December 11, 2017--Early-Bird Special (Originally Posted January 12, 2010)

We're off to Florida for a week of family visits and to return to some of our favorite places and people in Delray Beach.

We were in winter residence there for the last eight years of my mother's life and during that time I wrote more than 90 stories that I called "Snowbirding."

During this week away I will repost some of my favorites. The first, "Early-Bird Special," appears below.

After catching an early afternoon movie at the local Regal Multiplex, the 3:00 p.m. show of True Grit, which we were surprised to see played to a house two-thirds full of seniors with no one munching on anything and no one talking to the screen in a loud voice, still with no return tickets to New York and no plans to purchase them—Rona suggested that rather than eating leftovers at our rented condo by the ocean, maybe we should try the Chinese restaurant, the China Diner, in the same shopping plaza as the movie theater.

“But it’s not even six o’clock,” I whined.  “No one eats dinner that early.  Other than my mother and her friends.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Rona said, “Half the people down here eat at this time.  You know that.  We’re hungry, right?”  I sheepishly nodded, “So stop pretending we’re back in Greenwich Village and let’s see if we can get a table.”

“There should be no trouble with that,” I offered in a mocking tone.  “It’s so ridiculously early.  For God sakes it’s still daylight.”

In fact I was quite wrong--there were no tables inside and even all the seats at the sushi-bar-like counter were occupied.  

“This must be at least a decent place,” I said, “to be so busy so early.” 

Rona looked at me as if to say, “You’re so naïve.  We’ve been here long enough for even you to know about the popularity of early-bird specials.” 

But there was an empty outdoor table, and even though it was situated virtually in the shopping plaza’s parking lot, and since we were in fact hungry, we slid into the last available seats. 

“I’m sure we won’t run into anyone from New York.  It would be terrible if the word got out that we’re having dinner this early,” I said, and, just in case, slumped lower in my seat and hid my face behind the plastic-sheathed menu.

“You’re being silly,” Rona said, “Just look at the specials.  They sound quite good.  There’s steamed sea bass with scallions and ginger and one of your favorites, Singapore Chow Mei Fun.  Though I wonder if they’ll use enough curry.”  She looked around at our neighbors as if to indicate that considering the age of the other diners it would likely be tamer than I would prefer and am used to when we order it at the Big Wong back in New York’s Chinatown.

The waitress appeared, smiling broadly, to ask if she could bring us something to drink.  “Just tea and ice water,” I said.  “I see you have pu erh tea.  It’s our favorite.”

When she returned with our beverages she asked, “When did you get here?”

“A few days ago,” I answered. “Why do you ask?”  It seems like a strange question.

“I mean this afternoon.  I mean here this eve-n-ing.”  She pointed at her watch and the table.

“Oh, you mean at the restaurant.  I don’t know.  Maybe 15 minutes ago.”

She smiled broadly, “That good,” she said, “Still early-bird time.  You can have soup or an egg roll with your order.  No charge.”

“But we don’t want that,” I said, “We’re interested in the steamed fish and . . .”

“It all comes.”

“What comes?”

“Before six you get soup or egg roll.  For free.  It comes.”

“Thank you.  That’s nice.  But we just want the sea bass, the Singapore noodles, and also some Chinese eggplant with mushrooms and water chestnuts.”

“No soup?”  She scrunched her face in a look of puzzlement.

“No, just that,” Rona said, sharing the responsibility for our seemingly unusual order.  Actually, our mutually-agreed-upon decision not to participate in any of the ubiquitous Florida freebies.

“You can take home later,” she persisted.

“We’ll be fine.  But thank you for suggesting that.”

The dinner turned out to be quite good.  Not exactly Chinatown quality, of course; and, as expected, the Singapore was a bit tame for me, but it was much more than just respectable.  Not what one would expect at a Chinese restaurant called the China Diner in an unprepossessing shopping mall right next door to a nail salon.

