Food: A Love Story

by Jim Gaffigan

  If Christmas consumption doesn’t kill or bankrupt you, you get one more chance on New Year’s Eve, the prom night of holidays. New Year’s Eve is the pinnacle of the alcohol overconsumption category, but it also is the culmination of all the indulging of the entire year in a final fit of hedonistic madness. It’s the overconsuming of overconsumption. The pressure is on. We get one last hurrah before we head back to the war of regular life and responsible living. Over the course of December’s gluttonous rampage we’ve committed to turn over a new leaf come January. We can’t go on like this. We can be healthy, but only if we first get one last night. One last drink. One last piece of cake. One last cigarette. Like the Frog Prince, a kiss at midnight from our sweetheart will turn us into a new person. And poof. It’s a new year.

  First Quarter

  I start off the year with the best intentions. It’s a new year filled with hope and possibility …

  FAMILY DINNER

  When I was growing up, every Sunday my family would have a family dinner. “Sunday dinner”—or as I called it, “torture”—was my parents’ attempt at being civilized and having at least one meal a week with the entire family. Mom, Dad, and the six kids would gather around the dining room table. There was no getting out of it. My friend’s mom could offer to take me to meet Jesus and I wouldn’t be able to go. It was “family time,” and I remember hating it. There was a formal-dress requirement. Well, not formal but more fancy, so wearing scratchy clothes was a necessity. The dinner had to take place in the dining room, and my mom had to use her wedding china that was so nice it could never go into a dishwasher. It had to be carefully washed by hand. And preferably dried with a kitten. And it had to be a white kitten.

  Sunday dinner would start around 6:00 p.m. We would say grace to thank God for all His blessings. Then we would try to rip each other apart over the first serving as my mother yelled orders at us from the other room. She never had time to eat. She would be scooting back and forth combining elegance and warmth with absolute frustration. “Eat the coleslaw!” would be bellowed from the other room. My dad would hack a productive smoker’s cough before he began every sentence. “(cough) This is great, Marcia,” my dad would mumble as he slid a carving knife into a pork roast, a turkey, or a rack of lamb. He would use a low voice as if to indicate to the rest of us “Compliment your mother or you die.” My siblings and I would quickly chime in with “It’s great. Thanks, Mom.” Then a silence would fall over the table as bowls and plates were passed and food was voraciously consumed. I remember being a kid and never being able to find a multicourse meal appealing. I couldn’t understand why we couldn’t just have McDonald’s for Sunday dinner. My eight-year-old palette was already accustomed to fast food, and expanding it beyond that has been a lifelong struggle for me. My mom could make thick and juicy home-cooked hamburgers on some fancy roll, but I still preferred a thin, tasteless McDonald’s hamburger on that wonderbun.

  At the end of dinner, my dad would light a cigarette (yes, in the same room with all six of us kids) and begin a discussion that to me always seemed like awkward small talk: “Someone (one of the kids) broke the clicker (remote control).” Or: “(Someone we don’t know) is dying, so we should all feel horrible.” Or even worse: “What do you want to be when you grow up?” As a ten-year-old I remember announcing, “Mike says I’d be a great proctologist.” No, I had no idea what it was, but I figured out I’d said something wrong when everyone laughed at me and my dad gave me the deadeye stare.

  Occasionally my father would ask us about historical events. “Jimmy, what do you think of the Vietnam War?” It didn’t matter that the Vietnam War was long over or that I was ten years old at the time and pretty much unaware of the existence of Vietnam. I’m sure my answer was nothing very insightful and probably pretty ignorant, much to the delighted mockery of my older siblings. “Um, it seems fun on M*A*S*H.” (gales of laughter) “That was Korea, you idiot!”

  Many of these Sunday night family “discussions” would inevitably lead to massive arguments, and normally someone would end up crying or getting punished. The punishment was pretty harsh and usually involved cleaning up after the Sunday dinner, which was the only thing worse than the actual Sunday dinner. Cleaning up after an eight-person Sunday dinner that you don’t even want to be at should probably be added to Amnesty International’s list of torture techniques. But we were dressed nicely, so it seemed like very civilized torture. It’s no wonder I still love McDonald’s. You can just eat it, then throw the bag away.

