A True Gore-May

I used to work at a Polish-run mental health clinic with a lot of people from the Eastern bloc. They spoke with lovely accents and had last names I often found tricky to say, the kinds with a "c" or "z" on the end of them. My European co-workers brought an air of culture and sophistication to our workplace in a way I never could coming from Texas. One colleague was always impeccably dressed, and wished me “Bon Appetit” whenever she caught me eating lunch alone at my desk. It was a fancy wish for me since I was usually shoveling cold leftovers from plastic Tupperware or slurping down soup from a cracked thermos with a trail of crackers crop-dusting my keyboard.

Another co-worker was a quirky yet dignified man in his mid-seventies. He was originally from Poland but lived many years in France. He owned a weekend home in the Hamptons and trained at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris for pastry. He eventually quit the clinic to retire in the South of France. I really enjoyed him because he always said things like “Oh! Look at you in zat nice puffy coat! You should not be working here today—you should be skiing up in zee mountains!” or “Here you are again, working late into the night when you should be on zee red carpet!”. 

For whatever reason, he worked under the delusion that I was a lady of sophistication and glamour, mostly because I knew about all the new restaurants and never arrived at work covered in cat hair. He was shocked to learn that I didn't live in Manhattan, as he assumed my husband wore chinos and we owned a three-bedroom co-op in the West ‘80s, when the truth was my husband looked like an Allman brother, and we rented an illegal basement in Queens. 

On breaks, my co-worker often swung by my open office door to talk about food, which happened to be my favorite topic as well. He was long-winded, and could go 20 minutes discussing the art and science of French pastry, how the exterior of a croissant should crackle at first bite before giving way to a soft chewy interior, or instructions for creating marbled icing to top a perfectly flaky, cream-filled mille-feuille. He spoke in a heavy French accent mixed with a bit of his native Polish, so when he mentioned enjoying programs like “Pioneer Woman” and “Farmhouse Rules”, he surprised me. He seemed more a Julia Child or Lidia Bastianich man.

“I vas watching a program on ze food channel ze other day… this woman lives in some barn in the woods, and she made pork ribs for Christmas Eve! Pork ribs! Horrrr-ible! So common! In Europe, we make 12 different dishes and they are all special. Ugh! I could not believe it.” He threw his hands up in disgust.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him my family ate chili that year for Christmas Eve, and that past years’ menus included beef enchiladas, a backyard fish fry or simply a buffet of tortilla chips shaped like Santa hats and warmed dips from plebian ingredients like canned corn and gloppy cream cheese. We were Texan; we didn't do baked camembert with cubes of baguette-- we melted down a hunk of Velveeta and thew a can of Rotel tomatoes in it. Instead of mussels in butter and white wine, we rolled shrimp in flour and cornmeal or dipped perfectly pink boiled ones into spicy cocktail sauce straight from the jar. I ate po-boys and hushpuppies every day of high school underneath a fishing net at a place called Shrimp n’ Stuff. We served drippy tacos and mac n’ cheese in tiny cast-iron skillets at my wedding reception, where we ate in the middle of a field next to a pen of longhorns and goats. I stepped in cow shit moments before the dinner bell rang.

I wasn’t raised on Coq au Vin or Steak Diane; I grew up with my father’s ribs—beef, by the way; rarely pork—and we’d eat them with spongy corn on the cob and grilled potatoes on the back deck overlooking the water.  My mother didn’t make soufflés—she baked casseroles filled with fresh vegetables and topped with buttery breadcrumbs, or chicken pot pie with huge chunks of white potato and tiny green peas and thick sauce that ran all over the crust when you pricked it with your fork. For a treat, my dad and brother mashed cornbread into cold glasses of buttermilk and ate it with long metal spoons. My grandmother never cooked with duck confit. She used lard and butter and Crisco, though these days she reads a lot of Prevention articles and sticks mostly to coconut oil.

This is not to say that the Texas palate is unrefined. My mother and I used to drink tea at four o’clock every afternoon, hot steaming mugs of English Breakfast or Earl Gray. We both sat with one foot on the floor and the other on the table, but still—a 4pm teatime means I come from good stock. Then there was my father, who loved nothing more than a lazy afternoon at an oyster bar. Of course, unlike the fancy places in Brooklyn, they don’t serve Gulf Coast oysters on a silver tray with a squeeze of lemon and a glass of chilled Sancerre; you eat them at a long wooden bar shaped like the front of an old fishing boat with a cold beer and a red plastic basket filled with packets of Saltine crackers, beneath old metal signs littered with phrases like “Ay, yi capitan” or “Show us yer tits”. 

I’ve been to restaurants in Manhattan where the meal arrives in stages and with great fanfare, like distinct acts in a three-hour play. Where soft music plays in the background while tiny white plates are painted with purees made from celery root or organic beets before a single lamb chop is placed delicately on top with a pair of tweezers. In these types of places a full meal is a single scallop served on a wasabi leaf, embellished with pickled olives and a teardrop of pink-peppercorn aioli. People spend a lot of time sniffing wine before drinking it, and the wait staff makes six figures.

I enjoy dining at places like this on occasion (the occasion being that I either just got engaged or turned an age with a zero on the end of it) but I’m always too shell-shocked by the bill to truly enjoy the experience and usually walk out craving a cheeseburger. New York City has every type of cuisine imaginable, but I can’t seem to find a $2 breakfast burrito from a wood-paneled trailer or a jar of my grandmother’s buttermilk ranch dressing anywhere, and that still disappoints me. I have no early memories associated with a Michelin-rated restaurant or a perfect cassoulet, and nothing ever tastes as good as nostalgia feels. You won’t catch me asking anyone to pass the Grey Poupon. 

I will, however, take an extra paper cup of tartar sauce when you get the chance.