by Lizz Lund
Walter said, “It’s alright. Amish food, if it’s not tourist food, is very good; simple home cooking.” We looked at him. “It might lean toward the country side, but if it’s good it’s all made with very fresh, all natural ingredients,” he explained. “Seriously, I just edited ‘Cooking for 20 – Everyday Amish Dinners’.”
We all nodded effusively, and pulled up our respective big girl and big boy panties and behaved as much like adults as we knew how.
As the cheese and sausage were far too heavy to pass amongst us, we passed our plates around for those closest to the Flintstone-like food to hack and serve. The cheese and sausage weren’t bad, just usual – for us at least. We fell silent, chewing. I wanted mustard. And I definitely wanted a drink.
“Excuse me, Perpetua,” I said, “but could we do with a bit of something wettish?”
“Cert’ly,” our hostess gobbed through her cheese.
Groggin tinkled the bell. Again we heard the response of the banging door and squeaking cart. Angie appeared, looking as though she’d just taken a shower. But she hadn’t.
“What would everyone like to drink?” Perpetua proffered.
“Vodka tonic,” I began, chimed in by the others, “Merlot”, “Cosmo!” and “Fuzzy navel!”
Perpetua pouted. “I’m afraid that because this is a supper club, we are not quite that well-stocked except with whatever complements the meal. Groggin and I highly recommend the sparkling water.”
Everyone at the table, particularly the punk grand-daughter who had just turned 21, met Perpetua with steady, angry gazes. Even the punk’s grandmother frowned.
“And of course we can’t sell alcoholic beverages to anyone, so we offer what we have – complimentary – on the house!”
I thought maliciously of how much of my $150 to Mr. Cash would be consumed by complimentary beverages if I hadn’t been the driver.
“Uh, what exactly do you offer, dear, beverage-wise, that complements the, um – Amish Affair?” K. ventured.
“Well, actually, to savor a truly Amish experience we wouldn’t want to suggest anything alcoholic – so homemade root beer would really be the beverage of choice,” Perpetua began, then realized the not-so-friendly-stares radiating toward her and wishing her demise. “However, as apparently we are not Amish, and in keeping with the flavor of the experience, we’ve struck a weensy loophole and are pleased to offer you – Amish Beer!”
Perpetua puffed proudly, plunking back into her seat. We sighed and placed our orders with Angie. No one – including Gramma – ordered root beer or water.
Amos appeared carrying large pitchers of what appeared to be a dark, thick beer and set these along the table. Most of the attendees leapt upon these enthusiastically. But our company held back; we were all too familiar with Bauser’s Amish beer.
We peered in at the leaves and twigs floating toward the top. Just our luck. Krumpthf’s. It had come to this. Krumpthf’s.
However, Armand, with his waitering disorder, was determined to serve someone, even if it was only us. We sipped leerily, pulling out the occasional bit of debris. After awhile, the Flintstone cheese and phallic sausage wasn’t so awfulish. We all ordered more pitchers of Krumpthf’s, much to Perpetua’s economic dismay.
“Tell you what,” growled Karen, the punk granddaughter, “I’d rather the Amish dudes made money serving up food rather than puppies for profit,” she said, hacking a piece of sausage and eating it from the knife. “We won’t have a good night if I find out they’re even related to a puppy mill farmer,” she said pointedly at the kitchen door, embedding the knife firmly in the table for punctuation.
“Well I thought that they were all related, somehow,” said newlywed Nancy from Nebraska.
The conversation flew around puppy mill breeders and how no form of punishment or torture would be too severe for them, they ought to be put in their own kennels, forced to breed, starve, freeze, be scalded, etc. All Amish Affair attendees were apparently responsible pet owners and happily in one accord against puppy mill owners, Amish or otherwise.
Amos was summoned again by Perpetua to replace the emptied vats of brew. We fell silent upon his entrance, each one of us glaring silent puppy mill accusations at him.
As soon as he’d departed, our chatter resumed.
“Being from the Amish area,” began one half of the gay couple, Ken, “what do you know about them?” he queried Ida.
“The Amish?” Ida asked. “Well, they’re like people… but they dress like Johnny Cash.”
Next came hot bowls of steaming cream of cabbage soup. Now, unless your personal habits are in need of becoming regular quick, cream of cabbage soup is to be avoided. The five of us looked at each other, with the exception of Walter who happily had begun to lap his soup. We stared at Walter. He continued to eat. We sighed. This could only be the harbinger of a long and fragrant ride home.
