10th
My Recession-Proof Career
On the advice of a friend, I’m going to turn my love of completely ordinary food into a lucrative food-writing career.
My column will only cover banal culinary experiences.
It will be written in the style of a Dashiell Hammett or a Raymond Chandler.
It will be called: The Hardboiled Egg — a no-nonsense look at everyday dining.
I walked into the Leverett dining hall around 9:40. Too early. The morning sun, streaming through the bay windows, made me feel like I had a boxer in my head trying to pound his way out. Shouldn’t have drank that whiskey last night. Might as well drink some more now.
I grabbed a beaten-up tray and walked into the kitchen. The brunette from a few nights ago was there, waiting. Just my luck. She pretended not to notice me as she poured syrup over her French Toast. The thick liquid drizzled slowly from the ladle.
A bit spilled on her chest. She dabbed at it with her finger, then brought it to her cracked, devil-red lips. Her tongue darted out and licked it off. She closed her eyes, savoring its sweetness.
“I just love feeling that syrup in my mouth,” she said without looking up at me. “Don’t you, detective?”
I didn’t respond. No time. I was here for French Toast, not women.
“Maybe you can show me one of your…..special recipes soon?”
“Maybe,” I grunted.
She sauntered away, trying to draw my eye. It didn’t work. All I saw was the Toast. I put a piece on my plate, noting its lack of powdered sugar. Nothing fancy here. I drizzled syrup on it, carefully zig-zagging the ladle.
I found a hard wooden chair outside and tried my first bite. Barely feels fresh. Syrup’s too sweet. Could use some powdered sugar. But not bad.
All in all, I give the HUDS French Toast a 5 out of 10.
