It's official.
I'm back in the fold.
I'm not saying I never took home a doggie bag in my 20 plus years away from home, but my refrigerator was strictly a temporary reprieve before the trash.
Going out to dinner in Buffalo takes economy to an art form. We're cheap and we're proud of it. We have one of the highest coupon redemption percentages in the United States. Menu items are selected not only for taste, but portion size and the "tommorow's lunch" factor. It was no concidence that my aunts all carried pocket books large enough to empty the bread basket.
Yet for two decades away, I had no problem leaving perfectly-good-food-I-paid-for on the table.
I've seen waiters at snob-eterias raise their noses at the simple hint of a "doggie" bag. In Buffalo the wait staff cops an attitude if you refuse the styrofoam box automatically proferred with a remaindered portion.
At Buffalo institution "Chef's" there is even a custom sticker on the box where the waiter is sure to mark the date on the box. I guess the assumption is that everyone has a "fridge" full of these boxes to file by date.
Chef's is a no-illusions spaghetti joint perched on the edge of downtown where you get white starched bibs instead of napkins.
The menu is neither extensive nor adventurous. There is never a question as to whether the garnish is for decoration. Specials rotate throughout the week and the introduction of a new one is worthy of a short item in the daily paper.
If you've been away awhile, it's a little disconcerting to see the lunch mob of power-brokers in well-cut suits and retirees on pension alike decked in their bibs. The walls are covered with blown-up snap shots of celebrities (and reasonable facsimiles) who have made the Chef's pilgrammage. (Internet sauce sales are now a large part of their business).
"Had 'em hanging from the rafters yesterday,"the waiter said as he tied our bibs last night. Not my idea of romantic or intimate, but since he was apparently congratulating us for waiting to let the crowds die down to celebrate Valentines Day, why not stretch the non-holiday a second day?
The Mayor walked in as we studied the menu. This being Buffalo, he was only accompanied by one person and smiled or said hello to every table that made eye contact on his way to the back room. The door was closed, but I'd bet a pitcher he ended up wearing the bib.
I settled on the "Irv" while Charlie, being from St. Louis, ordered Veal Parmesan.
Irv Weinstein anchored the local Eyewitness News show (Pistol-packing punks") from 1964 until 1998. Rumor is Eugene Levy based his SCTV newsman on Weinstein's syllable-punching delivery.
Growing up hearing the following jingle almost every day , how could I order anything else?
"Irv Weinstein, you're really a pro!
Ya got all the news that we wanna know.
You tell it like it is and never throw us a curve,
Nobody says it like Ir-r-r-r-v !
Eye-wit-ness News (Yes-sah!)"
I'd never tried the dish before, but hey, if Irv liked it...
"Do you want that parmed?" the waiter asked. And being from Buffalo, I know that certain cheeses can sometimes be verbs. At Chef's, "parming" involves an all-the-way-to-the-edge of the plate cheese seal over a dish roughly as thick as a polar ice cap.
I ordered the small portion. Entire football teams have been known to take home most of a parmed large portion.
"A small Irv parmed."
Charlie looked at me as if I was speaking in tongues. The waiter nodded in recognition of my excellent choice.
It arrived looking like a mounded pasta pie with a high cheese crust. Steam poured out as a broke the seal. I had only made it halfway through the plate when I recognized the need to surrender.
Charlie was surprised to see me take the labelled, dated box when offered, even moreso to see me take it out of our refrigerator this morning to take to work.
I was zapping it in the office kitchen when a colleague saw the empty container. He nodded as the smell wafted across the room.
"Irv?" he said.
"Irv parmed," I answered and he smiled.




Copyright 2006 Judi Griggs