by John Manini, 3/10/10
“Ain’t no fly strips here.”
I have come to expect such observations from my uncle, a retired Philadelphia cop, burly and kind; aptly dubbed “Butchie”.
“This is a brew pub, not a greasy spoon.” I cannot quantify what constitutes a bona fide brew pub. I am confident it does not include glue catchers.
As a beat cop, Butchie dined at local delis, street vendors, and bakeries in south Philly. His pay grade grew and he would frequent upscale joints, developing a sophisticated palate along the way. “For a cop,” he contends – a suffix he adds to most compliments.
Inside the Fish Bowl, Butchie chats up our server. Always making nice, looking for the inside scoop, and tending to the most important part: “Nothing reinforces a functioning alcoholic’s delusion like Mimosas.”
Our server returns with 2 pilsner glasses filled to the rim. My vocabulary atrophies into my early twenties. “Whamma-jamma, big drink.”
Butchie puts away half his round with gusto and smirks. “Good and tingly. But pulp? Are you s’posed to chew your booze? Is that what you dooz out here? Hey you tooz, make sure you chooze your booze.” The pulp does not preclude additional rounds. I bury my head in the menu while I can still lift it.
Eggs Nova Scotia is described as English muffin, pub-smoked salmon, poached egg and hollandaise. The Pub-Corned Beef Hash is eponymous and comes with 2 eggs and toast.
“Look at this kiddo. The corned beef is shaved into thin strips. This ain’t that cubed in the can shit.” The menu suggests the beef is corned in house, excuse me, in pub.
Butchie pilots a heaping forkful into his mouth. The hash settles on his tongue. I watch his demeanor change to focused calm. The hash-flavored steam permeates his soft palate, delicately traverses his nasal passages, becoming ensconced in every cranial cavity. He chews slowly, incorporating his saliva into the food solids, rendering them into a delectable paste he savors with each rhythmic mandibular grind. This is beauty. This is quite literally life taking place before my eyes. Sustenance. Swallow. Satiety.
“Tastes all right enough, but I kind of miss the texture of the cubed in the can shit. Old dog I guess.” Butchie barks twice and scoops another forkful into his mouth. “Don’t kid yourself kiddo, texture is important, but this is nice”. Having made peace with his hash, Butchie is eyeing my plate.
“They shorted you Hollandaise, kiddo. I can still see muffins.” I evaluate my sauce ration while 25% of my breakfast walks off the plate.
“Kehful, veenyguh,” Butchie warns.
This makes no sense. I take a bite and wince. Vinegar: an ingredient not called for in Hollandaise… maybe in Nova Scotia.
“Good thing they shorted you on the Hollandaise, kiddo. It doesn’t ruin the dish, but man does it overpower. That has to be an honest mistake. They are doing too many other things well to convince me that they would make this sauce on purpose. You gonna survive or do I have to make a fuss?”
“I’ll be fine Butchie. This is fine. Thank you.”
“Hey, c’mon kiddo… all this food looks great, and other than this creamy vinegar on your eggs, it’s a nice brunch. Hit the hash browns with some salt, pepper, ketchup and Tabasco. Whadda I got to teach you everything? Potatoes were made to be slathered with condiments. And make sure you chew your booze.” ◙