Today for Lunch

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

Brendan,

I would have written to tell you this on February 14th, but I was wallowing in a pit of despair and loneliness. Or I bought a new video game and didn’t stop playing it all weekend. On Valentine’s Day, I didn’t eat anything for lunch. That is to say, all I ate was my own sadness and some popcorn—microwavable.

The worst thing about being alone on Valentine’s Day, when you have an other and predominantly couple friends, is that there is no one to hang out with. It’s like a double-whammy of nut-crunching sadness.

She comes home today. So, things will probably improve for me. Also, I had some leftover Chinese food today. It was minimal.

Rhett

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

My dearest Brendan,

I’m lonely and Leah has left me for some baby—my sister-in-law had another baby. It’s her second. But my other sister-in-law has two as well. A baby is a baby is a baby, right? Does anything even change after the first? It’s a small blob for the first six months anyway. Well, I guess it’s important to some people. Personally, I find the province of children to be entirely terrifying. I hate to be cliche, but I don’t really have a lot of choice in the matter. I’m white, male, suburban and complain about how good my life is.

In any case, I came home for lunch today because I had to walk Duke. I think I’ve also been suffering from eating at my desk. Yesterday, I walked over to the Tuscan Soup Garden which is owned and operated by an Asian family (I don’t believe they are from Tuscany and it seems like a strange name choice to me). So I’ve been getting out. Today, I made KD and a smokie. My father’s ultitarian meal of choice and one of my favourites.

The premise of going home was to walk Duke, but I ended up watching most of a Holmes Inspection episode and Duke just got a quick pee. He barked at this crazy hoarder that lives two houses down. I was proud that he could spot the crazy. Or maybe he just hates old people. I’m pretty okay with either.

I look forward to our lunch on Saturday,
Rhett

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

Brendan,

I’ve begun to worry that your foodie girlfriend is rubbing off on you. If you start going into detail about peppercorns again I’m not writing you anymore. The last thing the world needs is the two of us talking about food in detail. I don’t know about food and I don’t want to know that you know about food. All I know is that it goes in my mouth and, hopefully, tastes good.

Alright, now that we have that cleared up, I want to tell you about my “club” sandwich on the weekend. As you mentioned, I do love a good club sandwich. I would have written you sooner, but I decided that while I was on vacation (for a day) that I wouldn’t do any work. And yes, writing you is work.

Dad and I stopped in at Huckleberry’s in Invermere, because he says it’s always busy so therefore must be good. Dad got the omelet, which he thought was pretty good, and I got the “Chicken Burger Club”. I was going to get the regular club sandwich, but this idea of a chicken burger club was intriguing.

I don’t want you to be fooled, this was just a deep-fried chicken burger with bacon on it. But I have a general rule of thumb that I will try every club sandwich when the opportunity arises. I think there was a real opportunity to do something unique with this burger/sandwich combo. Perhaps Huckleberry’s isn’t the venue. It’s basically Smitty’s, plus four dollars and in a log cabin.

The best club sandwich I have ever eaten was in Sandpoint, Idaho. It was a small pub/brewery. They made everything from scratch. Even the cranberry mayo. The sandwich, I think, had sprouts and all sorts of interesting flavours and textures. Every bite was heavenly.

The chicken burger club was over par. I was tempted to say “sub par” but wouldn’t that actually be a good thing? Don’t you want to be below par? I don’t understand expressions. I don’t understand untoward.

Finally, my other rule of thumb (my first rule being always get the club) is that when you are in a Smitty’s type establishment—always get the breakfast. It’s the only thing they’re good at and that rule overrules the club rule. Take that one with you. Don’t get pasta or a pizza. Don’t even, as it turns out, get a sandwich.

Recap on the rules:

1. Always get the club.
2. Don’t get the club if you are in a breakfast specialty house.
3. Just because it’s busy doesn’t mean it’s good. Don’t trust the masses. Or don’t trust my/your father’s logic.

I hope this week goes well for you,
Rhett