My first job was cooking at Perkins. It was pretty terrible. I was 16 and worked way longer and later than the law allowed. I worked with people who frequently did drugs…at work. But there was one thing we always did: prepare the food.
“No crap, Einstein. That’s sort of implied with your title, cook, huh?”
We’ll there’s where you’re wrong. I recently had a run-in with some food that required an additional step before eating. The Wife, Baby, and I were at Bubba Gump Shrimp (yeah, we fancy) and I ordered… the shrimp plate? … something like that. Anyway, I like shrimp, but don’t eat it much.
Our food arrives, and I begin eating. If you’re a frequent eater of sea-bugs, you probably can see where this is going. After a few minutes, the Wife mentions the basket in the center of the table for shells.
“What shells?” I reply.
“The shrimp. They have shells on them. You’re supposed to take the shells off first.”
“Have you been eating the shells?”
“Didn’t you think that was weird?”
“I thought they were crunchy.”
“They have feet on them.”
“Yeah, so do cows and chickens. I eat a lot of things with feet. Pig’s feet are delicacies in a lot of places.”
And this brings me to my complaint; why was I supposed to take part in the preparation of my food? Correct me if I’m wrong, but I pay the cook to make the meal. If I order a cheeseburger, and I’m brought an un-cut bun, a cooked patty, and a plate of toppings, my response would be, “What in the f- is this?” However, everyone turns and drools when a plate of fajitas sizzles its was across a Mexican restaurant. Why can I, in the same restaurant, order a salad as a meal or get the salad bar and do all the f-ing work myself?
I like cooking. The Wife and I are pretty good at it, too. That doesn’t mean that we go to Fridays thinking, “We’re gonna show these little s-o-b’s how to make some wanton tacos, damnit!” No, I want the cook to cook, and I want my only obligation to be opening my mouth, jamming it with fried f-ing cheese, and getting the squirts 20 minutes after I get home.