Food, Family and Memory

Every Friday after school, my mom and I delivered groceries to my grandmother in her little apartment. (More about her here). We arrived at her front door, arms heavy with Stop n' Shop bags, and would ring the bell with a free elbow.

Invariably, I would complain about how long it was taking her. (I swear, it took her 5 minutes to walk the 10 feet from her recliner to the front door). And invariably, we would hear her voice from within, “Aspette! Aspette!” (Wait! Wait!).

With my arms completely numb by this point, she would finally let us in and exclaim: “Oooohh, I’m so glad you came! I just made a nice fri—taaa—taa. You’ll have some.” She said it every time as if she didn’t expect us.

Though we ate frittata often at home, I associate it most with Spring and with Nan; Fridays during Lent we would abstain from meat, so she always made a simple vegetable frittata, which was waiting for us when we arrived.

A few years ago, my sister Laraine and I were having lunch on Larchmont at one of my favorite sushi restaurants, redundantly called California Roll and Sushi Fish. (My sister is Laraine Newman, of SNL fame and a regular contributor to this website.) My seat was facing out toward the other tables and Laraine was facing me. We had ordered and were both very hungry.

Sitting alone against the opposite wall, beyond Laraine, was a young, slender, beautiful Asian woman. I couldn’t look at my sister without seeing her too. Her clothes were perfect, her hair and make-up were perfect. She was perfect. Her sashimi arrived. She slowly poured soy sauce into the little soy sauce dish, slowly picked up her chopsticks, slowly pinched off a tiny bit of wasabi, slowly mixed it with the soy sauce, slowly picked up a piece of fish, slowly dragged it back and forth through the soy sauce, and ever so slowly lifted it to her mouth. Then she actually put the chopsticks down, stared straight ahead and slowly chewed. You get the idea. She was a perfect eater. She’s not likely to ever choke on her food.

So what's the first thing to order in the Florida Keys, after the mojito and conch fritters? Key lime pie, of course. So we did.  We ordered a slice just about everywhere we ate, and the hands-down best came not from a fancy waterfront restaurant or anywhere on Duval Street, but from the Key West Key Lime Pie Co.

We went to the store on Big Pine Key at mile marker 30, next to Pizza Works in the scenic Winn-Dixie plaza. The company sells pies out of about twenty other locations.

What the hell is Happy Hour and why is everyone talking about it? The happiest hour for me is when I eat. But if it means standing around with drinks in your hand, eating from some communal barrel of glop, count me out. I don’t think Happy Hour would have appeal for me even if it were at a restaurant I wanted to go to. It just sounds awful. Or am I a snob?

The other day, I was recommending my new favorite restaurant in L.A., Tar and Roses, to someone who then asked, “Do they have a Happy Hour?” I was baffled by the question. It’s so foreign to me.

And then I got an invitation to join my daughter and her best friend Cody and a bunch of their hot 27-year-old friends for what I thought was dinner. But it wasn’t. It was Happy Hour at some Mexican restaurant’s bar (Marix Tex Mex). And while I think it’s brilliant for young people not yet making big money to be able to eat like that, I just couldn’t do it. I asked for a proper menu.

Today, it was back and forth all day about where to meet “in town.” The dreaded driving–into-town-for-an-hour-or-two-of-traffic hell. I hate it. I’m almost over it, but I’m so friggin social, I go anyway. I just wish I had a private helicopter to jet me around. Do you watch Dr. Oz? If you do, you know that to live an extra six years, it’s good to socialize. I was getting updates throughout the day and the number of chicks invited grew by the hour. I snuck in, or so I thought -- a switcheroo.