“Your learn a lot about someone when you share a meal together.” Anthony Bourdain

 It was Friday night and I had an hour to transform myself from my day job to my next job. I fixed my makeup, sprayed up my hair and put on my uniform; black velvet shorts, suspenders, large silver hoops, boots and black stockings. I didn’t work at TGIF and I wasn’t a hooker. I was a waitress at Jakes Great America Cafe, a local Cajun café. Jakes was a local spot and the food was a whole lot better than its strip mall appearance would lead you to believe. Appearances can be very deceiving so don’t be afraid to venture in if you’re curious about someplace new. You might get lucky and find a hidden gem.

I grew up in restaurants and that’s where I learned about life and developed my passion for food and cooking. When I was young If I had a school holiday I would take the bus and have lunch wherever my mother Donna was working. I remember visiting Wines & Such in the German Village located in Hamilton, Ohio. I felt like a grown up as I was seated by the hostess and able to order anything I wanted from the menu. This was such a treat and one that I still love. I was expanding beyond grill cheeses (my childhood favorite) but navigating the menu took my mother’s guidance. Wines & Such was a German restaurant and I remember hot slaw arriving in pewter bowls; sliced cabbage topped with bacon and hot vinegar dressing. It was not a dish I appreciated but I can still smell the vinegar and recall how it sloshed around the dish. It was a crowd favorite but the potato soup topped with bacon and melted Swiss cheese quickly became my new favorite dish. I was polite and quiet while I sat alone and enjoyed my lunch watching Donna hustle her other tables. The lunch crowd was mostly local business men who tipped well and called her sweetheart while they lingered on her bosom a little longer than necessary. I learned early how to use my own feminine charms to navigate the male dominated world.

I was $100 bucks short for my rent and this second gig wasn’t optional, it was survival. I hopped in the car for the short commute, rolling down my window and grabbing a quick puff before my shift. I smoked Virginia Slims menthol because Marlboro lights weren’t my style. I had an image to uphold and skinny cigarettes were more glamorous. I wanted to portray myself as an independent woman not a cowboy. I was a closet smoker because by day I was a health professional in Cincinnati. I had dual personalities and I didn’t want my two worlds to collide, so I kept that filthy habit a secret. My role as corporate health manager was my first real job after college. I worked full time as a server all through college and I was proud that I had my first “real” job. However I was deeply disappointed that I made more Money as a waitress and couldn’t live on my real job salary. That’s why I worked three nights a week at Jakes. When you choose independence you do what you have to do, and I wasn’t afraid to work hard so I didn’t have to depend on anyone. 

I learned more about life “slinging hash” than I did in college. I was a great waitress and I had lots of experience starting at Frisch’s Big Boy and also serving alongside Donna in the finest establishments where the Hamilton elite gathered to dine and drink themselves stupid. I worked every weekend through my twenties and thirties so naturally I was envious of those who had the money and the time to enjoy a luxurious meal, a romantic dinner or a night out with friends. I was a quick, sharp, and efficient waitress who loved to hustle for tips just like Donna did. The apple didn’t fall too far from the tree and the male customers loved my red hair often inquiring if I was a “real” redhead. In my head I had plenty of great come backs but I needed the tips so I played along while in my brain chattering obscenities. The wives weren’t thrilled by this exchange and their teenage kids squirmed uncomfortably trying to escape their parents. I however, couldn’t escape or risk being stiffed so I kept my irritation behind my smile. When a customer doesn’t leave a tip you’ve been stiffed. It happens more than you can imagine. Customers that don’t tip show their true character as a human being. It’s more than just being cheap. People who don’t tip, or tip poorly, think their superior which gives them the right to treat others like they are nothing. Big mistake. I’m not as dumb as you think so be careful next time you sit in my section.