As she cleared the table, the waitress seemed happy that unlike the other customers we had eaten virtually everything on our plates with chopsticks, not forks.  Smiling broadly, she asked if we wanted the pistachio ice cream that came with the dinner.

We both rubbed our distended stomachs and simultaneously said, “No, but thank you very much.”

“You sure?” she asked, again looking puzzled, “It comes.  No charge.”

“Really, we’re stuffed,” I said.  “Just the check, please.”

As she turned to get it for us, a 80-something woman at the next table called out, “What about us?  We want our ice cream.  Pistachio.  I love pistachio.  It’s my favorite with Chinese food.”

The waitress, once more taking a long look at her watch, responded curtly, “You had the soup, yes, and the egg roll, no?  Both.  I make exception for you. You just get two. Not three.” 

The woman, ignoring that, more insistently demanded, “I want my ice cream.  Pistachio.”

“But you had egg roll and wonton soup.  I told you it comes with either one.  But you wanted both so I give to you.”

“What about them?”  She waived her bejeweled finger in our direction.  I was cringing, sorry I no longer had the menu behind which I could hide.  “You told them they could have pistachio.”

“They had no soup.  No egg roll.  Neither.  Not even one.”

The woman tapped her husband on the arm.  It looked as if he had fallen asleep over his dinner and when she poked him he jolted into consciousness, mumbling something I couldn’t make out.  In an even louder voice she broadcast, “She says they didn’t have the soup.” 

“The what?  What did you say?”

“She says they didn’t have the soup or the egg roll.  And now she says we can’t have ice cream.  Though she wants them to have theirs.  Talk to her will you.”

But before he could, to our great relief, the waitress said, “I’ll bring you two orders of ice cream.”  So as not to be misunderstood, she wiggled two fingers in their line of sight.  “Two.”

“Morris doesn’t eat ice cream.  He has cholesterol.  So bring two scoops for me.”  The waitress, expressionless, nodded and turned abruptly to get our check and their two scoops of pistachio.  She had clearly seen it all.

Witnessing this exchange, I wondered again about the wisdom of eating so early.  But the food had been excellent and I sheepishly said to Rona, “If we come back for another dinner, we should be sure to arrive after 6:30 and take our chances that they’ll still be open.” 

“And,” Rona said, “we’ll remember to ask them to make the Singapore Chow Mei Fun spicier.”

To that I wondered out loud, “But will we be able to tell anyone back in Manhattan that we're eating Chinese food in a parking lot?"

"Or that we had an early-bird special?"

June 12, 2107--Midcoast: Chinese Food

We ran into good friends Will and Wendy in Hannaford's. First Wendy, then Will as they had split up, each with half the shopping list so they could get the shopping done as quickly as possible. They had house guests who would be arriving soon.

Rona was wanting chocolate sauce for our after-dinner ice cream socials, but we were having no luck finding any.

"You're an ice-cream person," Rona said to Will, "Do you know where we can find toppings?"

"Aisle 9," he said without hesitation, pointing, "There's a special little shelf there just for chocolate sauce and the like." With that he raced off to keep up with Wendy. It appeared that they had set up a little competition to see who would get done first. I assumed they would meet up at a checkout counter.

Sure enough, just as Will said, at the end of aisle 9 there were a couple of racks where they displayed half-a-dozen different chocolate toppings from Hershey's, which the ingredients label indicated included no real chocolate, to Maine-made Death by Chocolate which did, and so we put a jar of that in our shopping basket. "$3.99," Rona said, "I guess real chocolate comes at a price."

I said, "Especially if it's artisanal and has a fancy homemade-sounding name."

On the shelf above I noticed a few jars of wet walnuts.

"As a kid I used to love these," I said. "At the corner candy store along with whipped cream and a maraschino cherry they put them on frappes, which I loved when I had the money to pay for one. I think they were 50 cents. Which back then was a lot of money."

"Do you want some?" Rona asked, "Knock yourself out. It will bring back all sorts of nice memories.

"I see they also have wet pecans. I never knew those kind existed. Maybe . . ."

