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Skipping Sunday Supper

June 15, 2015

Skipping meals is a tragedy. For those of us who are fortunate to have at least three square meals a day, each eating occasion is not just a chance to refuel the engine, but also a potential source of pleasure.

Life is hard. I say that we should take pleasure and joy wherever we can find it. And whether that comes from the smell of trees, the presence of loved ones, or the act of eating a perfectly ripe peach, is immaterial.

Every meal skipped is a lost opportunity. It’s an experience that’s been forsaken. And it’s something you’ll never get back. Which is why, even on an airplane when I’m absolutely sure the food will be horrendous, I will still not refuse the tray, or box, or what have you.

So what would make me choose a glass of water over an evening meal on Sunday?

Gluttony is too charged of a word. But I think it’s fair to say that I made some serious miscalculations. Really Sunday was all about a complete lack of good judgement and/or common sense.

It began by taking the children to the Rock N Roll Brunch.

First, let me say that Josh’s Scotch egg was absolutely fantastic. And probably having the chance to eat it was worth the rest of the ordeal. I say probably, because the ordeal was not insignificant. But I brought it on myself.

The goal was to squeeze brunch in before a lunch with my mother who was flying into Schenectady at 12:30p. It didn’t seem like a big deal. I’d done the early shift at the Rock N Roll Brunch a few times before. That means showing up at 10a, getting one of the first tables at 10:30a, knowing what you want to eat before going in, so you can get one of the first tickets into the kitchen, and then be out by 11:30a.

It’s a feat I’ve pulled off now on multiple occasions. But it was not in the cards on Sunday.

Even though we were the third party seated, we didn’t see our waitress for 20 minutes. And that meant we didn’t see our food for about an hour after sitting down. So after the kids waited 30 minutes at the door, and sixty minutes at the table, the food finally came. Expectations were high.

Then they hated it.

The brioche French toast wasn’t sweet enough. The bacon wasn’t crisp enough. The sausage gravy wasn’t appealing. The potatoes needed ketchup, and the ketchup tasted strange. The disappointment of the kids was palpable.

On the other hand, I admired the deeply custardy french toast, and thought the rhubarb topping was brilliant for keeping what could be an overly sweet dish in balance. I loved the soft tender fat of the bacon, and thought it really helped to elevate the early summer vegetables in the vegan hash. The sausage gravy brought me back to an earlier time when biscuits and gravy were my favorite thing in the world, and that Scotch egg was just magnificent.

However, I found myself with a full table of food, nobody to help me eat it, no way of saving it for later, and precious little time to finish it all before having to jet off to the airport. This is part of the burden when one abhors waste.

So, I did the best I could. Seriously, I don’t want to think of the number of calories I wolfed down in those fifteen minutes. But I settled the bill while I was still finishing up, ran out the door, and made it to Schenectady just as the plane was landing.

And then it was time to eat lunch.

The kids were greatly relieved that the afternoon meal would be more up their alley than the morning one. We were all going to The Memphis King. Young Master Fussy is a big fan of pulled pork, and Little Miss Fussy just loves anything that has to do with meat.

I decided that I’d order a two way combo for my hungry little girl and just pick a few bites from her plate. Except it didn’t quite work out that way.

When I glanced at the fatty edges of the sliced brisket, I had to try a bite. One bite of that well rendered, tender, buttery, beefy and smokey fat was all that it took. I was hooked. Technically, I suppose, it was still just a few bites from her plate. It’s just that they were some mighty calorically dense bites.

I tried the pork too. The brisket was better. And then after lunch I helped to finish some of the kids’ gelato from Villa Italia.

By the time dinner rolled around, I couldn’t even think of food. Neither could Little Miss Fussy, who at least ate a biscuit at brunch, in addition to a few bites of strawberry buckle. Did I forget to mention that one? The kids let me eat all of the wild mint whipped cream. Anyhow, she made do with a small bowl of cereal flakes and a couple of cherries.

My dinner was literally a glass of water.

This week I’m going to take it easy. Well, at least until Thursday. That’s when I’m going to get together with some local food lovers (and Yelpers) to eat at Joe’s Tavern in Cohoes. Which, by the way, you are welcome to join. RSVPs are required because I need to manage the size of the event. But so far we’ve been able to squeeze everyone around the table who wanted to be there.

Please just remember, these stories may be fun to read and recount, but I don’t eat like this all the time. These are the exceptions. And I’m sure in a few hours yesterday I undid all the sensible eating I’ve been doing since my return to New York. Dammit. I was doing so well too.

One Comment leave one →
  1. RogerK permalink
    June 15, 2015 12:48 pm

    Schenectady airport? Does she pilot her own plane? Or is she in the Air National Guard?

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