Today for Lunch

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

Rhett,

While I applaud your attempt at realism, I don’t know what to say about your feelings toward Ginny Weasley. They seem a little — untoward? Maybe there’s such a thing as too much honesty.

As far as your lunch goes, I hope that you ordered from Chicago Deep Dish Pizza, not Chicago Deep Dish Pizza. Notwithstanding the bafflingly duplicated name, these pizzerias produce vastly different dishes. Conflate them at your peril.

My own lunch was leftover stir-fry from earlier in the week. Since the lingering effects of the cold have rendered my taste buds less sensitive than usual, I took the opportunity to make a dish full of aromatic flavour and fiery heat. Kung Pao Chicken fit the bill to a T. Even two days later, it was spicy and delicious, with the great peppery taste you get from Sichuan peppercorns. My only complaint was that I ate too much for dinner and didn’t have enough for a truly filling lunch.

It was nothing that a trip to the candy machine couldn’t fix.

Thanking God it’s Friday,
Brendan

Brendan,

So, I wanted to write you something real today. Something from the heart. But I find I don’t know that I have anything real to say. And, on top of all that, every time I get too caught up in worrying about reality I usually search out some magic. I think you know what this means—I’ve loaded the Harry Potter audio books back onto my iPhone. There’s nothing better than listening to Stephen Fry. Well, there’s a few things better. Sex, I find, is nice.

I just wanted to give you the heads up that you won’t be hearing from me (on the phone, I’ll still write) until I finish listening. I have to tell you that while I look forward to hearing from Harry and the gang (again), there are some things I’m not looking forward to.

• Dumbledore dying. I’ve gotten better at accepting this, but it’s still a dark time for me.
• My inevitable crush on Ginny. I’m sure you’ve had a fictional crush before. Is it illegal to have a crush on a fictional 16 year old girl? It feels wrong. But really I think she’s my perfect gal. I even have a crush on the actress who plays Ginny and I don’t find her that attractive. It’s just that she plays Ginny so well. I think if I met her in real life I’d probably be disappointed. Also, luckily, the actress is 18 now. So no jail time for me!
• The opener to every book. The first chapter in every book relives the last book in about 20 pages. It gets annoying.

I had some Chicago deep-dish pizza for lunch. I ate 4 slices. I feel awful.

I hope my owl finds you well,
Rhett

PS – The bird bites.

Dear Rhett,

Last night was kind of depressing. I can feel it bleeding into today.

I went to go see a documentary called Junior that was playing at the Plaza as part of the Doc Soup festival. Rather than the madcap Schwarzenegger pregnancy flick that I was picturing, this Junior was a clever and thoughtful meditation on aging, told through the eyes of a 75 year-old Italian living at home with his 99-year old Mama. Needless to say, the spectre of death loomed throughout, and as I walked out of the theatre, I was lost in my own conflicted thoughts about growing old and dying.

Instead of trying to cheer myself up, I went home and grabbed The Brothers Karamazov off the bedside table and sat down to finish it once and for all. I only had 75 pages or so to go and was totally caught up in the grand finale, which takes place in a courtroom. I won’t spoil the ending for you, but I will say that Russian novelists of the 19th century were not masters of the happy ending. Truth be told, I went to bed feeling pretty down about things.

Fast forward to this morning. I’m easing into my morning with a little routine web surfing. Somehow I came across this Taco Bell webpage, featuring a rather sad packet of hotsauce.

Glen Bell, RIP

I tend to read more into these things than I should, but I felt like everything was conspiring to stress to me how brief and fragile life truly is. How did I act on this information? I went to the cafeteria and got the Creole Chicken sandwich with a side of Chicken and Rice soup. Sometimes you’ve just got to live every moment like it’s your last.

Yours fearlessly,
Brendan

Dear Rhett,

I say this as a friend: ease off the chili. Tex-Mex cuisine is best consumed by Tex-Mexicans. Their digestive tracks are up to the challenge in a way that yours never will be. If you can’t break the habit, however, rather than adding sulfur to the mix after the fact, might I suggest adding enzymes beforehand? Your co-workers (and nostrils) will thank you.

I myself briefly flirted with the idea of having chili for lunch while at Tim Horton’s today. I thought better of it. Instead, I ended up getting the somewhat redundantly-named Turkey Bacon Club sandwich. I might be wrong here, but aren’t all club sandwiches served with bacon? Isn’t that the point?

Since you’ve probably ordered more club sandwiches than anyone else I know, I suspect you already know how the Turkey Bacon Club tasted: average, with a pleasant honey mustard sweetness. All things considered, not a bad lunch.

Think about them enzymes,
Brendan

Brendan,

I imagine your water consumption was and is based on how much you sweat—and I can’t imagine your stew helped. Personally, I use deodorant, but I might recommend you look into antiperspirant and lock those pores up. Start every day layering a thick coat of that across your body. That being said, I must admit to my own weaknesses—and I wondered when we’d get here.

I’ll just go out and say it: I’ve been eating chili for the last two days. My body is like a well-oiled machine. Everything is regular and regulated. My body knows, while at work, that this is no time to make a stink. I’m here for the money and no one gives raises to a farter. So there’s no time for a gas leak.

But like a volcano, there is building pressure. And every day there must be release. Usually it starts as I drive home. I hot-box in my own flatulence. Leah walks through stink fogs all evening. I’d apologize, but Leah keeps making it. Leah also makes me keep a book of matches with me. Every toot gets another lit match. Sulfur beats fart.

