On Golden Pound

I’ll never forget my first time.

The first time I went to The Palm.

The Palm Restaurant.

The swanky New York eatery.

I was probably nine or so.

At the time there was only one, maybe two, in the world.

Now there are 32.

Well back then, eating there was a big deal.

And that big deal was no deal at all.

It came with a big bill at the end.

You just didn’t know how big.

Until the end.

If my memory is correct the waiter came to our table and said.

“We have steak.”

“We have lobster.”

“And we have steak and lobster.”

I’m not sure there was an actual menu.

There were three of us at our table.

Me, my dad and my dad’s friend.

For some reason the friend was paying.

That was established before we sat down.

When the waiter asked what we wanted, I said.

“Lobster!”

At age nine, I had never had one.

So what better place to try one.

My dad quickly jumped in.

“No, he’ll have the steak.”

The friend replied, “He wants the lobster.  Get the lobster.”

I think our friend thought my dad was opposed.

Because it cost too much.

But the truth was my dad was opposed.

Because lobster is a shellfish.

And shellfish is a crustacean.

And crustaceans are not kosher.

This, according to the book.

The good book.

A book written like 5,724 years before The Palm was even invented.

Well my dad and his friend bickered for...  what felt like forever.

But eventually this nine-year old got his way.

His first lobster.

And definitely not his last.

There are very few things I enjoy more than a good meal.

Actually, there are very few things I enjoy more than any meal.

But a good meal.. WOW!

A good meal can consist of anything.

Anything from an overpriced steak.

Or lobster.

To a greasy mexican burrito on an LA street corner.

And everything in the middle.

Quality is important.

Usually.

But quantity can go a long way too.

Enter the Golden Corral.

A cardiologist’s version of Disneyland.

For “around” ten bucks, you can fill your stomach.

And fill your arteries at the same time.

Such a deal.

Now if you’ve never been, picture this.

A room the size of Phoenix.

Stuffed with food.

Not just any food.

Crappy food.

Mexican food.

Chinese food.

Meat Loaf smothered in ketchup.

Fried Chicken.

Something that looks like Pizza.

Fried Shrimp.

Fajitas.

Corn soaking in butter.

“Homestyle Yeast Rolls”.

More butter.

And that’s just the left side of the room.

It’s like a college cafeteria on Barry Bonds.

There were more fried things than a Texas electric chair.

All for “around” ten bucks.

That’s what the commercial says.

Not the catchiest of slogans.

But I guess it works.

A few nights ago my son and I joined a friend and his son for the Corral’s newest baby.

Endless BabyBack ribs.

All-you-can-eat.

Just like everything else in that place.

A place where Grease is certainly the word.

The word for the filmy substance left on your hand.

Even if you don’t eat with your fingers.

But that didn’t stop us from going back.

And back.

And back again.

A fresh plate every time.

Of course.

By the time we were done, I’m sure we had passed 10,000 calories on the richter scale.

And we weren’t the only ones.

At the table right next to us were two men.

Two men not much older than us.

Both eating plenty.

And both using oxygen tanks.

Just to breathe.

Presumably there was one tank for each guy.

Sharing is not allowed at the Golden Corral.

Now forget all those catchy slogans.

There’s your commercial.

Two guys.

They can barely breathe.

And nothing is going to stop them from the Endless Ribs.

Now that’s dedication.

Of course it wouldn’t be a meal without dessert.

And the Corral has plenty.

Including a sugar free vanilla cake.

And sugar free blueberry pie.

Two desserts that nobody touched.

As crazy as that sounds.

The Corral has everything anyone would ever want.

From soup to peanuts.

Everything that is.

Except lobster.

Not So Silent Night

Every so often I run across a new creation and I slap my head like its a V8 commercial.

WHY DIDN’T I THINK OF THAT???????

That happens EVERY time I go by a fantasy sports website.

Or listen to the words from a Katy Perry song.

Or drive by a Starbucks.

Damn Starbucks.

Well, it’s happened again.

And again.

Every Tuesday night.

It’s called Glee.

Just imagine if Grease had a baby with American Idol.

That’s Glee.

If you haven’t seen it, shame on you.

It has everything you would ever want in a show.

At least everything I would ever want in a show.

It is the greatest show of all-time.

At least the greatest show of this time.

This week.

Sure some of the characters are a little cliche.

A little predictable.

A little page 19 of the stereotype handbook.

But the creators of Glee have all the food groups covered.

Gay kid.  Jock.  Wheelchair.  Black girl.  Hot girl.

I clearly haven’t watched the show closely enough, but I imagine there is a Jew or two in there as well.

Actually, I haven’t watched the show much at all.

I’m guessing it is in the 2nd or 3rd season at this point and I’ve only seen two or three episodes.

But my oldest daughter is addicted.

As is my friend Rick.

And since Rick is old enough to be my daughter’s father, I figured it was good enough for me.

So now we watch it every week.

And as my family sits there singing the songs, I sit there thinking how rich we would be if I would’ve come up with the idea for this damn show.

Doh.

Singing is big in my family.

I do it.

My wife tries to do it.

My son would like to do it.

My oldest daughter refuses to do it.

And my youngest daughter loves doing it.

The Osmonds have nothing on us.

My wife and I have helped the kids find something they are passionate about.

And then we encourage them to do it SO much they are destined to hate it.

Ok, just kidding.   I think.

My oldest daughter is the dancer.   

My son is the baseball player.

And now child #3 is a singer.

Officially.

She loves soccer and softball... and reading, but she’s definitely the entertainer in the family.

So we signed her up for the local choir.

Not a church choir or school choir, this is the real deal.

Practice twice a week.   Payment once a month.

This singing school actually teaches the kids how to read music AND how to sing.

A few days ago this choir held its 21st Annual Winter Shindig.

In all there were 204 kids on the stage and more than a thousand people in the stands.

They broke the kids up into several age-specific groups and each group performed several songs.

I’m not sure if it was the father in me or the singer in me, but I loved every second of it.

When I was her age I sang in the Synagogue Choir.

That was a big deal.

Then.

Every Jewish New Year they would give me the solo.

About midway through the endless service, I would belt out a few words in Hebrew that I had no idea what they meant.

Then, as a form of appreciation, the old men in the audience would pinch my pudgy cheeks and squeeze my right hand until the blood stopped.

I would’ve preferred a little coin.

But hey, they loved me, they really loved me.

My daughter’s performance was a lot more official than anything I was ever part of.

There was a maestro.

And a pianist.

And a fluterist.

And for one song they had a glockenspielski.

Good thing this wasn’t a spelling bee.

The concert must’ve run close to two hours as the kids performed 22 songs.

My wife secured seats in the fifth or sixth row so that my daughter could be distracted by us.

When she came on stage she scratched her nose to say hello.

Waiving might’ve got her kicked out of the choir.

Then she stood front and center, singing three songs and spreading Christmas cheer for more than ten minutes.

And this was no generic Christmas cheer either.

There was no “Grandma got run over by a reindeer” or “I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus”.

This was the real stuff.

“Snow is falling still”.

And “Sleep, my child”.

And “A Winter Carol”.

Three songs I had never heard of.

And they had never sounded so beautiful.

So good in fact, I almost pinched my daughter’s cheeks.

There's always next year.