( ) zero stars<\/p>\n
The critic endures a thousand-and-one annoyances whilst plying his trade, but none is more common (or annoying) than the overenthusiastic dining companion. The one who says You simply must try the strudel<\/em> even as a cold and plasticene lump is set sur la table<\/em>. It\u2019s as if Bombo, King of the Jungle, were warned by lesser lions \u201cYou cannot catch Zambeezi! She is the swiftest gazelle in all of Africa!\u201d Only to find, at hunt\u2019s end, a gamey old nag who can barely drag her udders across the savannah.<\/p>\n Which brings us to Aunt Betty\u2019s House.<\/p>\n My companion bounced with eagerness as we mounted the plain flagstone steps to Aunt Betty\u2019s door. \u201cWait \u2018til you taste her sweet potato casserole, and her marshmallow-fudge yummy squares\u201d she enthused, \u201cAnd her cornbread stuffing<\/em>! Her stuffing is so\u2026 so\u2026 so\u2026\u201d here words failed her, even as a combination of ambient saliva and November air conspired to fog the little round eyeglasses she affects. This kind of thing usually makes me suspicious, but Liz is one of my more frequent partners-in-cr\u00e8me<\/em> (you might remember her as \u201cWoman to My Right\u201d in my review of Jenny\u2019s Apartment and \u201cSugar Lips\u201d in the rave I gave to My Place), so I was inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt. After all, I once discovered the most delightfully bitter jar of kim-chee hiding behind boxes of laundry detergent at a 7-11 in Secaucus. Surely Aunt Betty\u2019s inspired cuisine could survive the dead grass and faded whitewash of suburban Baltimore. <\/p>\n A sour-faced teenager greeted us at the door. Actually, \u201cgreeted\u201d is a gross exaggeration. She grunted like a wounded calf, then turned her greasy head and bellowed, \u201cThey\u2019re here!\u201d before trudging upstairs. She did not offer any assistance with our coats. <\/p>\n This signal appeared to be expected. \u201cHelloooo, there!\u201d boomed a bosomy woman of advanced years, hobbling toward us while wiping her hands on a stained apron. She proved to be the vanguard for an army of over-perfumed and aftershaved ambassadors. They quickly consumed us, peppering our tiny landing party with a wet barrage of How-was-the-drives, So-nice-to-finally-meet-yous, firm handshakes, and kisses. <\/p>\n It was like drowning in a pack of Labrador Retrievers. The lead bitch turned out to be our eponymous proprietress, a pink and whiskery matron whose exuberance was a little off-putting. Maybe you like that sort of thing, but I made a quick note to myself: Not appropriate for a romantic liason.<\/em><\/p>\n Liz and I were swiftly separated \u2013 she to join in some sort of hushed-conversation-and-giggle contest in the kitchen. I was sent to the den, an overwhelmingly brown room dominated by the presence of Aunt Betty\u2019s silent (and I do mean silent<\/em>) partner, \u201cUncle Leo,\u201d who sat in a well-used armchair glaring hate-rays at the television. The Cowboys were winning, apparently. I was warned, very unnecessarily, against engaging him in conversation. Hors d\u2019oeuvres<\/em> had been set out: celery stalks filled with Mr. Safeway\u2019s finest pimiento cheese spread, as well as a bowl of those licorice-flavored hard candies so popular during the Eisenhower Administration. This portended no good.<\/p>\n One of the other diners, \u201cCousin Teddy,\u201d caught me eyeing these dainties and warned (again, completely unnecessarily) against filling up on them. \u201cSave room for Betty\u2019s stuffing, dude. It\u2019ll blow your freaking mind,\u201d he admonished through a Heineken-laced cloud, \u201cYour freaking mind<\/em>. I guarantee.<\/em>\u201d This sentiment was echoed warmly by the other men, all repeat diners, who slapped their hard little bellies with such fervor my mind was thrust back to an unfortunate undergraduate encounter with the Wesleyan steel drum band.<\/p>\n Dinner was served forty-five minutes late, but the kitchen offered no apologies or explanations. Diners at Aunt Betty\u2019s house eat en famille<\/em>, and our chef beamed blithely as she perched herself at one end of the long table. Her partner sat at the other end, carving knife in hand, glaring hate-rays at an underbrown bird (the Cowboys had won). \u201cWe\u2019re just so happy to see so many familiar faces, and a few new<\/em> ones, too,\u201d she gushed, darting a significant glance in my direction, \u201cAnd I hope you enjoy being here as much as we enjoy having you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cEnough talk. Bring on the stuffing!\u201d crowed Cousin Teddy, to a ragged chorus of Hear-hears<\/em>. \u201cFreaking magnificent<\/em>. Freaking out of freaking control<\/em>.\u201d <\/p>\n \u201cNow, Teddy\u2026\u201d said Aunt Betty, by no means annoyed. \u201cWell, do we have any volunteers to say grace?\u201d <\/p>\n She looked at my raised hand with some surprise. \u201cYes\u2026 you want to –?\u201d<\/p>\n I gave her my blandest smile. \u201cActually, I\u2019m just requesting a change of seat.