  LAST SUPPER

  Sitting and eating a meal with someone is intimate. I try to eat as many meals as I can with my kids. Sure, I try to eat as many meals as I can in general, but eating with my children is important. There we are together, eating and talking, spilling and throwing food. Sometimes my kids misbehave too. It’s a great time to force myself away from all the other distractions in life and sit around a table sharing an experience with my family. Even baby Patrick in his high chair knows it’s important. He laughs along and babbles in agreement. He is in the mix. The entire family is participating in something together. Jeannie and I try to teach manners and civilize these little monsters, but anyone with young children knows it’s never a relaxing experience. It’s just good to eat together. It’s a unique time you can share with your family, and it’s been going on for thousands of years.

  My board of directors.

  People of every culture have shared a family meal to commemorate their most important customs. On Passover, Jewish people eat lamb, bitter herbs, and unleavened bread in communion with their ancestors. It’s pretty brilliant, really. Imagine if years from now people thought of you while they ate bratwurst. “Well, on this day we eat brats to honor Jim Gaffigan.” Eating a meal with your family or friends to honor someone or something heightens the experience of eating, and eating heightens the experience of the tradition. It was on a Passover over two thousand years ago that Jesus hosted the Last Supper. It was the “Last Supper,” not the “Last Seminar,” for a reason. Jesus was getting at least twelve men together. There had to be food.

  JESUS: Tomorrow I’d like to get everyone together.

  APOSTLE: Is there going to be food there?

  JESUS: (annoyed) Yes, there will be food.

  APOSTLE: Are we talking appetizers or like a meal?

  JESUS: (frustrated) It will be a supper.

  APOSTLE: A supper? So it’s casual? I can wear a robe? I mean, if you said dinner I would wear a tie.

  I always found it odd that this momentous event was given such a seemingly casual name. The word supper sounds like a potluck with Jed Clampett as the party planner. I can just see Jed in his floppy hat: “Hey ya’ll, Jesus is having a Last Supper. Let’s rustle up some grub. Sissy, you bring your Jell-O salad. Jesus will fry up the fish. I’ll be playing fiddle.”

  I’m sure the Last Supper was anything but casual. It was the last meal Jesus shared with the apostles before things got really messy. Anyone who has organized a gathering with a large group of friends knows this is never an easy task, even if you are not about to be crucified. No matter how intimate the event is, there is always someone who shows up at your dinner party with uninvited strangers. You know, one of the apostles arrived in this manner. “Hey, Jesus, Happy Last Supper! I hope it’s okay, but I brought my friends Frank and Weezie. They’re visiting from Cleveland, and they are HUGE fans of yours. Is it cool if they get a selfie with you?”

  Of course, at the Last Supper there was no Jell-O salad or people from Cleveland. It took place in the Middle East, and, given Jewish dietary laws, the bread Jesus broke and shared with his apostles was probably not that tasty and had all the leaven taken out. Think how different things could have been if the Last Supper had occurred in Mexico. Jesus probably would have said, “Take this, all of you … but not the chips. I’m saving those for the guacamole.” We all know the importance of guacamole. Now, I know the Last Supper did not occur at a Mexican restaurant, or in any type of restaurant in the
modern sense of the word, although I love the idea of an interrupting waitress at this momentous event.

  JESUS: Take this, all of you—

  WAITRESS: Can I get anyone coffee?

  JESUS: We are good, thank—

  WAITRESS: Dessert? We have a key lime pie to die for!

  JESUS: Just the check, ple—

  WAITRESS: I’m going to bring you guys a slice of the pie with a bunch of forks. On the house. You only live once, right?

  JESUS: Something like that.