Rona had already reached for one and put it next to the chocolate sauce in the basket. "But it's crazy," I said, "It's a tiny jar, only five ounces, and the nothing-special Smuckers version costs $2.79 and . . .

"And nothing. You worked hard all your life, we can afford it, enjoy yourself for once."

"I do but . . ."

"But nothing," which ended the discussion. "What else is on our list?"

"We wanted to replace the Chef Boyardee mini raviolis we ate the other night."

"Garbage, it's all garbage," Rona said in spite of her interest in the chocolate sauce.

At the Chef Boyardee display we ran into Wendy. Looking a little frazzled, she asked, "Have you seen Will? I seem to have lost him."

"This happens to us all the time when we separate," Rona said. "What was your plan?"

"When we finished we were supposed to meet at the checkout counter. This one right here, number 12."

"For me," I said, "when we do we always lose each other and I forget where we're supposed to meet. It's sort of like having a senior moment. I feel like I'm wandering around, not knowing where I am or what I'm supposed to do."

"I'm sure this isn't true for you and Will, "Rona added quickly, "I mean a senior moment. I'd just wait here. I'm sure he'll show up. Maybe his half of the shopping list was a little longer or more complicated than yours." Rona is good that way, always looking for ways to make me and others feel better.

"Since this happens to us too," Rona said, "and I'm sure to many other customers, I thought they might have a TV monitor where if couples get separated and can't find each other they'd put that up on the screen and indicate where to meet. Like the Silver Alert system they have in Florida and other places where there are a lot of older people." "Older," not "old" I noticed Rona said.

"Isn't that for people with Alzheimer's," I said, "Who get lost in their cars and forget where they live or how to get home?"

Rona kicked me under the shopping cart. I wasn't helping the situation. Just then Will showed up and they merged what was in their two carts and headed for the checkout line. Before doing that, Will noticed and said, "Chef Boyardee. You eat that?"

"Well, only . . ." I stammered.

"I love Chef Boyardee," he said, "I loved that when I was a kid."

"And look," I said, "They're having a sale. It's only a dollar a can."

"Maybe we should get some," Will gestured over to Wendy who was already on line. She shot him a look and without another word he joined her there.

Alone again, Rona asked, "What else is on our list?"

"I think nothing," I said, "But maybe we should walk up and down the aisle to see what we might find. To be inspired. We're in the International section, maybe we can find some Chinese oyster sauce. We made that scallop strir-fry the other night and I thought a little oyster sauce would have worked with it."

Sure enough there it was, bottles of Dynasty brand oyster sauce. "It's made in China," Rona read. "More garbage. I'll put it back."

"But it's Chinese oyster sauce. Shouldn't it be made in China? You want it to be organicy, made by hand in small batches in Maine? You'd be good with that?"

"I suppose you're right," Rona said, putting the bottle back in our shopping cart.

"And look at that," I said, all excited, "Just the other night when we were eating the Chef Boyardee, reminiscing you remembered liking canned La Choy chop suey."

"Especially the noodles part," Rona said, "That was my first experience with Chinese food."

"And so take a look at this," I said grinning, holding up a package of La Choy chow mein noodles. "I have a brilliant idea?"

"What's that?" I sensed Rona losing patience with me.

"Let's get some shaved steak," I could see her rolling her eyes, "and we'll make a stir fry with veggies like onions, red pepper, snap peas, and mushrooms, all of which we have left over in the house, and to that we'll add the steak and flavor it with oyster sauce." Rona was not yet convinced. "And," I said, "to literally top things off we'll use the La Coy Chinese noodles. Ta da," I gestured, "It will be amazing. Trust me. Like being back on Pierson Street in Brooklyn."

So we got the noodles and three-quarters of a pound of shaved steak. "I wonder how they shave it," Rona whispered.

Later, at the Bristol Library we ran into Wendy and Will again. "Small town Wendy said," smiling.

"So how did your shopping go?" Will asked, "Did you get everything you needed?"

