Today for Lunch

Hey Rhett,

As my father was fond of saying, you don’t need my help to make you look like an asshole. You do a fine job on your own.

Though I can’t say I share your fear of sushi, for many years I did. I learned the hard way that this is one food you probably don’t want to buy from the cheap bin at the Superstore. Cold raw fish is a little less sketchy when prepared at the hands of a master chef. Cold macaroni, on the other hand (even when expertly prepared) will never be truly enjoyable. This is the takeaway from today’s lunch.

The problem was that I made an obscene amount of homemade mac ‘n’ cheese on Sunday night. I ended up bringing in a huge Tupperware container that contained more than enough food for today’s lunch and the next day’s. But it seemed like kind of a hassle to try and track down a bowl I could scoop half of the pasta into for microwaving purposes. And as I’ve previously mentioned, the weakness of the office microwaves meant nuking the whole amount would be both a waste of time and a source of anxiety for me. My solution? I took it to my desk and ate it one congealed cheese clump at a time.

There’s still plenty left for tomorrow. I may reheat it then.

Best,
Brendan

Rhett,

My morning was full of meetings and my stomach was empty. Not a winning combination. I was so distracted by the rumblings in my gut that I had trouble paying attention. I’m pretty sure what we were discussing didn’t relate directly to me. I could be wrong. Regardless, as soon as the meeting was over, I walked by the mini-fridge and took out my lunch. It was maybe five after 11.

I’d brought some leftover pizza from a restaurant called Una Pizza + Wine, where I’d eaten with Tara the night before in her capacity as restaurant reviewer for Fast Forward Weekly. I was looking forward to lunch that much more because the food there had been pretty great.

Una is in the old Wicked Wedge space on 17th Avenue, just across from Western Canada High School. That name might not mean much to you, but during the late nineties, there was no more popular place for a late night bite than the Wicked Wedge. Many evenings spent at the Ship or Republic were wrapped up with “gourmet” slices of pizza. It looks like this tradition will carry forward as long as Una maintains its late night hours.

As far as my much longed-for lunch, I had a couple slices of their salami pizza, along with a couple of the ricotta and prosciutto. The latter was surprisingly good cold, which is how I almost always eat my leftover pizza. Tara and I don’t see eye to eye on the cold pizza issue. What are your thoughts? Eat or reheat?

Let me know,
Brendan

Rhett,

I went to the doctor’s today for the first time in a long time. I mean, I’ve gone to drop-in clinics here and there whenever my health’s taken a dive, but my approach to medicine has been pretty reactionary for the past 15 years or so. I figured I was due for a check-up. The first step was doing a meet and greet with my family doctor.

It’s weird, because even though I’m fairly healthy, I got all anxious before going in, like the other shoe was about to drop. I know I make light of eating badly on these pages, but at the end of the day, I’ve got a family history of diseases that can be traced pretty directly to the type of meals I eat every day. Sooner or later, I know I’m going to have to clean up my act. But today was not that day.

You see, Tara at work has been on a donair kick ever since this place called Babylon Quithara opened up across the street from Sunridge Mall. She was talking about her packed lunch with all the enthusiasm of a corpse. As soon as I mentioned that I’d need to pick something up, she was reborn. She insisted on taking me to try their donair. I didn’t really need to be convinced.

We went down and ordered up our wraps. It seems to me that health-wise, donairs are roughly on par with hamburgers, but by virtue of being vaguely exotic they appear to be healthier than they really are. This suspicion notwithstanding, I ended up ordering a large even though a regular would have done the trick. I also got a Vimto. I strongly recommend you order a Vimto the next time you’re in a middle-eastern restaurant. The Arabic script on the can makes you look worldly and cultured while allowing you to secretly enjoy a fruity soda that might as well come with Crush on the can.

I assure you that Tara did not steer me wrong. My only complaint about the meal was that it left my breath smelling of onions and garlic. I had to buy some chewing gum before going to my doctor’s appointment, where, you’ll be happy to know, the other shoe didn’t drop. Not yet, at least.

