Sorry

You may have noticed I did not post last week. Ohh, I hope you noticed. I’m really sensitive about things like that, and you wouldn’t want to see me cry. It’s not a pretty sight. Then again, maybe you would. I mean people love horror movies. Don’t they?

Really sorry

I didn’t post last week because I was on a very strange food journey. I didn’t expect to go on a food journey. I didn’t want to go on a food journey. I thought I was going on a business trip to scope out, and schmooze, a client in South Florida, but it turned into an impromptu, unexpected food journey. You may’ve already surmised this because I said ‘food journey’ four times. My followers are just so smart.

Now I like food. I eat food almost every day. Also, I like to taste regional foods. What I didn’t know is that all the food in south Florida has a story attached to it. For example, one lunchtime we ate Cubano sandwiches. These are very good. They also have a long history which takes more time to tell than it takes to eat the freaking sandwich.

Why do I have to know this?

The sandwich contains; ham, roast pork, Swiss cheese, pickles, and mustard, all on Cuban bread. So far so good. However, then there’s the story. It seems the workers in the tobacco fields and cigar factories of Cuba were all poor. In the early morning, the bakers would deliver small loaves of bread in netted bags. Why the netted bags? I don’t know. But this was a detail which could not be over looked. Maybe they also used the bags for fishing, and that contributed to the flavor. Either way, when you hung a netted bag on the door of a poor Cuban’s house, the baker would pick up yesterday’s netted bag for reuse.

I guess it was a good system, but having a fishy netted bag hanging on a door all day and night, would attract bugs and vermin. That’s not very sanitary. I would really like to know what the washing policy of netted bags was. Sadly, this was not a part of the story. I’m thinking it was left out to avoid government intervention.

Sandwich stories

The wives of the workers would go get the loaves from the bags, and make one sandwich, because the working man needed all the calories the poor family could provide. Roast pork which was usually leftovers from the night before’s dinner, a slice of ham for taste because it was a delicacy, pickles because they were cheap and flavorful, and mustard. Sorry the mustard was never explained. You’d think with all the other details it would’ve been. Hmm.

The sandwich was then wrapped in paper and taken to the fields. As it was a big sandwich, it could be nibbled on all day by the worker for his twelve plus hour shift. This must have been a great system. With everybody bringing the same sandwich every day there couldn’t have been much trading like what happened with me in school. For us it was trading peanut butter for bologna. For them, Hector might say, “Hey Luis, what you got for lunch.”

“I got a Cubano sandwich. What you got?”

“I got a Cubano too. Wanna trade?”

“Nah”

Show us your duck

And that was just lunch! You don’t even want to hear the story of the Peking Duck we ate for dinner. It starts with them bringing a dead duck right to your table, and asking if it’s good enough. It’s glazed dark brown and steaming, with the head curved backward in its death throes. What are you supposed to say? “I don’t know? Could you bring another one so I can compare them?”

I’d be willing to bet they’ve only got one duck back there. They bring it out to the silly squeamish Americans who avert their eyes, agree it’s great, and wave them away. Then the staff stick it back in the warmer, serve chicken to the people, while laughing at the exorbitant. prices their charging.

Now I’m just wining

It’s the same with wine. They open it in front of you, and have you taste it. You say it’s good and they pour the rest of the table. Has anybody ever sent one back? Actually, I did once. Not because I didn’t like it, because I wanted to see what they’d do. Honest! The server came back with the manager and asked why I didn’t like it.

She was challenging me, calling my bluff. Now, I had to make up a story about fruitiness and acidity to try to prove I knew what I was talking about. She pulled a couple of names out of the air, saying I should like them better. I don’t think either of us had a clue of what we were talking about. In the end I did pick one, but frankly it tasted exactly like the first one. I wouldn’t be surprised if all they did was change the label and bring it back to me. But I digress!

Something fishy

The second night we went to a seafood place. It didn’t even have a menu. I kid you not. Before we sat down, the server took us to a display containing various dead fish, shrimp, crabs, and live lobsters. We were supposed to pick our dinner right out of the ocean. I’m not cowardly, and I know where food comes from, but looking at a display of dead and live sea creatures being told to select one to eat, is kind of disturbing.

When I hesitated, the server tried to entice me by pointing at one of nature’s creatures and describing what it’s flavor and texture, would be like. This was not helping. You can’t look at a cow, and think, “Hmm. Would his haunches or back taste better today?” By the way, next to the fish there was a selection of raw steaks, with a picture of a steer above them to indicate where each came from. Just in case you were thinking about a cow.

Just as I was about to order a salad, a certain fish jerked, flopped onto the floor. I said I wanted that one. I figured it was better to go with the suicidal one, as opposed to eating one which wanted to live. The server smiled, “Ahh, Ocean Pike, excellent choice.”

They didn’t tell me I’d have to kill it

I was able to sit down and have a drink, thinking all the weirdness was over, but I was wrong. When my excellent choice ocean pike arrived, it had been fileted with the top half flipped up and the head and tail still attached. I started to complain, but stopped when they brought another guy his lobster. The thing showed up bright red, whole, and served with a saw to get through the still in-tact, shell. If he was tough enough to manage it, so was I.

You’d think after I had to kill my own dinner I’d get it for a bit less, but no! Let’s just say I’m glad I wasn’t paying that bill. WOW!

Needless to say, my company got the contract. I don’t think it was because we were better. I’m sure it’s because I survived all their crap!!