I learned to never judge a table by their looks. A well dressed, supposedly affluent customer might be the worst tipper and the rudest human being. I’ve gladly volunteered for the customers no one else wanted because they looked ragged and poor. I found they often had hearts of gold and wallets to match. This was another life lesson I learned as a server. I also learned to smile and function when you’re a mess, how to read people, and how to set limits for what you’ll tolerate from others. I have endless stories about bad behavior from customers. I was proud I stood up for myself more than once and wasn’t intimidated unless I was opening an expensive bottle of wine. One night I was taking care of one of the “regulars” and broke the cork on a $200 bottle of wine. The only experience I had was popping the top off a can of cold beer. I was mortified. The customer was a legend in Hamilton for buying the house shots of Jager and leaving extravagant tips. That night he sent me a bottle of Dom Perignon after my shift. I quickly recovered from my shame and learned to love champagne.

Friday night at Jakes was my shift in the bar and I loved that I didn’t have to wear the standard uniform (white shirt and khaki pants). I’ve always hated Khaikis because I think they’re ordinary and dull. I never want to be affiliated with those two words so when given the chance I would always work the bar where khaki wasn’t mandatory. Joe was the bartender (yes that’s his real name) and we worked together for years. We worked well together and had the rhythm of lovers, even though were just friends (wink wink). I hadn’t had a day off in four years and it occurred to me that I needed a life, but at twenty-seven this was my life. I was divorced and the extra income helped me avoid having a roommate. With the exception of the occasional husband I always lived alone and valued my peace and privacy, even if it was expensive. I made the best of my life even though I worked all the time and I enjoyed the perks of free booze at the end of my shift. The drinks weren’t technically free but if Joe was pouring, I was drinking. After hours when the doors were locked our party started and the crew would hang out and unwind or head next door to a local dive where you could catch live blues. This was my life for years.

Jakes wasn’t a fancy place and it was tiny. The dining room sat around forty people and the adjoining bar could serve around thirty. Jakes was a local favorite and the chef and owner Andy “Jake” Jacobs was featured every Friday night on the local news showcasing his culinary talent and his weekly specials. He could be an asshole and had a pretty big ego but he was talented and brilliant so I overlooked his demeanor. He taught me how to slice an avocado, appreciate artichokes, andouille , and how to prepare Pasta Pontchartrain (named after a famous lake in New Orleans). This dish is an exquisite blend of Cajun cream over penne pasta with chicken, artichokes, olives and roasted red peppers. After the restaurant closed for good I spent years trying to replicate the memory and I think I finally succeeded.

As a waitress you had to learn the ranks of the kitchen to survive. If you didn’t you were doomed because they could make your life a living hell. I once had a chef that looked like Bluto throw whole lemons at another server like he was tossing baseballs on a Sunday afternoon. Bluto was brutal. If you wanted to make money in the front of the house you had to learn to navigate the back of the house. Andy and his partner Mac were always in the kitchen on the weekends. The staff prayed they would be in a good mood because if they were happy we were all happy. You have to be a little crazy to be in the restaurant business and I fit right in. You become a family of misfit souls just trying to make a living. The sous chef was second in command and he was hot. He definitely made working weekends worthwhile and it was no secret I had a crush on him. I was a shameless flirt and didn’t even try to hide it. The kitchen also had an endless stream of new prep cooks who were always interesting and a little creepy. The dishwashers were the lowest in the ranks and Ray was one of my favorites. He was ninety years old (at least that’s what my young mind believed ) and he had epilepsy. I saw him have a seizure more than once and it broke my heart that he had to work that shit job, at his age, with that disease. Most dishwasher were young, getting ready for college or trying to stay out of prison, but they always shared a smoke and joke so I didn’t mind them at all.

I blame my raunchy vocabulary on my early vocation and I still cuss like a sailor. I was also not offended by anyone, or anything, even now. I have little patience for people who whine and are offended by everything. I believe we all have the power to speak up and stand-up when necessary, but not over every little thing. I’m glad I formed a thick skin early in life and that has served me well in my fifty seven years.

