It was Thursday night in Brooklyn and my friend wanted to grab catch-up drinks. We met at our regular dive bar and when we hugged to say hello, I smelled a hint of garlic on his breath and, as usual, the banter began immediately.
"Oh, that's cool, you had a handful of garlic cloves for dinner. Can't wait to smell it all evening," I ribbed.
"It's always so pleasant to see you," he retorted.
As we made our way to the bar, he went on about a Golden Girls cookbook his parents got him for Christmas and started rattling off ingredients that went into his meal, a dish he was clearly proud of.
"Ah," I responded, "Chicken and vegetables."
He half chuckled, half scoffed at my oversimplification of his culinary masterpiece. "Oh…" he said with a head tilt. I knew I had a riposte coming. He knows my culinary skills are…limited? Narrow? Non-existent? So he happily pounced. "And what did Master Chef Nate make himself for dinner?
"Oh, it was quite exquisite. I call it La Trout al dente."
He grinned, in on the joke, and encouraged further elaboration. "Please, go on."
"Yes, yes," I continued, adding dramatic hand gestures and butchering an Italian accent that might have sounded more French, "boil pasta shells, making sure to not overcook, stir in canned trout, add two slices of cheddar cheese until melted, and finally cracked pepper to your liking!"
"You had boxed mac 'n' cheese and canned trout again, didn't you?"
"Yep. Simple and delicious." It's the meal I make the most, and I refuse to be culinary-shamed.
The bartender asked for our order. My friend got a Rose Kennedy (vodka, soda, splash of cran), single tall, with two lime wedges. I got an IPA.