While I’m on the topic of chili, I need to ask—what is so appealing about beans? I understand that they can replace meat (for protein purposes), but they don’t. I want meat. Not beans. I’ve never had beans that tasted better than chicken. Or beef. Heck, I’d even take pork.

About to erupt,
Rhett

Rhett,

As I mentioned yesterday, the flu I’ve been fighting has adversely affected my desire to prepare meals. Ordinarily, I’m a fair-to-middling home cook. There’s something about transforming raw ingredients into finished dishes that always impresses me. It’s like a non-lucrative form of alchemy.

Although my heart wasn’t in it, I made the effort to make stew the other night. Nothing fancy: some beef, carrots, onions, parsnips, tomatoes and garlic, with a little salt, pepper and rosemary for seasoning. I made a big batch so we’d have meals at the ready when we didn’t feel like making anything. All this to say: I had leftover stew for lunch.

It was good — if anything, the flavour had intensified overnight. The only thing keeping it from being perfect was my microwave anxiety. I hate having people wait for me to do things. It probably dates back to lining up for the water fountain in elementary school. The taunt “save some for the fishes” rings in my ears to this day. The problem with the microwave at the office is that it is both low in power and high in popularity. After keeping a crowd of coworkers waiting for 5 minutes, I took my still only lukewarm dish out of the microwave and back to my desk. It would have been better hot.

Very best,
Brendan

Rhett,

As you may or may not know, I have been fighting a particularly virulent bug for the past week or so. I missed work last Thursday and slept away most of the weekend. I thought I was OK to be at work today, but while you were ineptly flirting with a patron at a pious pizzeria, I was staring blankly at my computer screen, a sweaty, shaky mess.

Since Tara was also home sick, I was able to implore upon her to pick me up from work so I could finish my day from home. Once we got there, it became clear that neither of us wanted to prepare anything for lunch. I tossed around a few suggestions; she tossed them out. Eventually, we struck upon the curative potential of Middle Eastern cuisine.

I don’t know if you ever made it down to Tazza in Bridgeland when you were living in the Rotary Manor, but to my mind, they serve the finest shawarma in the city. Since Tara had come to pick me up from work, I was tasked with picking up lunch.

Despite arriving in the midst of the lunch hour rush, service was quick and pleasant. I got a large shawarma for myself with everything but banana peppers, a regular with everything for Tara, and a small tabouleh salad for us to share. I had it all bagged up to go and was home within a quarter hour. We ate in front of the television beneath a heavy blanket. As I headed up to the office, I wished I hadn’t promised to work from home that afternoon.

Feeling better already,
Brendan

Brendan,

Today, unable to stomach another sandwich, I went to Coco Brooks in the southeast. There’s a lot of strange things about Coco Brooks. First, it sounds like a pornstar or a stripper runs it—when it’s actually run by Christians. Second, they give their employees Sundays off which I respect in theory, but in practice not as much—some times I just want a pizza on a Sunday. And frankly, all the uplifting slogans all over their personal-sized pizza boxes don’t actually do any uplifting. Not for me. Not when I’m about to injest a pound of meat and grease/cheese.

I know you know all that, since it was you who introduced me to Coco Brooks. I just wanted to say it because know one else listens to me. My presumption is that, as this is a letter, you will have to read—not because you want to but because I know you believe in the sanctity of letters.

I got the Mile High pizza, a name that I can’t help but associate with the sex act. Perhaps it’s this connection that made me so self-conscious about what happened next. While I waited for my pizza to arrive, I crossed my legs and I noticed that I was wearing white tube socks with my Wallabees. You can’t wear white socks with brown/black shoes. It’s a faux pas. And yet, there I was, in defiance of that true and noble fashion law. What did I care? I had no one to impress.

Just then a cute girl sat next to me and this presented a real problem. First, she was cute. Second, I knew she was judging my sock/shoe combination, but if I tried to hide the fact I was wearing brown shoes and white socks she’d know that I knew how much of a loser I am and thus lose all potential interest in me. So I played it cool, kept my legs crossed and proudly displayed my white socks and brown shoes. Maybe she’d take pity on me?

Truly, my only true hope for coming out unscathed during this was that in her judgement she’d realize the truth—I’m married. Luckily, my number was called first so I just left and ate my pizza at my desk, at work and in silence. It was pretty good.

Greasily yours,
Rhett

Rhett,

I wouldn’t feel bad about craving ice cream for breakfast. When I was a younger man (with a more aggressive metabolism), I was known to eat two-bite brownies with heavy cream as a sort of breakfast cereal. As a child, I vowed to eat whatever I wanted when I grew up, and for years, that’s exactly what I did.

But who am I kidding? Nothing’s changed. This childish fixation on the least healthy option on any menu still sways me (see The Baconator), and once again has influenced my decision for the worse.

I honestly don’t even know if the cafeteria serves healthy food, because it has never occurred to me to order it. Today’s special was a Peppered Bacon Cheeseburger. Do you think I even listened to the options for sides? I did not. I ate the burger and fries at my desk with two packets of off-brand ketchup.

There’s no need to go into how bad it was – my views on the aggressive mediocrity of the company store is well documented. I do want you to know that however sad the web comic made you feel, lunch made me feel sadder.

Warm regards,
Brendan