Johnny Marzetti
The best home fries in all of Columbus are found at the Goody Boy, on N. High street, just north of the Short North. Buttery, Soft, Bland, Red Potatoes. Very filling, and always satisfying.
Today at the Goody Boy everyone was talking about the Johnny Marzetti. The first time I heard about Johnny Marzetti was at the Coney Island Cafe (which, by the way, has the worst macaroni and cheese ever). The waitress there, a stressed out young mother of three with a long, too-lined faced, was telling me about the specials for the week (which are the same every week) : "Now on Wednesdays we used to have Johnny Marzetti, and I wish we still had it, 'cause it was really good." What's Johnny Marzetti, you ask? "Sort of a pasta dish, kinda like spaghetti."
But they had it at the Goody Boy today. "What's that?" said the one lower middle class business guy to his co-worker. "It's Johnny Marzetti" he answered, shoveling a red mass of elbow macaroni into his mouth. The waitress butted in: "Ya know, I thought everyone had Johnny Marzetti when they were a kid. But I guess not. My mom used to make it when I was a kid, but she called it Goulash."
Oh, right: Goulash. My dad would make that for us. It was bland, but nutritious, and good cold on a summer night. "Yeah," began the first worker, "My mom made it too, only she'd bake it: she'd mix cheese into it, ya know, put some chesse over the top," and then shrugged agreably.
"Ya know, I think my mom used to bake it too," said the watress, trying hard to remember. "What was really good, was when she'd make macaroni and chesse, and mix stewed tomatoes into it, then bake it. Now that was really good."
The men nodded, like they knew what she was talking about. I didn't, but it sounded good anyway.
"Your mom never made Johnny Marzetti for you when you was a kid?" she asked to the second guy.
The first guy answered: "Oh, he makes it himself, but he puts roasted garlic and herbs and stuff. What'd'ya call that?"
The second guy mumbled something in reply, that I couldn't make out. Perhaps he wasn't too keen on advertising his cooking prowress. But there ain't nothing wrong with a man cooking; and actually, the way my Dad made it, it sounds just the same as the way that guy does: no cheese, lots herbs and spices, probably some garlic, andstewed tomatoes instead of tomato sauce. From the looks of it, they use tomato sauce at the Goody Boy.
Just then two black people came in, a man and a woman, who worked at the same place, if you could take their matching smocks as evidence of that. Probably at the dry-cleaner's across the street. They sit down at the counter (it's all counters at the Goody Boy), and the first thing the woman does is start looking for the specials: "where they at? What do they got today?"
The man finds them first: "Johnny Mar-zetti" he says, sounding it out. "What's that?"
She's shocked: "Your mom never made Johnny Marzetti when you was a kid?"
He shakes his head.
She's apparently exasperated. "It's just tomatos, ground beef," (which my Dad never included, as far as I remember), "and elbow macaroni." I guess he does not react favorably to this, 'cause she goes on: "It's just like spaghetti, only with elbow macaroni. It's good. I can believe your mom never made that for you."
The waitress makes her way over to them. "How're you doing today?", "Fine, Fine", "Our special today is Johnny Marzetti." The man says he doesn't know what that is, so she starts in on her spiel again: "I thought everyone ate Johnny Marzetti when they was a kid. 'Course at my house they called it Goulash" and at mine as well. She describes it again, but he's not impressed, so after handing him a menu she immediately runs off.
"Lord" begins the black woman, "I don't know what...I feel so...I need some iced tea." I sip on my iced tea: I know what she means.
The waitress comes back: she's got a spoonful of the stuff, the Johnny Marzetti, to give to the man. He's not impressed, so instead the couple orders: The woman wants coffee and iced tea, and she wants breakfast. Then she just wants the coffee, and wants the man to get the iced tea. He gets a pink lemonade and a hot sandwhich. The waitress takes down their order, and goes off to fill it.
What did you get?" she asks, "Iced Tea?"
"Uh, no, I got the pink lemonade."
"Charleton!" She's exasperated again. It's true: men just don't get it.
