Red Sauce, Ricotta, and Reminiscing
“I wonder if It looks as good as the picture.”
The gentleman next to me gestured toward a picture of lasagna on the menu. He was about to place a carryout order. I was waiting for mine.
“The real food never looks as good as the picture,” I said. “I hear it’s because of the lighting. And I’m pretty sure the photographers have people whose job it is to primp the food and make it look pretty.”
My response felt a little disingenuous.
But it seemed better than the douchey feeling I’d get from saying, “Well, sir, I’ve been on set for a lot of food video and photo shoots. Let me tell you how it’s done.”
Unless you’re talking to other people who work on sets, you can’t say “on set” without sounding like a dick.
That conversation happened on May 27, 2019. I keep notes about interesting conversations and characters, and I stumbled across this one last week.
Tailgate Summers
Memorizing player stats and collecting baseball cards was never my thing. I didn’t nerd out on baseball. Can’t say I “followed” it. But I always liked listening to baseball games on the radio.
Detroit Tigers games on WCUZ-AM were as much a part of summer as fireflies, sparklers, and getting stuck behind a manure spreader on a two-lane road with a double yellow.
I listened to more than a few innings with Joe Bodine in 1970s. Joe was a diehard Tigers fan. He’d sit on the tailgate of his red and white pickup parked halfway between the chicken coop and his cramped little farmhouse. The play-by-play from Ernie Harwell crackled out of Joe’s portable radio.
It's worth mentioning that Joe was in his 60s.
He lived on the 40 acres to the east of us. Just so you know, 40 acres is a quarter of a quarter-section. But I’ll save that lesson for another time.
I used to stop in to see Joe quite a bit. Sometimes with Dad. Sometimes on my own. He usually had a good story or a lesson of some kind. He wore overalls, was skilled with a pocket knife, and chewed tobacco. What more do you want when you're in fourth grade?
Visiting Joe seemed normal for me, because I’ve always liked old people. My great-grandfather, all the great-uncles, my dad’s buddies Ralph Taylor and Jack Gerard. Those last two guys were both 20 or 25 years older than Dad. My memories of them are a hazy tapestry of swirling smoke, molar-clenched cigars, cocktails, dirty jokes, wild stories, and laughter.
So when I encounter a vintage fella while we're both killing time waiting for food, I'm wired to engage.
Five-Cent Hamburgers
I usually make it a point to get a name when I strike up conversations with strangers. Which is frequently. My kids always got a lot of practice with eye-rolling and heavy sighs, thanks to my detours and delays.
"Sorry, guys. I started talking to that guy and …”
"Why do you always have to TALK to people?!"
But I didn’t catch Lasagna Guy’s name. And I regret that, because I wonder about him now.
Here’s what I know:
He was born in Georgia in 1928, and his parents moved the family to Davenport, Florida, when he was young.
When he was in third grade, they moved to Vineland. It was a thriving citrus-growing community in southwest Orange County, Florida. Walt Disney squeezed Vineland out of existence after he started buying up chunks of grove land. Now that part of Orlando is a congested stew of orderly, monotonous subdivisions, generic retail outlets, and chain restaurants.
The gentleman got his first job in 1939 when he was 11. He worked in a drugstore. I asked him what an 11-year-old did in a drugstore in 1939, and he said, “I did whatever they told me to do.”
Naturally.
He made 15 cents a day.
When he got older, he went to movies at the Rialto Theatre or the Beacham Theatre, both in downtown Orlando. On the way home, he’d stop at a drive-in and get a hamburger for a nickel.
On the day of our conversation, the man was 91 years old. He had two brothers in their 80s. Their dad died at 74, and mom passed at 69.
The final tidbit I have about Lasagna Guy is that he didn't deny himself good food.
Apparently, I either texted my wife about the conversation while I waited for our order or called on the way home and told her. Because I have this in my notes:
Lynette: “It sounds like you're describing future you.”
Me: “OK by me, because the guy says he's been eating whatever the hell he wants. I'm good with that!”
That was 17 months ago. My pasta-loving friend would be 92 or 93 now.
Between the vulnerability to illness and isolation, this is not a good time to be that age.
I hope he’s OK, that he has someone to talk to, and that he knows how to use Uber Eats — because no one should have to go lasagna-less.
# # #
In recent years, the building formerly occupied by the Rialto was home to side-by-side bars: Latitudes and Mako’s. If I outlined everything I look for in a good bar and you built a place that was the exact opposite, then you’d have Latitudes and Mako’s.
Like many vaudeville houses and cinemas from the early 20th Century, the Beacham was a derelict building begging for a wrecking ball by the ‘80s. But the joint survived and turned into a decent live-music venue for a while.
I saw Cheap Trick there in the early ‘90s. The Drive-By Truckers. Matt Nathanson. A few others I can’t recall. It’s been a while since there’s been an act there I want to see. Now it’s mostly a dance club.
# # #
I was pretty proud of myself yesterday morning when I diagnosed the cause of the leak on the “motor side” of my pool pump. It was a bad shaft seal.
After tearing apart the pump, replacing the impeller and shaft seal, getting it reassembled, and seeing the unit back in leak-free action, there was one person I wanted to tell..
My friend Brian works in the oil field in Southern Illinois. He’s forgotten more about pumps than you and I will ever know.
“Is that a ceramic seal?”
I love that question. Only a pro (or a pump enthusiast) would think to ask it.
If you want to see some good food pics and get occasional glimpses of life in the oil patch, then follow BC on Instagram: @franksskintags
Be prepared to get a hankerin’ for red meat on the Big Green Egg.