The neon cactus sign suspended above the Oasis is in clear disrepair. You can imagine that in the past it used to glow hot, alien electric a force strong enough to draw all manner of passers by right off the road and through the unassuming door and into a world of beer, burgers, friends, and family. Despite the disrepair evident all around The Oasis restaurant on University Boulevard outside Tuscaloosa, the restaurant still has an undeniable appeal for the local population. At lunch time, it is customary to double park fellow diners in order to find a place between the vehicles and the car gurgling, rain-filled, car swallowing potholes in the gravel parking lot. The same degree of wear is obvious on the dining room tables which bear the indelible etchings of past customers. The whole scene exudes a slow, timeless, but calming pace that is the epitome of the charm and frustration of living in the South. If you are interested in having a fast burger and to get on your way, McDonald’s just up the street is your ticket. It is not that the food at The Oasis takes forever to come out to you. Quite the contrary, the service is sharp and the food comes out quickly (although the lone waitress provides only one set of eyes, hands, and ears to be sensitive to your wants and needs). While The Oasis promises a lot in terms of food, the best burger in this town…of Cottondale, it does not rush you or your order just to please the endlessly ticking clock that defines so many peoples’ lives. It is in this respect that The Oasis is rich, not just in its food, but in its overall experience. So often, even when we sit down to fancy meals, we work through our food quickly and miss the many other enjoyable parts of the dining experience. The scenery of The Oasis is not particularly interesting, but from the discolored and antiquated box television set in one corner, to the ubiquitous college town beer signs that hang on the walls, to the Mardi Gras memorabilia by the cash register, The Oasis is memorable because you feel free to talk, relax, and take time and savor the complete meal experience.
It isn’t as if the South invented the notion of taking your time with your food and savoring not only the tastes but also the company and ambiance of the meal. After satisfying his most basic needs, man searched for ways to increase his safety and his satisfaction. Dining together and taking time to enjoy eating was a way to satisfy both. But while so many Americans have continued to “evolve” into calculated, efficient drive-thru diners, who have shortened their eating experiences, small restaurants like The Oasis have unavoidably had to eschew that approach because they cannot afford to do business in that manner. This was obvious when, twenty minutes after entering the restaurant with twelve of my classmates, the waitress informed us that we should start ordering in groups because the grill could not hold all of our food at the same time. Imagine if McDonald’s had to sit customers down and make them wait because it did not have enough grill or fry space to match their demand. The fast food system is predicated on producing foods that are so simple and fast that such a scenario will never develop. The waitress wasn’t ashamed to inform us that some of us would have to wait longer for our food. Most of us were so wrapped up in conversations at the table that the exposed “shortcoming” of The Oasis fell on deaf ears.
While waiting for food at The Oasis, it is hard to resist the allure of the jukebox that juts out of the corner of the room, the neon elephant in the room, demanding that attention (and dollars) be offered to it. The jukebox is nostalgic not only because it hearkens back to a style of music and look that would fit in better next to Fonz in Happy Days than in your average 21st-century burger joint, but also because it requires a patience and cooperation that do not mesh with our individualistic, I’ll-just-listen-to-my-ipod thank you very much lifestyle. While cooperation at the jukebox seems to always be encouraged by the staff and locals, when a person picks a song you are bound to show a little RESPECT (just a little bit) and appreciate their choice of music. Fairness is maintained because everyone eventually gets a turn to pick a song and play DJ. While listening to some classic songs from bygone years, I couldn’t help but wonder if the customers at McDonald’s could ever agree on songs to listen to? Do they even play music in fast food restaurants for fear of irritating the customers?
