Fresser

Nu, so this schlemiel schlepped into the schlockmeister's store to schnorr some schmaltz. "You shnook! Shmoozing the local schmuck for a schmear? You got no mazel, Shlimazel!" Do I pass the test, Teacher?

I-banks that used to recruit at the U. of C's business school would hold "Liquidity Preference Functions." I was so proud of myself when I figured out what "LPF" meant.

Years ago, I temped in an office near O'Hare Airport. Friday was Pizza Day, and among the sundry pizzas delivered was the boss's special recipe: anchovies, jalapeno peppers and GARLIC! Damn pizza stank to high heaven, but I dug in with the boss and found the pizza quite tasty. The boss and I got along famously after that.

What about the Carnival Sideshow Eaters--able to eat whole fruits in a single bite!?

Whatta head of hair on that boy! Did you name him "Chick Magnet?"

Eating a banana in one bite is, for me at least, just too suggestive. Oranges are less Freudian.

I really shouldn't be eating this with Mama Fresser in the room. * Rummaging for dessert tonight, I happened upon that orgasmic treat: sliced bananas in sour cream. It's probably the easiest recipe one can make: scoop out some Breakstone's sour cream, plop it into a bowl and top it with barely ripe sliced bananas. It's enough to make me want a cigarette after I eat it. And I don't even smoke! Note that my choice fits neither into the Manly Food or PMS Cravings taxonomies. I suspect that other odd collations are lurking out there. * Slowly, surely, I sense myself morphing into George Costanza.

Bring on the erudite sarcasm, Pontormo!

Salivating Caveman here... How did you broil those monsters?

Thanks for the kind words, Sugarella. I'll send some paper towels and Windex over so you can wipe off your screen. Now here's some news: Harold's has opened a store in Dallas, TX. I posted a note in the Texas forum--let's see how the urban ambiance migrates to the Lone Star State.

I wasn't really sure how you and Mama were able to distinguish who was and wasn't "American" while watching people shopping! After all, my MIL, citizen y nana Elsie Castañeda -- on whose tamales I report in this post -- has been living, cooking, and eating in the US her entire life. ← Hey, I meant no slight, people. But given that Chicago is a port of entry (or destination) for many immigrants, and considering the dialects that I heard, I'm guessing that many of the folks were pretty recent immigrants. Is that bad? No way, José. Some parts of Chicago have large Russian and Polish immigrant populations. Many (but not all) Home Depots here have aisle signs printed in both English and Polish. Other stores and social service agencies have signs printed in Russian. Who knows--maybe I wanted to be one of the only two Americans in the place. It seemed like a portal to a foreign country--so much so that when I saw English language magazines at the checkout, initially couldn't I even read them. I was too tuned into Spanish. Though this may suprise some, I've never traveled outside the U.S., so maybe visiting an ethnic grocery and feeling like the "outsider" (or lone American) is my version of a passport.

Now THAT is hilarious, Dana! You might want to tell your Manly Men that unprocessed, natural foods such as grains and vegetables are closer to what the pioneers ate than nachos and whatnot. This could encourage healthy eating habits in them--just live off the land, Man! As far as the bodily noises which Manly Men (including me) all love, whole grains and vegetables tend to produce them in abundance. I've detailed my own gastrointestinal rumblings on this thread.

Much as Mama Fresser likes to shop, she's not too adventurous when it comes to trying out new stores. When it's time to replenish our oatmeal stash or buy some sugar-free cookies, she'll head for not only a chain store, but the ONE chain store where she knows the store's layout. You'd think that a Jewel (grocery) is a Jewel, but not to Mama. So I was pleasantly suprised when, as we found ourselves outside a Mexican supermarket, she agreed to mosey on in. "We'll just buy some canned fruit and things," I told La Jefa (that's Spanish for "boss.") "Just don't forget the cottage cheese, Fresser!" was her reply. Jiménez Mercado was very well-lit and clean, and about as big as most chain groceries. All the signs in the produce section were listed in English and Spanish, which was helpful for the occasional Gringo that tumbled in. It seemed that Mama and I were the only Americans in the place, which was kind of fun actually. Many of their prices were lower than the national chains--I'm guessing that this store was not unionized, and that could be part of the reason. Sure, Jimenez didn't always have the wide range of brands that you'd find in the chains, but who really needs eighteen varieties of ketchup on the shelves anyway? Toward the back of the store they have a food court of sorts, serving homemade Mexican food--again, with signs in English and Spanish. That's not something you'll find in most chains around here. Just past the food court was a bakery featuring sweets and breads baked on the premises. Mama Fresser had a question about one of the baked goods and asked a worker there, "Excuse me, do these have sugar?" I could tell by the look on the man's face that Mama's English missed the mark, so I interjected, Perdóneme Señor. ¿Sabe usted si estos bolillos tienen azúcar? The man beamed and answered, "No, no azúcar!" So thanks to Señor Llerandi, my high school Spanish teacher, we came away with some fine sugar-free baked goods. I can't wait to go back. Neither can Señora Fresser.

