Reflective of the proliferation of foodie obsessed and cookery programs on television — and despite the amount of girth some folks are packing around, and despite the huge increase in Type 2 diabetes in society – folks continue to really like to eat and to stuff any manner of nosh into their gaping maws.
Nothing wrong with that as such. I’ve been known to like a decent meal myself.
And of course cities and towns abound with eateries of all manner and description. Having grown up in the era when my old man thought Chef Boyardee canned spaghetti was eatin’ real ‘eye’-talian, I find today’s choices in ethnic grub just amazing and much to be embraced. In that I love Italian, Chinese, Japanese, French, German and virtually every other furrin offering other than Greek. I cannot abide Greek dishes for the most part, but that’s just me and if you are of Hellenic origins please don’t hate me.
Of course, anybody who has been in the restaurant business knows that such demanding labors – and they are hugely demanding – aren’t reflected as a fast route to becoming a millionaire. Beaneries fold all the time and the profit margin even for high-end joints is slim. People sometimes decry the shitty pay servers and bussers and even cooks get, but that is reflective of the nature of the business. I will say on their behalf, when you go out to eat, please tip and tip handsomely and I am not just saying that because my wife has been involved in the business.
But I decided the other day that what I think would do well is a down-home, old-fashioned comfort-food joint. Whether or not it would make a fortune would remain to be seen, but the email friend I ran the idea past thought if she and I went into partnership we’d at least become ‘hundredaires’.
The premise for this massive, multi-outlet chain of eateries that inspired me is reflective of the fact that these are trying times. Times indeed that try the souls of us all, and what’s the best thing to have when you are stressed to the max other than assaulting your liver with a quart of gin? Well, some good old-fashioned comfort food like Mom used to make. Well, yes, I know there is already Denny’s and other joints that follow a similar premise, but mine would be homier.
So, we would offer no airs or pretension whatsoever, airs and pretension only add to stress. So, you would have waitresses, possibly named Rosie, with pencils behind their ears and the dishes available would be such gems as meatloaf, potroast, chicken-fried steak, fried chicken, and all of these dishes enhanced with mashed taters and corn or stringbeans. No fancy-ass salads and that sort of thing. And behind the counter there would be lots of pies available, and fountain delights like malteds, shakes, ice-cream sodas and so forth.
And to set the right sort of mood whilst you are dining would be a jukebox offering such selections as Tennessee Waltz by Patti Page or You Belong to Me by the inimitable Jo Stafford.
I’ll let you know when we’re ready to dish up. Bring a big appetite and the mumsy-looking lady who manages the joint is sure to give you a big hug when you come in.