The Oasis burger had the appropriate balance of grease, meat, and cheese that puts a dripping smile on your face when you bite into it. I paired my double cheeseburger with a side of onion rings. The rings had a dark, caramelized color to them that guaranteed that the inside would be well cooked. The fry dough was not bound to the onion but broke away with its own distinct textural crunch and did not dissolve in my hand. The meal, like many greasy but carefully prepared burgers, weighed heavily on my cholesterol but lightened my soul. It was a happy meal in the most appropriate sense of the word. Between conversations with my classmates and the locals who were enjoying their first bite (and drink, or two) of the afternoon, and the copious amounts of good fried food at our table, I could not wipe the dopy grin off of my face. For me, eating a good meal is about transcending the quality of the food in front of you. It is about sharing something greater than the sum of the parts with those around you. To that end, the Oasis delivers, and all for the price of a “happy meal” at one of those lifeless, sterilized burger places. The Oasis offers a lot and only asks one thing in return. Take a seat and don’t be in a rush, the grill might already be full, music might already be playing, but if you hang out for awhile, (and oh how the time flies) you will not be disappointed.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
A Family Food Memory
I am not a strong proponent of the “eat the whole animal” movement. Call it conditioning or inclination, but when it comes to eating offal I find myself often at a loss of appetite. The textures and tastes of different internal organs are wholly unique and it is not those qualities of the food that suffocate my appetite. When cooked like any other meat and sauced and seasoned properly they can smell and taste like any other part of the meal. The issue is that internal organs (and other less traditional American bits), unlike sausages which are made from those parts and are delicious, never stop looking like guts. A testicle will always look like a testicle no matter how you truss it up. However, as my father demonstrated with the brussel sprout, collard green, and turnip, he had an incredible power to break down my entire lifetime of trained resistance to a type of food with one meal. He has a way of taking your preconceived notions about a meat, a vegetable, or a grain and transforming it into something that doesn’t just make you want to keep eating but makes you want to go tell your friends to eat it too. Despite his gifts, my father generally knew better than to serve me innards because he knew that I harbored my strongest reservations against them. And so, when I discovered a lumpy sack of grey matter on the kitchen table one evening last year, I was not altogether surprised, but thoroughly dismayed when my father informed me that the bag contained sweetbreads, and they would be on the dinner table tonight.
Sweetbread is an etymological mystery and a threat to the uninformed and offaly unwilling diner. The description is usually reserved for the pancreas of a veal calf thought it sometimes includes the pancreases of other animals. When the completed dish is served on the plate it looks nothing like a pancreas should. In both name and appearance the sweetbread is a culinary Houdini. But all of that kitchen sleight of hand belies an unpleasant reality: the sweetbread spends minutes in the pan cooking and likely even less time being eaten but spends hours in the kitchen being prepared and throughout looking unsurprisingly like…a pancreas. It was in this unfortunate state that I encountered the evening’s meal. It was my misfortune not only to be a diner at the table this evening but, because sweetbread preparation takes a long time and is labor intensive, also a party to the preparation of the meal.
My dad started by taking the sweetbreads out of their lumpy sack and placing them on the table. Their initial appearance was that of brains bound with the intestinal membranes used to make sausage. My dad tried to comfort me by informing me that the first step in sweetbread preparation, an all night soak in cold water had been taken care of for him. The grey, lifeless, blobs on the table next to me seemed no better for their bath. Perhaps because my father had read my mind, or because he was following through on some ancient recipe that his teacher had passed onto him in his youth, he informed me that the sweetbreads would be taking another dip, this time in boiling water for a few minutes. It was my wish that the little pancreases boil until they were inedible, but under my dad’s watchful eye we slid the slops into a pot and let them alone for a few minutes. We removed the sweetbreads from the hot water and iced them down to stop the cooking process. I was starting to think that sweetbreads was a single person operation and I was considering an escape to the living room with its heat belching fireplace, and mom watching bad courtroom TV shows with my siblings. The sweetbreads in front of me could turn your desires to anything else in an instant. Then my father finally brought me to task on the meal. I was charged with the responsibility of removing connective tissue from around the sweetbreads. That substance that looked like sausage casing all around the flesh had to be removed, by hand, and it was my responsibility to see to it. By now, the squishy brains had tightened up to the consistency of dried out bread dough. The flesh would give a little bit but no longer appeared as though it might at any moment deflate and ooze off of the table. I nevertheless touched the sweetbreads with incredible tenderness. I could not escape the feeling that if my brains were ever handled by aliens I would hope they would show the same respect and dignity that I was showing the veal pancreases in front of me. Removing the tissue is relatively easy because it is done by hand. You have to dig into the flesh slightly to tear away at the membrane but it tugs off in satisfying, complete pieces as you go. Once I completed my assignment, my dad and I looked down on my handiwork. After he fixed the places where I missed some of what he called “unpleasant parts” and what I thought could have referred to the whole pancreas, he explained the next step. We took the grey, doughy, lumps and laid them out on a pan. Then we laid a towel and a second identical pan overtop of the sweetbreads. On top of the press went a heavy pan. The plan was to compact the sweetbreads and flatten them out so that they can be cooked as medallions. Then my dad announced the best words I had heard all day: “you can go do other stuff now I don’t need your help anymore.”