  I hope I haven’t offended anyone with my lighthearted take on the Last Supper. I certainly don’t mean to offend. I understand that religion jokes make some people uncomfortable. Especially the people who are going to hell. It is my belief that God has a great sense of humor. How else would you explain the appearance of the duck-billed platypus or the manatee? Doesn’t it look like God didn’t try very hard on the manatee? “Let’s see, make him a gray blob of fat, flip-flops … what the heck, let’s go with the goatee. Stick him around Florida; he’ll fit right in.”

  THE FINAL MEAL

  I have five young, energetic children whom I love with every ounce of my existence and who I always joke are going to be the death of me. Whoever said “Kids keep you young” was being sarcastic. The reality is that eventually we are all going to die, even though no one wants to think about it. Whenever the news tells us someone famous has passed away we always think to ourselves, I’m glad that’s never happening to me. But when you have kids, you have to start talking about wills and life insurance and all other kinds of morbid stuff, so you are forced to acknowledge that death eventually will happen. Whenever I am confronted with the thought of death, I am faced with the same perplexing question that has puzzled both philosophers and religious leaders since the beginning of time: What do I eat for my last meal?

  Supposedly, death row inmates get to request a last meal before we take their lives. Often these criminals have done horrible things, so it’s kind of confusing to me that we are executing them but, just beforehand, offering them a little treat. As if it somehow makes taking their lives more civilized. Suddenly we as a society are like a James Bond villain: “Before I kill you with my evil contraption, would you like some caviar?”

  Most of us don’t know when or how we are going to go, so for us non-death-row inmates, the last-meal question presents an interesting conundrum. How do we plan? I don’t like to have forgettable meals in normal circumstances. Even worse than that are the meals that are bad or unsatisfying. You wouldn’t want to spend the afterlife regretting your last meal. “I can’t believe I ordered the fish.” “What was I doing eating applesauce from White Castle?” We want to leave the people here with the knowledge that we have loved them dearly but also that we have no regrets and lived our lives to their fullest. Therefore, I conclude that we should be full. Full of something delicious.

  Jeannie told me the Bible says that the Kingdom of Heaven is like a wedding feast, but what if I’m not invited? I figure I’d better do some carb loading to increase my stamina for when I have to start the heavy negotiating with Saint Peter. I’m sure I will be standing outside the ropes. “I know my wife is in there, and I’m almost positive she got me on the list. No? Maybe you could just give her my mobile number? If I could just talk to her, I’m sure we could straighten this out. Her name is Jeannie. She may be going by Saint Jeannie up here?”

  But how to plan the last meal? For the answer to this age-old question, I needed only to turn to my brilliant and funny peers. Most of the great advice I’ve received in my life I’ve gotten from fellow comedians. Sure, we are a ragtag bunch of self-destructive narcissists, but there is an inherent bravery and wisdom found in stand-up comedians. Comedians examine life from a unique point of view. There are so many influences I could mention, but, really, each of my stand-up comedian friends and predecessors has taught me so many things. Once, a friend told me he tried to treat every performance like it might be his last. Similar to the football coach instructing players to give 100 percent or leave “everything on the field,” it is always possible any stand-up performance could be your last, so make sure it matters. No comedian would want his last performance to be uninspired or “phoned in.” I think unconsciously I’ve also applied this advice to my eating. I’d never want my last real meal to be a kale salad or a PowerBar. Maybe this whole eat-every-meal-like-it’s-your-last approach to life is what really inspired me to write this book.

  My advice to you, dear reader, is to eat well and eat frequently. Our time here is pretty short. It’s filled with disappointments and drama, and food can make it better. I’m not proposing that every meal be a Shake Shack burger or a falafel from Mamoun’s on MacDougal Street, but it is important that you enjoy your life. That’s why a decent cheeseburger is always a good decision. Yes, I am saying that a cheeseburger and fries would be a great last meal. Make it a double. Since we don’t know how or when we will go, I make it a point to eat a few cheeseburgers throughout the day just in case.

  I am a firm believer that the meal should always fit the occasion, so I also have suggestions for last meals depending on the way you go, just in case you are a planner and also a clairvoyant.