She goes on: "You know, it's real good to have breakfast food in the afternoon. Just, eating breakfast in the afternoon is real good, satisfying."
Can't argue with that. One last bite of egg, one last bite of toast, and of course I gotta finish up the last of the homefries and the iced tea, and then I'm out of there, just about two o'clock. I go up to the cash register, which for the first time (though I've been there a least a dozen times) I notice is absolutly ancient: tall, narrow, metal, and manually operated, with what looks like years of grime caked up under the big wooden and metal levers (the purpose of which, those levers, I could not even begin to guess).
"Was everything all right?"
"Yeah! It was good," I say gruffly. After a moment's pause, I say "That's a real old cash register you got there."
She's a little defensive: "Well, it works fine."
It's nice to see old things working."
"Well, we get it serviced once a year, and it works fine." She looks straight at me. "It's better than those new ones, ya know, 'cause it's made of metal." She gestures in a circle with her pointed finger at the made-of-metal cash register. "All those gears, they're all made of metal. Those new ones, they're just made of plastic," and she gives me that look, that and-you-know-what-that-means look.
"Oh, right, like those old cars."
"Yeah...",
I step out into the hot summer sunshine, and reach to my pocket for an after lunch cigarette. I think to myself about my Dad, making Goulash (or, 'round these parts, Johnny Marzetti) in the summertime. My Dad always cooked dinner, and my Mom always cooked breakfast. If they tried to switch places it was always disaster, resulting in pracitically inedible food. Homemade pizzas, enchiladas, roasts, corned beef and cabbage, spaghetti and meatballs, and, of course, Goulash. 'Course, the crazier he got, and the more he drank the less and less he cooked. The last time I saw him cook was when I visted him in his apartment, after he had left us, or after we kicked him out. He had a roast on the counter that looked to be days old. The whole apartment stank, and the roast just made it worse. I wonder where he is now? The last I heard he living in a halfway house, in some small town in Minnesota, and they were having him work in the kitchen, cooking and such. Probably a good thing, for, as my Mom puts it, he was always happy doing that.
Today at the Goody Boy everyone was talking about the Johnny Marzetti. The first time I heard about Johnny Marzetti was at the Coney Island Cafe (which, by the way, has the worst macaroni and cheese ever). The waitress there, a stressed out young mother of three with a long, too-lined faced, was telling me about the specials for the week (which are the same every week) : "Now on Wednesdays we used to have Johnny Marzetti, and I wish we still had it, 'cause it was really good." What's Johnny Marzetti, you ask? "Sort of a pasta dish, kinda like spaghetti."
But they had it at the Goody Boy today. "What's that?" said the one lower middle class business guy to his co-worker. "It's Johnny Marzetti" he answered, shoveling a red mass of elbow macaroni into his mouth. The waitress butted in: "Ya know, I thought everyone had Johnny Marzetti when they were a kid. But I guess not. My mom used to make it when I was a kid, but she called it Goulash."
Oh, right: Goulash. My dad would make that for us. It was bland, but nutritious, and good cold on a summer night. "Yeah," began the first worker, "My mom made it too, only she'd bake it: she'd mix cheese into it, ya know, put some chesse over the top," and then shrugged agreably.
"Ya know, I think my mom used to bake it too," said the watress, trying hard to remember. "What was really good, was when she'd make macaroni and chesse, and mix stewed tomatoes into it, then bake it. Now that was really good."
The men nodded, like they knew what she was talking about. I didn't, but it sounded good anyway.
"Your mom never made Johnny Marzetti for you when you was a kid?" she asked to the second guy.
The first guy answered: "Oh, he makes it himself, but he puts roasted garlic and herbs and stuff. What'd'ya call that?"
The second guy mumbled something in reply, that I couldn't make out. Perhaps he wasn't too keen on advertising his cooking prowress. But there ain't nothing wrong with a man cooking; and actually, the way my Dad made it, it sounds just the same as the way that guy does: no cheese, lots herbs and spices, probably some garlic, andstewed tomatoes instead of tomato sauce. From the looks of it, they use tomato sauce at the Goody Boy.