Still somewhat anxious,
Brendan

Dear Rhett,

Today’s was an especially joyless lunch. I’m not even sure if I know why. I’ve been feeling kind of behind the eight ball at work lately, mostly because a couple of projects I’ve been working on have been going on for so long. It’s the nature of what I’m doing, I suppose, but I’m not going to be as relaxed as I’d like until this stuff is off my plate. Fortunately, I’m paid to be here, which helps enormously.

I decided to spend a portion of my salary at the cafeteria, opting, against my better judgement, for the Shepard’s Pie with a side of Cream of Spinach Soup. Growing up, my dad prepared various permutations of ground beef with veg and mashed potatoes for the better part of 18 years, so I feel like I’m in a position to say what a Shepard’s Pie should or should not be. To wit: It should not be rubbery. It should not be crunchy. It should be tasty. This Pie failed on all counts. On the bright side, the soup was fair, if a little salty.

How bad was it? I didn’t even finish it. And you know how much I like to finish my food. Not a choice I’ll choose again.

Warm regards,
Brendan

P.S. Did you know that French Canadians call Shepard’s Pie Pâté chinois? True story. No one could ever explain to me how this baffling name (Chinese Pie) came to be. I’m not an expert on Chinese food, but I’m pretty sure that this has never been it.

Rhett,

At the risk of sounding heartless, not being in the same town as your wife on Valentine’s Day was probably the best thing that ever happened to you. Instead of finding fault with your token romanticism, she was able to judge you based on the tender things that you might have done, had you been in the same city. Malnourishment is a small price to pay for avoiding the inevitable disappointment Saint Valentine brings.

Of course, my problem lies at the other end of the hunger spectrum from yours. It embarrasses me to tell you how excited I got when I saw that the Buffalo Chicken sandwich was on special at the cafeteria. This despite knowing for a fact that it is not a very good dish. Oh, sandwich. How could I stay mad at you?

Of course I got it. Of course it was sub-par. But it was slathered in vinegary hot sauce, and sometimes that’s enough.

Fatter daily,
Brendan

Rhett,

When I lived in Montreal, I worked at a finance magazine of dubious merit. Though my salary was low, I loved that I was paid in the form of actual cheques. I think it was the ritual of it — receiving the envelope from my boss every Friday like a communion wafer, walking down the street to my bank, endorsing the cheque as I slipped it across to the teller with instructions to deposit everything but my drinking money.

This last part of the ritual was probably the part I liked best about getting paid weekly. Every Friday called for a celebration and we were lucky enough to work just down the street from the perfect place for that — the sadly defunct Cock ‘n’ Bull. We’d drink like Japanese salarymen, loosening our ties as we slurred complaints about our employers and our squandered talents.

It was payday again today. Here, they deposit my money directly into my account. Less room for ritual. Still, we seem to be developing something of a payday rite. Every two weeks, someone suggests we go to the Sunridge Food Court for something to eat. A group of us will pile into a car, drive down 27th Ave and file into the mall. We grab our meals from our respective restaurants and gather around a table to discuss the travails, trials and tribulations of our week.

Today I bitched between bites of my Super Soft Chicken Taco and Crisp Meat Burrito. It was nice. Piquant. The kind of ritual I can get behind.

Hope you have a great weekend,
Brendan

Rhett,

I don’t know if I care for your most recent salutation. Perhaps these things are done differently in Regina, but here in Calgary we generally reserve that kind of effusiveness for partners of the romantic variety. “Dear Brendan” should suffice going forward.

With that out of the way, I just wanted to touch on your lunch. I used to eat a lot of Kraft Dinner myself. I’ll still make it a few times a year, but I think I OD’ed on it when I was living in poverty in Montreal. The particular dish you describe was once referred to as Mac ‘N’ Dink in my presence, which kind of ruined my appreciation of it. I can’t imagine such childishness affecting your love for the sausage.