\u201d<\/p>\n Her surprise deepened. I kept my eyes trained on Aunt Betty, ignoring Liz\u2019s ridiculous hand gestures. \u201cIt\u2019s all to your benefit,\u201d I explained, \u201cThere\u2019s simply no way I could concentrate on my meal with this<\/em> woman– \u201d here I gestured toward \u201cFrank\u2019s Wife, Angela\u201d, who held a phlegmy infant on her lap, \u201c\u2014sitting next to me. You understand.\u201d<\/p>\n At some length, she did understand, and I was transferred to a more congenial spot next to Liz. But I jotted down a note about Betty\u2019s strange intransigence during the Grace.<\/p>\n Enough about the atmosphere. How was the food?<\/em><\/p>\n It was still a few minutes before I found out, myself. My soupspoon was dirty. So was the replacement they offered me. So was the replacement for that<\/em>. The management was not gracious in this matter \u2013 not at all<\/em> \u2013 which came as a surprise, since my dining companion is allegedly their \u201cfavorite niece.\u201d But the squeaky wheel gets the grease and eventually Liz herself provided me with a suitable utensil. <\/p>\n She shouldn\u2019t have bothered. The best that can be said about Aunt Betty\u2019s soup is that it was seasonally accurate. I\u2019m no historian, but I imagine this lukewarm m\u00e9lange of Coffee-Mate and pureed vegetables is exactly the sort of thing our starving Pilgrim ancestors glutted themselves on before they ran outside to die of dysentery.<\/p>\n I whispered as much into Liz\u2019s ear, but she didn\u2019t seem to catch it. Instead, she turned to the man on her right (the uglier of the two \u201cUncle Johns\u201d) and loudly remarked \u201cIsn\u2019t the soup divine?\u201d I smirked, audibly, but again she paid me no attention. <\/p>\n So she was ignoring me! Well, perhaps it was for the best. Liz can be voluble at mealtime, and nothing destroys the critic\u2019s concentration like unnecessary chatter. Remember, the brain is the largest taste bud of them all.<\/p>\n Not that this meal required deep thought.<\/p>\n The presentation was perfectly acceptable. It certainly looked<\/em> like food. But beyond that, well\u2026 nothing<\/em>. Whatever magical genie exists in food, whatever ineffable spirit inhabits it, and makes us enjoy it, was completely absent. This food was dead, meaningless. It was like attending some weird baseball game where all the bases were touched but no one bothered to hit the ball.<\/p>\n It was the sort of meal that can best be summarized with snarky faux<\/em> dictionary definitions.<\/p>\n Roast Turkey : Gross Truck Tire As for the wines served, well\u2026 best not to linger on that. It would test my famous politesse<\/em>.<\/p>\n Not that you\u2019d know it by the effusive praise rolling around the table. There is nothing more depressing than watching good people enjoy bad food \u2013 except, perhaps, for a bad chef enjoying undeserved praise. Aunt Betty, who\u2019d appeared a little tense at first, soon relaxed into easy conversation about her hip replacement surgery.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s that you\u2019re writing in?\u201d asked \u201cCousin Frank,\u201d staring at me with unaccountable hostility.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s his notebook. He just takes notes,\u201d said Liz quickly.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat does putrid<\/em> mean?\u201d asked the sour-faced teen, peering over my shoulder and making a strong case for the failures of the American public school system.<\/p>\n \u201cIt means nothing,\u201d said Liz, \u201cIt means he\u2019s writing about a movie we saw last night.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSalt-free, flavorless<\/em>,\u201d continued the teen, finding a few words she understood.<\/p>\n The merry war of clashing silverware and boardinghouse-reaches had ceased. A few throats were cleared awkwardly. Aunt Betty looked tense again. \u201cLeo\u2019s blood pressure,\u201d she murmured uselessly and stared down at her lap.<\/p>\n \u201cPlease,\u201d I cautioned \u201cWait until you\u2019ve read the full review. This pasty creature,\u201d here I gestured at the sour-faced teen, \u201chas taken my words completely out of context –\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHe\u2019s really sweet,\u201d spouted Liz, apropos of nothing. \u201cHe\u2019s sweet. I promise. Did you see the coat he bought me? He picked it out himself. I didn\u2019t even have to go with him. It\u2019s just when he gets around food\u2026 he, he can\u2019t — \u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMusty. Mealy. Vomitous<\/em>,\u201d intoned Cousin Frank, who had snatched my notebook and now read from it like a Priest reciting The Black Mass.<\/p>\n \u201cLook at all the stuffing he\u2019s eaten!<\/em>\u201d yelped Liz. \u201cLook! He piled it on his plate. He hogged it all! Now there\u2019s hardly any left! Look!\u201d She was out of her seat now, pointing emphatically at my plate. \u201cHoney, tell them how much you like Aunt Betty\u2019s cornbread stuffing.\u201d<\/p>\n All eyes were on me. It\u2019s moments like these that make a critic. Or neuter him. My decision was not hard. \u201cI don\u2019t know, darling,\u201d I said truthfully, \u201cI\u2019ve never tried Aunt Betty\u2019s cornbread stuffing.