Just then two black people came in, a man and a woman, who worked at the same place, if you could take their matching smocks as evidence of that. Probably at the dry-cleaner's across the street. They sit down at the counter (it's all counters at the Goody Boy), and the first thing the woman does is start looking for the specials: "where they at? What do they got today?"
The man finds them first: "Johnny Mar-zetti" he says, sounding it out. "What's that?"
She's shocked: "Your mom never made Johnny Marzetti when you was a kid?"
He shakes his head.
She's apparently exasperated. "It's just tomatos, ground beef," (which my Dad never included, as far as I remember), "and elbow macaroni." I guess he does not react favorably to this, 'cause she goes on: "It's just like spaghetti, only with elbow macaroni. It's good. I can believe your mom never made that for you."
The waitress makes her way over to them. "How're you doing today?", "Fine, Fine", "Our special today is Johnny Marzetti." The man says he doesn't know what that is, so she starts in on her spiel again: "I thought everyone ate Johnny Marzetti when they was a kid. 'Course at my house they called it Goulash" and at mine as well. She describes it again, but he's not impressed, so after handing him a menu she immediately runs off.
"Lord" begins the black woman, "I don't know what...I feel so...I need some iced tea." I sip on my iced tea: I know what she means.
The waitress comes back: she's got a spoonful of the stuff, the Johnny Marzetti, to give to the man. He's not impressed, so instead the couple orders: The woman wants coffee and iced tea, and she wants breakfast. Then she just wants the coffee, and wants the man to get the iced tea. He gets a pink lemonade and a hot sandwhich. The waitress takes down their order, and goes off to fill it.
What did you get?" she asks, "Iced Tea?"
"Uh, no, I got the pink lemonade."
"Charleton!" She's exasperated again. It's true: men just don't get it.
She goes on: "You know, it's real good to have breakfast food in the afternoon. Just, eating breakfast in the afternoon is real good, satisfying."
Can't argue with that. One last bite of egg, one last bite of toast, and of course I gotta finish up the last of the homefries and the iced tea, and then I'm out of there, just about two o'clock. I go up to the cash register, which for the first time (though I've been there a least a dozen times) I notice is absolutly ancient: tall, narrow, metal, and manually operated, with what looks like years of grime caked up under the big wooden and metal levers (the purpose of which, those levers, I could not even begin to guess).
"Was everything all right?"
"Yeah! It was good," I say gruffly. After a moment's pause, I say "That's a real old cash register you got there."
She's a little defensive: "Well, it works fine."
It's nice to see old things working."
"Well, we get it serviced once a year, and it works fine." She looks straight at me. "It's better than those new ones, ya know, 'cause it's made of metal." She gestures in a circle with her pointed finger at the made-of-metal cash register. "All those gears, they're all made of metal. Those new ones, they're just made of plastic," and she gives me that look, that and-you-know-what-that-means look.
"Oh, right, like those old cars."
"Yeah...",
I step out into the hot summer sunshine, and reach to my pocket for an after lunch cigarette. I think to myself about my Dad, making Goulash (or, 'round these parts, Johnny Marzetti) in the summertime. My Dad always cooked dinner, and my Mom always cooked breakfast. If they tried to switch places it was always disaster, resulting in pracitically inedible food. Homemade pizzas, enchiladas, roasts, corned beef and cabbage, spaghetti and meatballs, and, of course, Goulash. 'Course, the crazier he got, and the more he drank the less and less he cooked. The last time I saw him cook was when I visted him in his apartment, after he had left us, or after we kicked him out. He had a roast on the counter that looked to be days old. The whole apartment stank, and the roast just made it worse. I wonder where he is now? The last I heard he living in a halfway house, in some small town in Minnesota, and they were having him work in the kitchen, cooking and such. Probably a good thing, for, as my Mom puts it, he was always happy doing that.
posted by nearfalse | 3:18 PM
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