Faster than on Christmas day, I raced into the living room to be with the rest of my family. I could now go to work compartmentalizing the things I had just seen, and the squishy objects I had just touched, away from the dish I was soon to eat. Every organ dish before had let me down, but I had never been so close to the preparation process either. I felt a strange tearing between my participation in making the sweetbread dish and my desire to avoid eating them. In what felt like a few minutes of contemplating, but was likely closer to an hour and a half, my dad called all of us into the kitchen to eat. The dish that was on the plate in front of me looked nothing like the pancreases I had first encountered a few hours ago. And not only did it look good but the family collectively agreed that it tasted good too. The sweetbreads had a velvety texture, like a pate. They were light but made crispy on the outside because my dad pan fried them. What had started out as lifeless gray lumps had been transformed into a rich and flavorful meal. I realized that cooking has an incredible power of transformation. Being in a family of cooks means learning to appreciate how raw, rough, and seemingly undesirable things can often transform into the most delicate and satisfying of dishes if you take the time to prepare them right.
Sweetbread is an etymological mystery and a threat to the uninformed and offaly unwilling diner. The description is usually reserved for the pancreas of a veal calf thought it sometimes includes the pancreases of other animals. When the completed dish is served on the plate it looks nothing like a pancreas should. In both name and appearance the sweetbread is a culinary Houdini. But all of that kitchen sleight of hand belies an unpleasant reality: the sweetbread spends minutes in the pan cooking and likely even less time being eaten but spends hours in the kitchen being prepared and throughout looking unsurprisingly like…a pancreas. It was in this unfortunate state that I encountered the evening’s meal. It was my misfortune not only to be a diner at the table this evening but, because sweetbread preparation takes a long time and is labor intensive, also a party to the preparation of the meal.
My dad started by taking the sweetbreads out of their lumpy sack and placing them on the table. Their initial appearance was that of brains bound with the intestinal membranes used to make sausage. My dad tried to comfort me by informing me that the first step in sweetbread preparation, an all night soak in cold water had been taken care of for him. The grey, lifeless, blobs on the table next to me seemed no better for their bath. Perhaps because my father had read my mind, or because he was following through on some ancient recipe that his teacher had passed onto him in his youth, he informed me that the sweetbreads would be taking another dip, this time in boiling water for a few minutes. It was my wish that the little pancreases boil until they were inedible, but under my dad’s watchful eye we slid the slops into a pot and let them alone for a few minutes. We removed the sweetbreads from the hot water and iced them down to stop the cooking process. I was starting to think that sweetbreads was a single person operation and I was considering an escape to the living room with its heat belching fireplace, and mom watching bad courtroom TV shows with my siblings. The sweetbreads in front of me could turn your desires to anything else in an instant. Then my father finally brought me to task on the meal. I was charged with the responsibility of removing connective tissue from around the sweetbreads. That substance that looked like sausage casing all around the flesh had to be removed, by hand, and it was my responsibility to see to it. By now, the squishy brains had tightened up to the consistency of dried out bread dough. The flesh would give a little bit but no longer appeared as though it might at any moment deflate and ooze off of the table. I nevertheless touched the sweetbreads with incredible tenderness. I could not escape the feeling that if my brains were ever handled by aliens I would hope they would show the same respect and dignity that I was showing the veal pancreases in front of me. Removing the tissue is relatively easy because it is done by hand. You have to dig into the flesh slightly to tear away at the membrane but it tugs off in satisfying, complete pieces as you go. Once I completed my assignment, my dad and I looked down on my handiwork. After he fixed the places where I missed some of what he called “unpleasant parts” and what I thought could have referred to the whole pancreas, he explained the next step. We took the grey, doughy, lumps and laid them out on a pan. Then we laid a towel and a second identical pan overtop of the sweetbreads. On top of the press went a heavy pan. The plan was to compact the sweetbreads and flatten them out so that they can be cooked as medallions. Then my dad announced the best words I had heard all day: “you can go do other stuff now I don’t need your help anymore.”
Faster than on Christmas day, I raced into the living room to be with the rest of my family. I could now go to work compartmentalizing the things I had just seen, and the squishy objects I had just touched, away from the dish I was soon to eat. Every organ dish before had let me down, but I had never been so close to the preparation process either. I felt a strange tearing between my participation in making the sweetbread dish and my desire to avoid eating them. In what felt like a few minutes of contemplating, but was likely closer to an hour and a half, my dad called all of us into the kitchen to eat. The dish that was on the plate in front of me looked nothing like the pancreases I had first encountered a few hours ago. And not only did it look good but the family collectively agreed that it tasted good too. The sweetbreads had a velvety texture, like a pate. They were light but made crispy on the outside because my dad pan fried them. What had started out as lifeless gray lumps had been transformed into a rich and flavorful meal. I realized that cooking has an incredible power of transformation. Being in a family of cooks means learning to appreciate how raw, rough, and seemingly undesirable things can often transform into the most delicate and satisfying of dishes if you take the time to prepare them right.
