Polacca.

I started writing at 1 in the morning and had a huge post full of memories and emotion. It's now 4 and man do I miss Hopi food.

Thanksgiving

I don't know about you guys but I spent most of my Thanksgiving sitting across from a parolee and his overweight blond girlfriend. All they talked about was how much she liked his "0dark meat". Get it? Eventually someone put in "2010 Comedy All-Stars". This is what I learned, don't watch black stand up comedians around middle aged white women. They either explain their honkey ways to the television or laugh too hard. Linda did both.

Not the best Thanksgiving I've had but not bad by any means. I think a lot of it had to do with my lack of sleep and knowing I had to work double the day Christmas music takes over all restaurant radios. Which brings up the question, does anything suck more thanJingle Bell Rock ten times a day? Maybe marriage and child support but not much else.

Break the Chains that Bind You

When conversation lulls and commercials are on the question, "What do you think about when you're by yourself?" can sometimes pop up. This really doesn't spur conversation because boring people think of boring things. I think of food. Things like "What do I want to eat right now?", "What do I have in the kitchen?", "Can I compromise the two?", "Is anyone with a car as hungry as I am right now?", and "Next commercial I'll make a sandwich or something." Hence the reason I made a blog about food. Now that I've written about all the restaurants I've been to that are worth writing about, explored my favorite combos and sandwiches, and ranted about Maggy Gillenhal. I see that I've painted myself in a corner. I can either wait to update this thing after I've tried a new restaurant, which can take months, or write about new things.

The problem is, I don't really do anything. Except work for Sizzler. Now this blog is about food and me bitching about my job. Here's me bitching about my Saturdays.

"Stop."

"Stop."

"Stop."

"Stop."

The old bastard either had schizophrenia or a grandchild he hated. Either way, I felt for him.

"We'll never beat TGI Fridays."

It was a table of police officers, forest rangers, and a single fireman. I didn't know if they were entrepreneurs accepting the fact that they'd never topple the king of casual dining or if they were trying to come up with a new acronym that would convey their love for the end of the week. I pushed the thought out of my mind, finished bussing my last table for the night, and went home enjoy the rest of my Friday night.

At 4:30 AM I went to sleep, at 8:00 AM I was blinking in the mirror deciding if my stomach was uneasy enough to call in sick. I walked in the back door at 9:00AM. It's damn near impossible to get a Saturday morning shift covered. I greeted the Mexicans not by names but by phrases that are unique to the individual.

“Hey man, how's it going?”

“What's going on bro?”

“Mornin'”

“How you doin brother?”

Every Saturday was the same. I'm on time, setup the dish machine, dump the garbages that are light enough for one person, and wait for Fred. Fred is a highly functioning autistic man whom has worked in the restaurant for 20 years. He's balding, has a wife with down syndrome, and gets paid vacation. He's also near worthless in a dishroom. He has no sense of urgency nor does he care about the workload he puts on his co-workers with his apathy. Say what you will, but I think it's incredibly open minded of me to hate a retarded person.

After our prep is done, I wrap potatoes for baking and Fred cuts various types of lettuces for salads, I get to work on catching up the dishroom. It takes a lot of dishes to open a restaurant, it takes even more baked potatoes. Fred wanders around muttering his own brand of Spanish to himself. Sooner or later a manager will tell him to go bus tables. If he's been especially illusive I'll have to go out with him so the servers can sit their customers. No matter how fast I clear tables the dishroom always gets behind. Plates, glasses, and silverware pile-up so quickly that by the time I'm done bussing and step back behind the sink I can't see out of the dishroom.

`I organize the dishroom into sections, organize dishes onto a tray, push it through the dishwasher, and stack it anywhere there is room. I do this for half an hour before Fred comes back with his first bus tub of dishes. He doesn't unload it right away, rather he steps out of view, giggles at me, and takes out a bag of peanuts from his pocket.

“I'm going on my lunch now huh?”

“Sure are Freddy. Hurry you've still got to catch up on tables”

“Rapido Freddy! Mas mesas!”

Fred can waste time like I didn't think was possible in the food service industry.

Every week is the same, I can set my watch to Fred's ramblings and shortcomings. My two hour break is cut down to one so I can help the other dishers that came in dig their way out of the hole Fred and I dug.

I'm not going in this Saturday. I've got too much I want to do. I want to sleep in a bit, go to a competing restaurant before their lunch rush, I want to leave a good tip for the waitress, and I want to watch their bus boys to see if they're as miserable as I am. If they are, I may go back next week.

It's coming.

Every now and then, when I'm hungry and lonesome. I block the pain in my stomach and my soul with daydreams of food I'd like to be eating. More often than not I drift back to my childhood and my family's old restaurant. The Belle Starr was started by my Mom, Dad, and some nerd that used to intimidate me (though I'm almost positive I could stare him down as I grab a handful of his daughter's ass now. Unless he has a gay son, then I guess I'd just stare him down.) My Dad and his friend Jason ran the kitchen and pumped out quality food that Heber was not accustomed to but welcomed with open arms. Eventually the restaurant died with a Len Bias type of potential and I moved to Orem/Provo; and as much good food I've had nothing has struck the same chord as The Belle Starr. I've been hoping and praying that something with the same simplistic soul would come to Utah County and today I think I found it.

