Happy birthday to my dearest friend, Michael. He's 50, which makes me old by association. He's hungry, which makes me fat by justified ingestion. He's surly which makes me think I have a personality. He has a camera which ensures that I can't make any claims to being good looking or happy-go-lucky.
I've remembered his birthday (read: I was reminded by his loving wife). This may not seem like news, but Michael and I have perpetually forgotten each others' birthdays. My excuse has always been confusion with my next door neighbor, Larry (whose birthday is March 18, 1962). Michael's difficulties have been more vague. More importantly, he has the most memorable story overlooking my birthday. Friend Smerk and I visited Thrifty when he moved to Southern Cali. We had dinner overlooking Pirates of the Caribbean in Disneyland. Casual conversation turns to birthday celebrations. Michael casually asks "when is your birthday, Glenn?" Today. Hey, at least he picked up dinner.
So why "Thrifty"? I asked for a blender. He has one. It doesn't do anything. I ask him why he doesn't buy another one -- the market is chock full of efficient, inexpensive gear. He reminds me that he just bought one in 1996, so he's not rushing out to buy another one any time soon. I feel quite comfortable abusing the birthday boob until his 77-year-old mother arrives and fixes the 14-year-old machine. Ebineezer Stooge is vindicated. I am wondering if his 77-year-old mother can fix me.
Ok, the food. Sister Donna has flown in with Italian goodies from New Jersey (hard cheese, sausage, pepperoni, dried pasta) and bread and cookies that just aren't available in Texas. This last point shouldn't be a surprise, but I am still struck by the lack of respect for Italian cuisine in this part of the country (or should I say "this country" to show respect to the fact that Texas is not really part of the US). The following map of Italian American concentrations clues me in that pancetta is not going to be on sale at the local grocery store.
I should also feel forewarned that the name of this grocery store is HEB. Their website says it stands for Here Everything is Better, but Thrifty assures me it stands for Howard E. Butts. Uh oh. There's a chance that this name is an Ellis Island casualty, right? Humberti Nessuno Melo Ficca Inculo, anyone?
The menu is driven by two things: Michael's need for real Italian food made by real Italians (hey, I'm adopted -- for all we know, I'm a descendant of a fine Italian chef)
and his parents' reminisces about the best Italian restaurants in New Jersey. We review the state of Trenton's Chambersburg restaurant scene; the pizza
; sauces; and their all-time favorite (which I have somehow never visited), Bella Napoli. |
This sends us into a frenzy of hunger. We inventory the ingredients Donna has muled from NJ and the Guadagno pantry, then head to the grocery store. Uh oh. This is not going to go well. When you get to the cheese section and you are overwhelmed by the red and blue Kraft packaging, you are not breaking into O Solo Mio. When the pignoli are only labeled "pine nuts" (and they're buried under giant bags of peanuts), you aren't tempted to put your fingers to your lips. And when the butcher refuses to make you a ground veal, pork and beef mix, there's only one thing to do (and no fear of reprisals because no one here can interpret it):
We do find grana padano cheese (though we find later that it lacks flavor). The deli has prosciutto (we buy some, but don't discuss it aloud for fear the local yokel will call it pro-SKEW-toe -- it's Texas, so we assume he's armed behind the meat counter). And they do have some decent oil, if not the exact brands we were hoping for. Donna tries to buy wine before Noon on a Sunday. The checkout clerk points out our error, which I am sure is a capital offense in Texas, 
but the clerk laughs at our pathetic attempts to flout the laws of the great state of Tex-ass and let's us live.
but the clerk laughs at our pathetic attempts to flout the laws of the great state of Tex-ass and let's us live.So the menu is set: three kinds of pasta, four kinds of gravy:
- Vodka sauce
- Pesto sauce
- Red (meat) sauce (with meatballs and sausage)
- Alfredo sauce
The local tomatoes look ok (and it gives all of us a chance to say "these are NOT Jersey tomatoes" -- a guaranteed endorphin rush for Jerseyites) so I decide to make bruschetta. Geri spots the fresh cilantro and warns me that Thrifty Fifty will blanch. I go into a long tirade about ingredient affectations. Not unlike the repaired blender, I will come to regret this (see this article -- stupid New York Times, stupid timing).
On Monday, laden with leftovers (and denial about our burgeoning stomachs), we do it all again. I add a quick appetizer I learned from The Monsieur: Smoked oysters w/goat cheese. After much carping about oysters, they are accepted, the way I am treated like an Italian.
The Verdict:
Vodka Sauce -- very good. We make it the way Mr. G prefers it, with peas and prosciutto. (N.B. I make this for the family in New Jersey with blanched lardons and it was a big hit).
Alfredo Sauce -- excellent. Added nutmeg as a spice to good effect.
Red Sauce -- excellent, except the meatballs suffer from lack of pork and veal, but the sausage makes up for it. Better the second day.
Pesto Sauce -- good. The Texas fresh basil is not bad at all. The Texas cheese is not up to our standards, but we adjust, drink more wine and enjoy it thoroughly.
I am very happy to be with what is really family for Michael's birthday. There are more pictures of the festivities, but I'm not allowed to publish them. I don't know why, as the attendees are all beautiful (and seemingly immune to aging), but you are stuck with only that hideous picture of me scowling over the food. Deal.
Michael is the finest person I have ever known. His parents deserve to be called Mom and Dad. His sister, although I spent the first 10 years of knowing her burrowing under her skin like a tick, is funny, engaging and someone I should have spent more time with growing up. Tony is the nicest guy with a high IQ that I have ever met. We treat him like a busboy in the kitchen, but still he smiles and delivers good food. His baby-to-be is a lucky kid. And Michael's wife, Geri, can begin the beatification process now. It'll sail through. I love them all. So it is only fitting that I express my love for this man and his family with the following abuse:
Top Ten Things About Michael Turning 50 in Texas
10. In Texas, it was easier to know he was married. There were tobacco juice stains on both sides of his pickup.
9. The good news: fireworks are legal in Texas. The bad news: he'll probably mistake an M-80 for a suppository.
8. If Trevor were ever to "have to" get married, the phrase "shotgun wedding" is considered redundant in Texas.
7. The only thing there's less competition for here than seats at a Catholic mass on Easter Sunday? Front row seats at a synagogue on Gay Pride Sabbath.
6. This is the land of big and plenty, so Michael's opening an Italian market called Fon Du Lots.
5. In New Jersey, he had to tolerate people of different faiths. In California, he had to accept alternative lifestyles. In the UK, he had to live with gun control. Here, he can go back to being a turducken of intolerance.
4. Texas is big enough that he can take over a small town, become mayor, and rename it Glenthompson so I won't have to retire in the South Pacific.
3. It takes a place where everyone is parochial in their thinking to remind us of the value of being as worldly as Michael has become.
2. In a state where they execute the mentally challenged, it's a clear reminder of the value of someone as smart as Michael.
And, the Number 1 Thing about Michael Turning 50 in Texas:
1. In a state where everything is enormous, there is no larger gift than the friendship I have received from Michael and, for it, I will be eternally grateful.
And well fed.
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