Bad Food

Keep It Away from Me

For much of my life beets were a non-issue. They were not a featured vegetable. (It’s a vegetable, right? Just checking.) I actually never saw beets as I was growing up. The only exception was when they made an appearance in something called borscht. Borscht is a traditional Russian beet soup that includes other vegetables, potatoes, onions, chicken broth, and some kind of meat. But it’s mostly beets. It can be served either hot or cold. The soup’s color is a deep red. The smell is something that would drive me from any room I’m in.

I had one dramatic encounter with borscht. It was sixty years ago but it is burned into my mind.

My parents had a semi-attached home in the Bronx with what we called a “finished basement.” This below ground floor of the house contained a half bath, a small kitchen, a storage room, a workshop, and a larger room with a (never used) bar. The room opened up to a good-sized yard. My parents occasionally entertained in the basement and yard, which meant all the food cooked and stored upstairs had to be brought down to the basement.

On one such occasion, my sister and brothers, and I, as usual, were the unpaid staff. We were tasked with fetching any party supplies, drinks, and food. At one point I was asked to transport a huge Tupperware vat of borscht that barely fit in the upstairs refrigerator to the basement. With the cover on the Tupperware, I was spared the aroma I detested so much, but with only three steps to go before I could hand off the offending substance, I tripped, and the entire contents of the Tupperware was everywhere including all over me. I could barely hear my stepmother screaming at me over the debilitating attack on my olfactory senses. At that point I was convinced that nothing less than a “Silkwood Scrub” would remove the offending odor. Suffice it to say, since then I would no doubt give up the launch codes to nuclear missiles were I forced to eat a beet.

I’ve gone on to successfully avoid beets my entire adult life. I’ve been to friends’ homes for dinner, out to restaurants, attended weddings and all manner of parties and I never saw a beet on anyone’s plate. Then about ten years ago I noticed something different. Beet salad started to show up on restaurant menus. Other salads now included beets. And people were eating them. At one point I found myself at a table with people I considered my friends, talking about how much they loved beets.

Madness.

Seltzer

I don’t get seltzer. Whether it’s called club soda, sparkling water, or is made by a French-sounding company and comes in bright green bottles, it’s just water that makes you burp. And it has no flavor. And if you order it in a restaurant you have to pay for it, which you don’t have to do with just water, WHICH THE RESTAURANT AUTOMATICALLY GIVES TO YOU.

My wife loves club soda (and I married her anyway). We used to have cases of it in the apartment until she found something called SodaStream. This is a machine that makes seltzer by use of C02 cannisters inserted into a plastic structure. The machine comes with bottles which, after being filled with water (yes, free), are inserted into the machine. After pressing down on the button on the machine six or seven times, you have a bottle of seltzer. The cannisters lose their ability to aerate after a few months and you have to buy new ones, which are getting harder to find. So, it still costs money, but I’m not tripping over cases of bubbly water.

Too Bad to Eat

“Oh God, this is horrible,” is what I thought as I reluctantly swallowed a bite of food from what was purported to be the best Chinese restaurant in Pontiac, Michigan. I’m a born and bred New Yorker and had been eating Chinese food all my life. In my experience, Chinese food in restaurants from lower Manhattan to the North Bronx varied between “great” and “okay.”

This food would have to improve by a power of ten to reach okay. “Why are you still chewing?” you may ask. Well, first of all, I was very hungry. The last leg of a car trip from Ohio was made without a food stop, so I would probably have eaten the first edition of Wuthering Heights if it were seasoned properly. Secondly, the pride of our Michigan hosts in introducing us to, in their estimation, the height of culinary accomplishment was inestimable. We’re to be their guests for the next ten days, much of it spent recalling childhood memories. I certainly didn’t want to begin our stay by expressing judgment and dissatisfaction.

So I chewed and swallowed, hoping against hope that one of our hosts wouldn’t ask, “So how do you like it?”

Lest you think I’m some kind of food snob, my favorite place to eat is a diner where food is simple and unambitious (not unlike myself).

If I’m honest, what I can be snobby about is pizza. Living in the pizza capital of the world (I’m sorry, Chicago, what you have is some kind of pie that you can’t put ice cream on), I’m privy to the best of the ultimate comfort food. I’ve never had a bad slice of pizza.

Then again, I’ve never had pizza in Pontiac, Michigan.