Next came some huge portions of pot roast and gravy, spooned over extra wide noodles. These were buddied with a tray of what appeared to be fried potato patties. The evening was eerily rekindling visions of church suppers gone bad.
After a bit, we took apologetic and surreptitious trips to the restroom. This was, in fact, a former broom closet that had been made to resemble a single use powder room. I locked the door after I sat down so that my knees wouldn’t knock it open, since they literally touched the door. I returned and watched Perpetua’s panic peak, as she mentally tallied up the tankards and trips to the loo. Clearly her profits were going down the drain.
However, the featured course of the evening finally arrived: a ground beef casserole partnered with mixed frozen vegetables and covered in a cheese sauce. All arrived in more vat-like containers with a single serving utensil plunked inside each casserole. Amos and Angie moved into the shadows, and waited. We all looked at each other, not quite sure of our hostess’ serving intentions.
Armand commanded Amos, “You vill serve, yes?”
Amos stepped out of the darkness and stared at Perpetua.
“Actually,” Perpetua piped, “we serve ourselves family style – Amish style!”
She beamed. Amos moved away. Armand glowered.
The rest of us shrugged our cumulative shoulders, the Amish beer having washed away any pretense toward any gourmet dining we had entertained earlier. We all sat with our steaming plates full of ground beef and cheese sauce and mason jars full of Krumpthf’s. We toasted Perpetua and Groggin, and even included Amos and Angie.
“You know, I sometimes edit cookbooks for a living,” Walter glubbed amiably. “This casserole is certainly interesting. What do you all call this?”
Angie stepped up from the shadows and barked, “YUMMUCK!” Mrs. Klink style.
“My,” Walter said nicely, “I sure would like the recipe.”
Angie looked through her pockets. “Here it iz,” she answered, Mrs. Klink style again.
YUMMUCK! for 24 persons:
6 lb. ground beef
Dash salt and pepper
2 cups brown sugar
1 medium onion
6 cans cream of tomato soup
6 cans cream of chicken soup
Gherkins
12 packages flat noodles
8 packages processed ‘American’ cheese
Stale pretzels – smashed
Brown the ground beef with the salt and pepper and onion. Add the brown sugar at the end. Mix in the cream of tomato soup (undiluted). In a separate pot, combine the cooked noodles with the cream of chicken soup (undiluted). Layer the hamburger mixture into a greased casserole dish. Place a layer of the slices of cheese, top with sliced gherkins. Then layer the noodle mixture. Place another layer of the slices of cheese, with another layer of sliced gherkins. Repeat. Sprinkle a layer of smashed stale pretzel crumbs on top. Bake until done.
I read the recipe from over Walter’s shoulder. I tasted some. I ended the recipe in my mind with a last instruction: Throw the whole mess out the win
dow and order a pizza.
I prodded the mess about my plate with my fork. I wasn’t sure I couldn’t eat it, much less finish it. I didn’t even like touching it.
Nancy from Nebraska leaned toward me. “My! Is this what authentic Amish food is like?”
I puzzled for a moment, looking to Ida for support and a politically correct phrase.
“It looks like food,” said Ida.
“Next ve have ze dess-ssserrrt!” commanded Amos.
“Oh yes, oh yes!” applauded Perpetua.
The remaining plates, platters and pitchers were removed noisily and hastily onto the metal cart. Then Walter sneezed several thousand times in a row.
“Gezundheit! Gezundheit” shouted Amos and Angie.
“Dankeshune,” sneezed Walter.
“Bitte!” cried Amos and Angie.
“Vielen danke,” retorted Walter amidst continued sneezes.
“I think it’s just wonderful how you people can communicate with the Amish,” the anesthesiologist said.
“Are you all able to speak Amish?” asked Nancy from Nebraska naively amidst Walter’s sneezing.
Ida looked at K. sweetly and said, “Er hat bin be-phlegmled by schnooks.”
“Ja, ja, mit de all-around-de-hausen ach-too-ee machen,” K. added, using the faux Amish the three of us came up with eons ago while up way too late and way too snookered. Remarkably we’d remembered some of our made-up language.
“My, what kind of dialect is that?” Nancy asked.
We replied in unison, “Phlegmish.”
We waited while Amos and Angie removed the dirty cart and returned with the dessert. I watched sadly as Ida Rose bounced up and down in her seat with anticipation. Clearly, anything calling itself a dessert was alright with her.