"Well," I said, a little embarrassed to reveal what we bought.

"A lot of garbage," Rona shared. Mike had been a psychotherapist.

"What do you mean?" Wendy asked, looking concerned.

"You know, lot's of ice cream toppings and as you saw Chef Boyardee ravioli."

"And then," I chirped, not feeling as guilty or irresponsible as Rona did. She likes to eat healthy.

Neither Wendy nor Will commented.

"To tell you the truth," Rona now said, "We bought a lot of Chinese food and plan to use it tonight with the shaved streak we also bought. In a stir fry with lots of oyster sauce. Made in China, along with the chow mein noodles. Made in America."

"Sounds amazing," Will said.

"Maybe one night we'll do the same," Wendy added. They both know how to make people feel good.

"I mean it," Will said, "It sounds amazing."

Later that night it was.

Amazing.

December 25, 2014--Christmas, Jews, Chinese Food

Now our little secret is exposed--Atlantic magazine just published a piece titled, "Why American Jews Eat Chinese Food on Christmas."

I could have told you that. From personal experience I have known about this for more than 60 years. Every Christmas everyone in my family and Brooklyn neighborhood went out for Chinese food (or, if you'll forgive me--chinks) stuffed themselves with chicken chow mein, shrimp with lobster sauce, and pork fried rice.

When I asked why we did this so ritualistically on Christmas day I was told that with Catholics (how Jews referred to all christians) eating at home with their families, it would be easy to get a table--the same point made in the Atlantic article.

Further, I learned, since the only other restaurants in the neighborhood were Italian and Italians were Catholics and thus at home their restaurants were closed. And so Chinese food was our only option.

"Only option"? Most of us ate at home 360 days a year.

And I added, "There's never a problem getting a table. Catholics don't like Chinese food. Only Jews. Since there are so few Catholics in our neighborhood what difference does it make anyway?" I was a bit of a smartass.

I never got a satisfactory answer, just a little slap on the back of my head and the admonition to finish my egg drop soup.

And the Atlantic piece also doesn't supply a satisfactory answer. They claim that eating Chinese was the easiest way for Jews to eat out and fool themselves into believing they were still being kosher--like with authentic kosher food, the Chinese do not mix dairy products with meat.

But that's where the self-deception ends--shrimp with lobster sauce is kosher? Shrimp? Lobster? And pork fried rice? Really?

The author needs to revisit Deuteronomy where the foods that are forbidden are explicitly listed.

At the very top of that traif list are shellfish such as shrimp and lobster (though I suspect there was never any lobster in the lobster sauce--just a lot of shellfish stock flavored cornstarch) and of course the most forbidden of traif, finger-licking pork in all its forms.

Thus, one has to dig a bit deeper to figure out why I and my people will be found later today gorging on spareribs and shrimp wantons.

From me, then, here are a few actual reasons--

Perhaps foremost, Jews (as is true for most others) don't like to be exposed as hypocrites. In a small neighborhood, being observed eating traif in public qualifies as being thus exposed. So, we could indulge ourselves in as much forbidden food as we liked on Christmas day, knowing we would be doing so in private, among our "own kind," without being concerned that there would be any Catholics around to observe and expose us for what we were--well, food hypocrites.

Then, there is the reality that traif is scrumptious (does anyone not like shrimp or bacon?) and to have any excuse to get one's hands on it can quickly turn into an annual ritual. Like always going out for Chinese on Christmas day.

Plus, for those of us who were over-coddled by proverbial Jewish Mothers, participating in anything forbidden (even eating egg rolls) added additional spice to the experience. Being bad within safe limits was something pretty much everyone I knew who was leading an over-monitored life found to be alluring. Even something seemingly as benign as loving clams with black bean sauce.

So, you'll know where to look for me later today. At Noodletown in Chinatown or Phoenix Gardens up by the UN where they make the best salt-baked shrimp in New York. Or, back in the old neighborhood, at the Happy Garden on Pitkin Avenue for their classic pork egg foo young.