  • If you are going to go down in a private jet, I would suggest a Kobe beef steak dinner.

  • If you are murdered by a junkie, your last meal should be a doughnut.

  • If you are fatally hit by a foul ball at a baseball game, you should be eating a hot dog.

  • If you die from a gunshot wound, you should be digesting Waffle House.

  • If you are stabbed to death in jail, it should be over a bologna sandwich.

  • If you have a heart attack watching a football game, you should be reaching for a brat at the time.

  • If you die from dysentery, it should be from a Hot Pocket.

  • If you take your own life, it should be after you ate kale because you don’t deserve a good last meal if you do that.

  • If you die abroad, may it be in Mexico or Thailand after an amazing feast.

  • And, of course, if you choke to death, it should be on bacon.

  Thank you, my friends, for reading this book. I hope your worst eating experiences are behind you. May you enjoy only great meals, mostly with family and close friends. I hope your coffee is strong, your cheese is sharp, and your guacamole is chunky. This is my wish for all of you, but, most important, I hope you don’t dance. People look really silly doing that. Am I right or what?

  ADDITIONAL ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Jeannie and I have written two books. The first book was Dad Is Fat, which was all about my conversion from happy loner to grateful, exhausted father of five. This second book compiles many of the observations I’ve made about food over a lifetime. I wasn’t sure how to acknowledge everyone, so I’m going to thank some of the people who bought me free meals or exposed me to amazing food.

  First and foremost I’d like to reiterate that Jeannie is the reason this book makes any sense and that I’m not a serial killer. Everything Jeannie touches is delicious. In an ideal world I would eat all meals with Jeannie. My favorite dish she makes is Königsberger Klopse. No, that is not a made-up name.

  I must thank my beautiful children, Marre, Jack, Katie, Michael, and Patrick, who constantly provide a fresh perspective on food and how it can be consumed or rubbed on one’s face for no reason. They remain the only people I don’t mind sharing food with.

  I thank my father for his love of steak and an appreciation for going out to dinner.

  My mom was the bacon of all humans. No, really, she was. Her spaghetti with two pounds of ground beef remains one of my favorite dishes. She would have loved how much my son Jack adores her recipe.

  Thanks to my amazing manager, Alex Murray, who has bought me tons of Chipotle, and his tireless associate, Jerilyn Novia, who brought me to an excellent Mexican bakery in Los Angeles.

  I’d like to thank my editor, Suzanne O’Neill, and the whole gang at the Crown Publishing Group, who s
till owe me a dinner at Nobu: Maya Mavjee, Molly Stern, Tina Constable, Tammy Blake, Julie Cepler, Tommy Cabrera, and Jenni Zellner.

  Thanks to Nick Nucifaro, Martin Lesak, Greg Cavic, Simon Green, John Sachs, and all the CAA folks, who I hope will continue to bring me to expensive steakhouses for years to come.

  Thanks to all the New York City–based comedians who I’ve eaten tons of shawarma, pierogi, pizza, and bagels with over the years.

  Thanks to Greg Giraldo, who introduced me to the power and majesty of rice and beans.

  Thanks to Angela Muto and Ken Formen for exposing me to cold borscht.

  Thanks to Tom Shillue, who never makes me feel guilty when we eat a steak after one of our theater shows.

  Thanks to my sister Cathy, who brought me to my first dim sum and allowed me and my brother Joe to eat everything in her house that one spring break.

  Thanks to my sister Pam, who not only gave me a packet of hot dogs, a six-pack of Dr Pepper, and a hot-air popcorn maker for my birthday but also brought me many times to Godfather’s Pizza while I was in high school. I still love those rabbit-turd sausages they put on their pizza.

  Thanks to my brother Mike, who brought me to Taste of Chicago and began my love affair with all Chicago food.

  Thanks to my brother Mitch, who always gets Schoop’s to bring free burgers to my shows when I perform in Northwest Indiana. Mitch also makes a great blue cheese burger.