My lunch was the same one I dreaded eating yesterday: two slices of bread and Tetra Pak of soup. The bread was a nice multi-grain loaf from the Urban Baker, while the soup was Sweet Corn with Chipolte. I ate the whole box hunched over my desk, worried that I might spill soup into my keyboard. Even though it was probably intended to be a couple of servings, I was still hungry when I was done.

Very best,
Brendan

Rhett,

I was successful in eating lunch away from my desk today, though not through any particular effort of my own. Chris forgot his lunch and asked if I wanted to join him at Sunridge Mall for a bite. It was maybe 11:30. He’s been trying to eat healthier lately, but it seems like he’s just hungry all the time. I wasn’t that peckish myself, but I definitely didn’t have an appetite for the two slices of bread and Tetra Pak of soup I’d brought for lunch. I fairly jumped at the opportunity to eat elsewhere.

I don’t know if you knew this, but I grew up a couple of communities over from Sunridge. Consequently, it’s the one food court I’ve been to more than any other and the one I compare all others against. My platonic ideal, if you will. This familiarity makes it easier for me to make decisions. I find strange food courts overwhelming.

Because I know the spot so well, I pretty much knew what I was going to eat before I arrived: Chicken Teriyaki with no mushrooms and extra sauce from Edo Japan. As I mentioned earlier, Chris was real hungry, so we decided to eat at the mall. His health kick fell by the wayside as he scarfed down an order of New York Fries and a hot dog.

It was pretty good. We bitched about the office and talked about his upcoming vacation to Vancouver for the Olympics. There’s a lot to be said for not eating at your desk.

Best,
Brendan

Rhett,

As I mentioned yesterday, I’ve been thinking about eating lunch away from my desk for a while now. I just can’t seem to work up the nerve to sit in one of the common areas. My problem is that I don’t like people that much. I just know that the social pressure to be pleasant and polite and carry on a conversation would ruin my lunch. And if I wanted to ruin my lunch, I could sit at my desk. It’s a Catch-22 situation.

Instead of eating elsewhere, I microwaved some Mexican pulled pork (actually Carnitas), put it into a bun and sat down at my desk. The sandwich was pretty tasty, though the bun was a little dry.

In the absence of conversation, I wasted some time online. I read about that Colonel in the Air Force who allegedly killed two women and then about how the author of Moby-Dick died thinking himself a failure. In a weird way, spending my lunch in this manner kind of made me feel justified in my misanthropy.

Hating you a little less than everyone else,
Brendan

Hey Rhett,

Although I’m not entirely comfortable with the title foodie, there’s really no better word for someone who’s really into food. Epicure? Pretentious even by my standards. But I think you’ll have to reconcile yourself to the fact that reflecting on your meals on a regular basis is likely to make you more thoughtful about the food you eat. Unless you’re going for willful ignorance, in which case you’re probably doomed to a life of toast, chicken, mayo and pickles.

You’ll be happy to know that there was nothing too hoity-toity on the menu today: leftover Spaghetti with Italian Sausage. I’m sure you’ll deduct points because I made the tomato sauce from tomatoes instead of opening a jar, but I assure you it was a fairly simple concoction. For my fellow foodies, I’ll let you in on my secret: I like to use one can of plum tomatoes and one can of cherry tomatoes to kick up the sweetness.

I kept forgetting to bring various leftovers last week, so this had been sitting in the fridge since last Thursday-ish. I was a little concerned about the consistency of the noodles. Fortunately, they held up. It was good.

I thought about eating my lunch somewhere other than my desk, but it seemed like too much work. And really, where am I going to go? By the pool table? Not really my style. The only reason I even feel the urge to eat elsewhere is that I recently reread Douglas Coupland’s Generation X for an interview I was doing and was struck by his term for cubicles: veal-fattening pens. It resonated somehow, like there was something inhumane about eating where you work. Lacking dignity, maybe? I need to think it over.

I might eat elsewhere tomorrow.

Very best,
Brendan