Jakes specialized in Cajun food which is one of the reasons I wanted to work there. My first tattoo was a red chili pepper because I loved spicy food. Clearly, I was also a red-hot ball of fire so it was a no brainer. I finally got the nerve up when I turned thirty and I walked into a random tattoo parlor and announced I would like a chili pepper tattoo. I didn’t have a design to show him because this was before you could download an image in a moment. However, the artist pondered my request and told me he had an idea. He went back to his office and came back with a design he had created recently for someone. It was perfect. He began drilling into my ankle which was painful as hell (I didn’t faint this time but when I went back at forty for a tramp stamp I did faint). To distract me from the pain he described the man he designed the tattoo for. He was famous for his spicy white chicken chili, he loved the blues and he was from Hamilton. The spicy chicken chili was my recipe and this made me suspicious and curious. When the job was done and I got home I called my ex-husband and asked him if he had a tattoo. Imagine his dismay when he learned his ex-wife had a matching tattoo. We had been divorced for several years and I wasn’t his favorite person and now, we were co-branded. What a bizarre coincidence and you might be wondering if this was a sign. Was this destiny? Were we truly made for each other? Sadly, life isn’t a fairy tale. He wasn’t a bad guy, just not right for me.

I worked at Jakes for six years and at least once a week after my shift I would order the Pasta Pontchartrain. My request was never guaranteed because the kitchen staff had managed ten times the customers I had taken care of and the last thing they wanted to do was cook one more dish for a waitress. Most restaurant kitchens were teeny tiny and these guys (I’ve seriously never worked with female chefs which is a fact I just now realized) hustled out food and attitude. It was grueling work. I considered a culinary career for my next act but my arthritic Aging feet would not allow it so I’ll stick with being an amateur foodie. When I did get lucky and they agreed to feed me I would savor the Pasta Pontchartrain it as if it were a new lover and devour the creamy, spicy, satisfying delight. I sighed and moaned and thanked my stars for a happy ending to my hard-working night.

Growing up in restaurants taught me everything I needed to know about life and I will carry the lessons and the people I met in my heart forever. The best moments in life revolve around people and gathering together for a drink, a laugh and celebrations. To me it’s not just the food, it’s the experience. These occasions in life build a photo album that is etched in your heart and it grows page after page with each passing day. It’s time to make up for the years we lost in the pandemic isolation so gather your friends and enjoy a night out at your favorite local spot or venture out and try someplace new. What good is life if you don’t get to live it?

Pasta Pontchartrain

2

Chicken breast/blackened/sliced thin

(Pablo prefers shrimp so that’s an option if you like shrimp)

1 1/2 cups heavy cream 

2 tablespoon butter

1/2 tablespoon chopped garlic 

1/2 tablespoon oregano 

1/2 teaspoons of white pepper 

1/4 teaspoon of salt 

1 can quartered artichokes (drained- get all the water out)

Sliced Kalamata olives (amount depends on how much you like olives) 

Roasted red peppers – a little or a lot 

Lots of shredded Parmesan

1 1/2 cups penne pasta 

Melinda’s hot sauce

( you can substitute with another hot sauce but Melinda’s is the key ingredient so it’s worth it)

Cook penne pasta (leave pasta slightly al dente) drain and set aside. 

In large sauce pan add butter, garlic, white pepper, salt and oregano. Once butter is melted turn up to medium heat and add heavy cream. Continue stirring until sauce becomes thick and creamy and your mouth starts watering.

Add in Parmesan cheese, continue stirring until bubbly. Add in Melinda’s hot sauce (a few dashes or a lot). Add cooked pasta and stir until blended then add in artichokes, olives, red peppers and chicken (or shrimp). Turn heat to low and let sit for 5 minutes. Take a bow for your culinary success and enjoy!

Ciao baby!!

Who remembers Flo & kiss my grits?