Review of Maggie's Diner
For most people, the pre-teenage years are marked with the introduction of acne, awkwardness, attitude, and a growing frustration with being only halfway through the dark and seemingly empty tunnel of the education system. Despite this malaise, for many people, the silver lining in the school experience is the break between fourth bell and fifth, more affectionately termed: the lunch period. There are many reasons why lunch is the runaway winner in a vote for the best part of the school day. Obviously, books and homework are never required. However, the lunch period is no less a time of debate and discussion amongst peers. In the cafeteria line, everyone knows everyone. The teachers, students, and cooking staff all can relate to each other and have a shared appreciation for the work of the day only matched by an equal appreciation for today’s house special. The cook staff knows you not only by name, but by carpool, sports teams, and sometimes even by not-so-distant family. And for some students (your dear author not included), lunch period is special because it is the first and only time during the day you are greeted with a home cooked meal. To call cafeteria food home cooked requires a liberal ladling of imagination gravy overtop of the generous portions of Sysco mashed potatoes, Sysco creamed corn, and Sysco chicken nuggets. But for many students, cafeteria lunch taps into a sense of community and exhibits a care in preparation that is absent from the fast food meals that will dominate the rest of the day.
Grown-ups have many more options when it comes to enjoying food because money can usually buy you a quasi-nutritious meal and can probably even buy you friends to enjoy it with you. However, many times we still eat fast food and deprive ourselves of a true community eating experience. If you find yourself nostalgic for this sort of meal, then Maggie’s Diner in Tuscaloosa, Alabama welcomes you. Even in an age of Global Positioning Systems and instant connectivity, the directions to Maggie’s Diner read much like they must have when the diner was first founded. “Go down Bryant Drive until it dead ends, turn left, when you see the train tracks park.” In so many ways, Maggie’s Diner hearkens back to an older, slower time. The sign on the front door is faded and barely legible. Repairs would be in order if the sign’s purpose was to attract new clientele. Rather, it is a mural of a bygone era. Whether Maggie’s Diner still existed or not, that sign would indicate to you that at one time, people congregated here to spread the news and share in each other’s lives in a manner which is lost on many modern consumers. A similar feel awaits you as you walk into the low-ceilinged diner. Yellowed newspaper articles against the wall indicate to you that this restaurant is, in fact, the progeny of a cafeteria cook who went big. Maggie worked in cafeteria prep for thirty years before striking out on her own. The place looks, smells, and sounds of cafeteria. Dishwashers bustle about, always behind in their duties. Women coo the younger people in line and sheet pans of sugary baked goods emanate a sweet warmth throughout the two room dwelling that you can indulge in whether you finish your meat and vegetables or not. It dawns on you that Mom and Dad are not here. You are free to indulge yourself in whatever foods you desire. Or sit out and eat nothing (as I so often did as a child in school). Maggie’s brings out the good and bad in the cafeteria experience. The food is not gourmet, but it is crafted with a caring and disciplined hand, and you are welcome to enjoy your lunch whatever way you please.
When you enter Maggie’s Diner you enter a community that is much richer than the soupy vegetables and fried or stewed meats that are separated from you by one pane of glass and years of liberation from the structure of primary schooling. The richness comes from the police making conversation with the wait staff in front of you in line, and the people sitting two and four to a card table, with gaily floral table covers and equally as cheap plastic chairs. Just like the assorted styles of plates (watch out for the miniature ones) that Maggie has collected for serving, her diner is an eclectic mix of different community members who share not only a meal but their stories and experiences as well. And like any great head cafeteria woman, Maggie holds court over all of the proceedings. She runs the register but will often slip out to make conversation with her patrons and refer to them by name. She is the overseer not only of the sustenance of her flock but also their social well being.
I cannot escape leveling one criticism against this restaurant. During my unusual educational upbringing, I skipped over fifth and sixth grades and started high school early before coming back down to earth and finishing seventh and eighth grades. For me, the cafeteria experience was a somber and lonesome affair. Usually effervescent in the classroom, I was quiet and sullen during the lunch hour. Furthermore, I did everything in my power to distinguish myself from my classmates, positively and negatively. As I watched them tear into their bland cafeteria food, much of it the consistency of gruel or that of the Styrofoam trays, I quietly sat and went hungry. I wanted so badly to withdraw from their barbaric dining at the long tables that I rejected the cafeteria meal as a part of my childhood. Regrettably, one meal at Maggie’s Diner did not emancipate me from that stigma. I no longer fear conversation at the dinner table. In fact, I cherish the way that food enables multiple layers of expression: the food itself, the power of food to bring people together, and the conversation that is had around the table. However, as I sit and eat my fried chicken and vastly overcooked (for my taste) greens, my mouth grows heavy. Each chew becomes so excruciating that the prospects of conversation are dramatically reduced. All people should look for places to eat as part of the community. Maggie’s Diner has been fostering that spirit for many years and based on its four busy hours of business a day, will be doing so for years to come. However, if your childhood experiences with cafeteria food are similar to mine, the food at Maggie’s will leaving you with a quiet and lonely taste in your mouth.