Enter Joe's Cafe, owned by Joe Hicks, one of the nicest guys I've met, and located at 1126 South State Street. It's a small building, so small that you can see his dry good storage behind the register. As I walked in I got a friendly hello from the girl working the counter, whom I later found out was Joe's wife's sister. We were given menus and sat ourselves. The menu was unpretentious, no frilly adjectives or clever names, nothing to detract from the food itself. I had only been sitting down for a couple of minutes before I heard Joe's voice fill the room. He'd come out of the kitchen to greet my Mom and myself. He noticed that we were new customers and immediately started hitting on my mom. He made up for it later when he found out that the only grits where from Cracker Barrel and gave me a free sample of something that was totally different that the flavorless glue like substince that Lora brought me after she forgot to refill my drink for the third time. Man I hate Cracker Barrel.

Joe's grits were amazing and I plan on having them for breakfast over hashbrowns as long as Joe is in the kitchen. I ordered Ana's Omelet which consists of 3 eggs, jalapenos, green peppers, mushrooms, chicken, and topped with cheese. Mom got biscuits and gravy that blasted away any other biscuits and gravy I had tried previously. We were the only patrons at the time so we got regular visits from Joe before, during, and after we ordered. The food was great, the sweet potato pie was a fitting dessert, and the atmosphere was perfect. Joe's Cafe gets 5 stars and Joe gets a Happy Birthday shoutout. Tear it up on Thursday Joe.

Allow me to get dramatic. When was the last time you were simultaneously assured by the head cook and owner that your food would be cooked well with attention to detail, respect for the ingredients, and with your enjoyment in mind? The closest we usually come to is a programmed sentenced uttered from a waitress that usually only ensures that she'll try not to forget what you're drinking. Joe's Cafe is something special, good simple food made by a man with an infectious laugh and a want to please his customers.

As Provo's University Avenue continues it's downward spiral of overpriced restaurants that focus more on, for a lack of a better word, trendy-chic atmosphere instead of food. Orem's State street is on the culinary rise. EZ Takeout Burger has fallen and Joe's Cafe, Pho, and a new mexican joint I forgot the name of have risen. Hopefully it's a sign of things to come and we can get less chain restaurants and more quality food in Utah County.

Amen.

Happy Hour

On the corner of 8th North and 5th West there's a taco shop called Guanajuato. My go to taco shop is usually Taco Riendo but in these tough times and my careless spending habits tacos can get expensive. Guanajuato understands this, that's why they have happy hour. From 4-6 pm tacos are a dollar and burritos are 3.50. For those prices you don't expect quality but they're some damn fine tacos. Also, their salsa bar is awesome. 3 red sauces, a green sauce, pico de gallo, cilantro, onions, radishes, lime, and cheese. That's right they've got cheese on their salsa bar. Unprecedented. These fools even serve you water if you don't order a soft drink and give you chips and salsa. Chips and salsa shouldn't come with dollar tacos unless you're dying or royalty. Guanajuato from 4-6pm is a happy dream world where anything can happen. I wouldn't be surprised if the Esurance girl walked in topless next time I go in. Or maybe the Olsen twins could practice eating things off my index finger.

Los 3 Amigos

The other day, my friend Jamie was jonesing for some "quality mexican food" we rolled up to our usual spot El Mexal. However we rolled up 5 minutes before they closed and instead of being pricks and ordering a lot of food and leaving a litte tip we decided to find someplace that wasn't closing at 10 pm on a friday, maybe saturday. I can't remember. The place we chanced upon was Los 3 amigos on University Avenue. I'd had some ok menudo there before so we decided to give it a shot. It's terrible, and not only that it's going out of business any second now. Those fools are charging for refills on anything from soda to chips and salsa. The quality of their ingredients is shameful. Veggies straight out of the can instead of out of the ground. Their enchilada sauce is worse than Betos'. Don't go there, let them fizzle out of the food scene. I just hope they aren't replaced with another Cafe Rio.

Sandwiches

Sandwiches are more than meat in between two slices of bread. Here are some sandwiches that are damn good and sometimes overlooked.

The Croque-Monsieru: A hot ham sandwich topped with a Mornay sauce, a basic bechamel sauce with grated cheese added to it, and broiled until the cheese is nice and bubbly.


You can also add a fried or poached egg and it will become a Croque-Madame.

It's a warm ham sandwich so you should put a big ole smear of mustard on it, dijon if you can.

The Monte Cristo: You've probably heard of this one and vowed to never try it. It's a triple decker sandwich that can either be friend or served on french toast. The kicker is to use jam, powdered sugar, fresh fruit, or maple syrup as a condiment. Some people can't stomach the idea of mixing sweet and savory but Lordy does it work on this sandwich. Ham, Turkey, Cheese, a little mayo, a little mustard, tons of butter, and raspberry jam. I like to assemble the sandwich on french toast and stick it in the oven for a little to let the innards get warm and the cheese to melt.

The Kentucky Hot Brown: An open faced turkey sandwich covered in Mornay sauce and topped with bacon. I like to lay as many pieces of white bread that'll fit into a casserole dish, add the sliced roasted turkey, and pour on the sauce. Bake until bubbly and brown. Top with thick slices of crispy bacon. Some people add a slice of fresh tomato. If that's your thing go for it.


The Cuban: Immigrants do more than break their backs for shitty pay, they almost always improve the food scene. This is Cuba's contribution to the U.S. To have a legit Cuban, you need cuban bread. A long loaf of bread that is flaky on the inside yet has a crunchy crust, it also goes stale in about a day. Butter this bread and add glazed ham, slow roasted pork that's been marinated in mojo sauce, salami, dill pickles, swiss cheese, and mustard. Now press it in a plancha (basically a panina press without the grooves) and enjoy. This sandwich is a great example of what a bunch of poor immigrants in close proximity can come up with. The pork and bread cuban, the ham spanish, the salami Italian, and the dill pickles and cheese is from the local palate.