso Bucco.

“The what?” the now confused and furrow-browed waitress asked.

“The Os-so Buc-co,” I said again, this time more slowly, articulating each syllable and being sure not to make things more confusing by using any of my limited restaurant Italian.  It was a busy place and quite noisy.  “You know, the veal shank.  I don’t order it often, but I do occasionally like a good Osso Bucco.”  To help her, I worked that third mention of the dish into the conversation.

“Oh,” she burst back into a radiant smile, “You mean Osso Bucko.”

Now it was my time to be puzzled.  Noticing this she took the menu from me, folded the pages back and pointed to where it was listed.  “See, Osso Bucko.”

Sure enough, in bold print there was another menu malaprop—just as she had pronounced it: Bucko, not Bucco.

It too turned out to be rather tasteless but who cared. We had a good laugh about it and everything else about the place, the food, and especially the pricing system.  And, when the bill came, we decided to pay cash and save a dollar more.