Grown-ups have many more options when it comes to enjoying food because money can usually buy you a quasi-nutritious meal and can probably even buy you friends to enjoy it with you. However, many times we still eat fast food and deprive ourselves of a true community eating experience. If you find yourself nostalgic for this sort of meal, then Maggie’s Diner in Tuscaloosa, Alabama welcomes you. Even in an age of Global Positioning Systems and instant connectivity, the directions to Maggie’s Diner read much like they must have when the diner was first founded. “Go down Bryant Drive until it dead ends, turn left, when you see the train tracks park.” In so many ways, Maggie’s Diner hearkens back to an older, slower time. The sign on the front door is faded and barely legible. Repairs would be in order if the sign’s purpose was to attract new clientele. Rather, it is a mural of a bygone era. Whether Maggie’s Diner still existed or not, that sign would indicate to you that at one time, people congregated here to spread the news and share in each other’s lives in a manner which is lost on many modern consumers. A similar feel awaits you as you walk into the low-ceilinged diner. Yellowed newspaper articles against the wall indicate to you that this restaurant is, in fact, the progeny of a cafeteria cook who went big. Maggie worked in cafeteria prep for thirty years before striking out on her own. The place looks, smells, and sounds of cafeteria. Dishwashers bustle about, always behind in their duties. Women coo the younger people in line and sheet pans of sugary baked goods emanate a sweet warmth throughout the two room dwelling that you can indulge in whether you finish your meat and vegetables or not. It dawns on you that Mom and Dad are not here. You are free to indulge yourself in whatever foods you desire. Or sit out and eat nothing (as I so often did as a child in school). Maggie’s brings out the good and bad in the cafeteria experience. The food is not gourmet, but it is crafted with a caring and disciplined hand, and you are welcome to enjoy your lunch whatever way you please.
When you enter Maggie’s Diner you enter a community that is much richer than the soupy vegetables and fried or stewed meats that are separated from you by one pane of glass and years of liberation from the structure of primary schooling. The richness comes from the police making conversation with the wait staff in front of you in line, and the people sitting two and four to a card table, with gaily floral table covers and equally as cheap plastic chairs. Just like the assorted styles of plates (watch out for the miniature ones) that Maggie has collected for serving, her diner is an eclectic mix of different community members who share not only a meal but their stories and experiences as well. And like any great head cafeteria woman, Maggie holds court over all of the proceedings. She runs the register but will often slip out to make conversation with her patrons and refer to them by name. She is the overseer not only of the sustenance of her flock but also their social well being.
I cannot escape leveling one criticism against this restaurant. During my unusual educational upbringing, I skipped over fifth and sixth grades and started high school early before coming back down to earth and finishing seventh and eighth grades. For me, the cafeteria experience was a somber and lonesome affair. Usually effervescent in the classroom, I was quiet and sullen during the lunch hour. Furthermore, I did everything in my power to distinguish myself from my classmates, positively and negatively. As I watched them tear into their bland cafeteria food, much of it the consistency of gruel or that of the Styrofoam trays, I quietly sat and went hungry. I wanted so badly to withdraw from their barbaric dining at the long tables that I rejected the cafeteria meal as a part of my childhood. Regrettably, one meal at Maggie’s Diner did not emancipate me from that stigma. I no longer fear conversation at the dinner table. In fact, I cherish the way that food enables multiple layers of expression: the food itself, the power of food to bring people together, and the conversation that is had around the table. However, as I sit and eat my fried chicken and vastly overcooked (for my taste) greens, my mouth grows heavy. Each chew becomes so excruciating that the prospects of conversation are dramatically reduced. All people should look for places to eat as part of the community. Maggie’s Diner has been fostering that spirit for many years and based on its four busy hours of business a day, will be doing so for years to come. However, if your childhood experiences with cafeteria food are similar to mine, the food at Maggie’s will leaving you with a quiet and lonely taste in your mouth.
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