I propose that FabulousFoodBabe and I dress up as a butler and French Maid, respectively, to serve burgers, chicken wings, bleu cheese and other Man Food to the assembled Ladies of eGullet. I'll even help you with your cummerbund, Fabby.

Have a wedge of Stilton just to be sure.

Puddin' Buns and I used to flee high school during free periods in search of the perfect, garlicky pickle. Other times we'd congregate over a pile of fried livers from Harold's Chicken Shack. Organ meats seem particularly manly. So does bleu cheese. Really rank, fungal-smelling, ripe bleu cheese. In general, any food whose consumption causes hair to sprout on one's chest is manly.

Thanks for defending my honor in cyberspace, handmc. Much of my writing often is silly, but in Chicago, fried chicken is serious business. Harold Pierce opened the first Chicken Shack in the early 1950's in Chicago's South Side, an area where KFC and other national chains had few stores. Pierce slowly opened stores across the South Side, where consumers often remark, "Why have the Colonel (Sanders) when you can have the Fried Chicken King?" Through cold, through dark, through dead of night--often in a drunken stupor--we would march down 53rd Street in search of that tacky beacon, the glowing Harold's signage:

Who remembers The Folksmen in "A Mighty Wind" singing, EA AT OE'S ?

Megan, Cute Feet! ← ← What, no toe cleavage? I was also hoping for a picture or two from Lobel's.

Memories waft out of the squat, narrow building and 53rd & Kenwood, teasing the senses of those who used to eat in the lobby here. Or at least buy their food and run. For here, on the site of what is now a dry cleaners, there once stood Harold's Chicken Shack. Harold's was a take-out joint, open as late as 2 A.M. to sate those with alcohol-fueled munchies or provide a nocturnal cholesterol fix. Though my own jaunts to Harold's tended to occur long before the midnight hour, the scene there was always the same: steamed-up windows, hungry customers crowding a tunnel-shaped waiting area, a weatherbeaten wooden price list perched below a security camera. And at the end of this gauntlet sat the bulletproof glass partition with a bank teller's slot and a carousel through which customers would pay for and retrieve their grease-soaked feast. At Harold's, the food was cheap, but the atmosphere was priceless. There's a Harold's Chicken Shack in every Chicago neighborhood--provided you live on the South Side. Somehow Harold's urban ambience never traveled to the North Side. Maybe the neon signage that featured an axe-wielding chef chasing a chicken never caught on north of Madison Street, the city's north-south dividing line. Sure, we'ere the Hog Butchers to the World, but the hog-butchers and the meat-eaters don't always share the same neighborhood. But hungry college students go where their wallets lead them. Queueing up for 'cue First stop on the Harold's experience is the teller window, where you bark your order through the money slot at the cashier sitting an inch-thick sheet of plexiglass away. Then you slide your cash through the convex slot, retrieve your number, and wait for your number to be bellowed through the crowd. When your lucky numer was up, you ambled up to the carousel to see your steaming hot chicken perched atop french fries and awaiting its ritual drenching in sauce. "What's on your regular half?" the lady behind the glass would blurt out, and you would request salt, pepper, barbecue sauce and hot sauce, or some permutation of the above. Some of the old-timers asked for ketchup. When your order was ready, the staff wrapped it in Harold's distinctive green-and-white bags which, conveniently, listed the locations of their other 40-odd stores across Chicago. One loyal customer and dorm-rat vowed to visit each one of the stores and proudly post the store's bag on his dormitory wall. Most of the dorms were four or five blocks away from Harold's, but some mix of thermodynamics and hungry anticipation kept the tasty bird hot even during wintertime jaunts back to the dorms. Even if you didn't eat Harold's that night, you could tell if someone else on your floor had, as the smoky scent of Harold's sauce drifted through the halls. Oh, and the feast itself: a fried half-chicken sat atop greasy french fries, liberally doused with sauce and then topped with Wonder Bread cost all of five bucks. White meat aficionados ordered either a white half (four pieces of white meat) or a white sandwich with a breast and wing. Sometimes I even ordered livers. Since those halcyon days, Harold's has moved down 53rd Street to a larger location that actually offers seating, but the bulletproof glass remains. I've eaten at the new store a few times, but still I wander by the old site on Kenwood and peer through the window. Hangers and a pants-presser have replaced the deep-frying vats and plexiglass, but if you listen closely, you can still hear the echoes of "What's on your white half?" bounding about the narrow space. If only those grease-stained walls could talk...

This is just so Jeff Foxworth-esque. [twang] If the host asks you to pull up to the second window to pay for your meal...you might be a Redneck! "Would ya super-size those fries for the Lil' Lady? It's our anniversary! " [/twang]

Come to Wisconsin and smell our dairy air.

Broker. ← Oh...you mean a ronnie_suburban!

A schlepper.

You are positively clairvoyant, Ms. Kates.