\u201d<\/p>\n Liz\u2019s smile froze painfully. \u201cDon\u2019t be silly. It\u2019s right there on your plate.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh, this?\u201d I said raking my fork through the savory yellow-and-brown mulch. \u201cI\u2019m afraid you\u2019re mistaken. This isn\u2019t Aunt Betty\u2019s cornbread stuffing.\u201d <\/p>\n The whole world held its breath. \u201cThis is Julia Childs\u2019<\/em> cornbread stuffing.\u201d <\/p>\n Silence. Uncompromising, complete, silence. The sound of thirty eyes turning on their hate-rays. Broken finally by: \u201cUn-freaking-necessary, dude.\u201d<\/p>\n Then the deluge. Shouting, screeching, recrimination, sobs. The friendly atmosphere that had been the establishment\u2019s only selling point was forever shattered. Chairs were knocked over, wine was spilled, voices were piled upon voices. It became impossible to hear anything\u2026 until an unfamiliar basso profundo<\/em> boomed, \u201cElizabeth<\/em>\u201d, and flattened every other throat beneath it.<\/p>\n Uncle Leo, owner of that voice, stood at the head of the table, carving knife in hand. Staring at me like I was the Dallas Cowboys, the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders, and Lee Harvey Oswald rolled into one. \u201cElizabeth, get this little shit out of my house.\u201d<\/p>\n Silence reigned for another endless split-second. I stood and put my napkin on my plate. I retrieved my notebook with a significant look at Cousin Frank. I would try to make a dignified exit of it\u2026<\/p>\n But it was Liz who left the house. Liz who didn\u2019t bother to grab her coat and ran out into the street. I ran after her. It had started sleeting, hard. She had taken off her glasses so she could swipe at her eyes with the sleeve of her fleece overshirt.<\/p>\n \u201cLizzie, baby, I\u2019m sorry \u2013\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMy God, Hughie! My God!\u201d she spat pathetically. \u201cWhy do always you have to be such an asshole<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cPlease\u2026 I\u2019m so sorry \u2013 \u201d I was on my knees in the neighbor\u2019s lawn, fumbling towards her. Hate rays again. I could feel the eyes of the entire clan at the window behind me. \u201cI can\u2019t help<\/em> myself\u2026 This is who I am\u2026<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n She put her glasses back on. They were spotted with sleet and gravy spots. Her face had suddenly become red and chapped and old. She opened her mouth to say something cutting, but the words froze in her throat. She shook her head and looked at me again. She looked almost wry with frustration.<\/p>\n \u201cWhy?<\/p>\n She turned and tottered away from me, down the street, like an insufficiently stunned lamb wandering out of the slaughterhouse.<\/p>\n Reservations are not accepted.<\/p>\n Josh Lieb is a television writer and producer. He’s also the author of the Young Adult novel <\/em>I Am a Genius of Unspeakable Evil And I Want to Be Your Class President. He lives in New York and Los Angeles.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" ( ) zero stars The critic endures a thousand-and-one annoyances whilst plying his trade, but none is more common (or...<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":309,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[2,9],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-268","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","category-issue-2"],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"http:\/\/cronymag.com\/c\/wp-content\/uploads\/2014\/02\/shoot.jpg","_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/cronymag.com\/c\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/268"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/cronymag.com\/c\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/cronymag.com\/c\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/cronymag.com\/c\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/cronymag.com\/c\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=268"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"http:\/\/cronymag.com\/c\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/268\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":269,"href":"http:\/\/cronymag.com\/c\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/268\/revisions\/269"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/cronymag.com\/c\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/309"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/cronymag.com\/c\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=268"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/cronymag.com\/c\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=268"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/cronymag.com\/c\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=268"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nGiblet Gravy: Glib Grease
\nMashed Potatoes: Missed Opportunities
\nCranberry Sauce: Canned Sadness
\nSweet Potato Casserole: Like Watching a Car Run Over Your Dog<\/p>\n