The cart squeaked its sad return, covered with what cheerfully looked like raspberry pies. I sighed in relief. The pies were thunked on the table along with very worn pie servers, tubs of Whip-Whip cream, carafes of coffee and coffee mugs.
The cart retreated hastily in the distance. Armand jumped up to serve the pies.
“Pleeze,” he growled at Perpetua.
“Well of course,” she replied, sitting back down.
Armand thrust a pie server into a pie, and bore down. Then he bore down again. Finally, we heard a crack and realized he had made it through the crust. This was repeated several times, until pie and coffee had been passed around all of us.
I bit into my piece of pie and crunched and almost lost a molar. The crust was exceedingly hard and very salty. And what I hoped was raspberry curd was in reality some kind of Jell-O. Even Walter raised his eyebrows.
“This is very interesting, Perpetua. I don’t think I’ve come across anything quite like this. What do you call it?” he asked politely.
“Pretzel Pie! An Amish favorite!” Perpetua and Groggin cried together.
My,” Walter replied. Though he didn’t ask for the recipe this time.
Didn’t matter. Angie appeared from the shadows. “I have zees, too,” she said, and laid another recipe card in front of Walter.
PRETZEL PIE
(1) large box of stale pretzels
Your favorite Jell-O flavor
Lard
1 tub of Whip-Whip cream
Basically, you smash the stale pretzels and blend with enough lard to form a pretzel crust in a pie shell pan. Then you top with Jell-O. You serve this, chilled (which explained why the crust was difficult to break through) and if you’re feeling rakish, top with Whip-Whip cream.
We all pushed our pretzel pies about our plates. Except for Ida Rose, who chiseled herself a second piece and took the recipe card from Walter.
After many polite goodbyes and a skirmish at the door with Perpetua and the punk grand-daughter about appropriating a mason jar, we bid adieu. We made our way out into the still warm humid streets. I looked at Walter, now re-wilting in the August haze.
“Tell you what,” I offered, “how about K. and I get the car and return here for the rest of you?”
After many thank-yous K. and I walked on, leaving our little group in the air-conditioned safety of the apartment building’s lobby. K. put an arm across my shoulders.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?” I asked.
“For putting up with my delusions of grandeur. You know, we would have been better off having our own party and cooking for ourselves. At least we wouldn’t have had to eat that awful food, or have a three hour drive back home,” he added.
“Well, it won’t kill us,” I offered, “but my shoes will. I think I have only two good toes left, and those are broken,” I said, limping along the pavement. My stockings were mangled; they’d come apart at the ankles earlier. Now I walked the streets of New York City barefoot.
“I’ll drive home, if you want… it’s the least I can do,” said K. as we got to Vito’s car.
“Okay,” I agreed. I was tired.
We got into the Towncar, buckled up, miraculously got out of the parking garage without more obstacles or passwords, and made our way back toward our little tribe. We pulled up into the no-parking zone just in front of the sidewalk to the lobby doors. K. beeped three times. We looked; Ida and Armand sheparded both sides of Walter.
K. smiled wanly. “So what do you think you’re going to do next weekend?”
“Guess I’m going to finally get serious about painting the walls,” I replied, and sighed.
After we successfully ballasted Walter back into Vito’s Towncar, K. wove our way away from Bank Street, back toward the Henry Hudson, G.W., and points Pee-Ay-ward as we hit the Jersey turnpike. The NJ Turnpike soon morphed into the PA Turnpike, and I woke up while K. was yawning.
“Next rest stop?” I asked. K. nodded.
Next exit, K. pulled off, following a rest stop sign. After several mis-negotiated turns, choices of fast food and one-way lanes, we descended on our usual fast food chain, Buddy Burgers. K. pulled the Towncar into a parking space, shut it off, and then we glanced at each other in mutual exhaustion.
I looked behind us, at Walter and Armand and Ida snuffled softly in the backseat, like two kittens with their over-sized mastiff. Then they all jolted awake with a start. “Where are we?”, “Are we home?” and “We’re not still there are we?”
We tumbled out of the Towncar. “Right then, potty break,” I said. Except for K., who snored like he could use a lot of beauty sleep.
Walter and Armand strolled into the men’s room. Ida and I stood behind the fifty or so women lined up outside the entrance to the women’s restroom. As usual, we crossed our legs and commiserated with all the women in line about the usual diss’ing of the fool architect who didn’t realize that women can’t share urinals, and we wished him an excruciating period just once in his lifetime, etc.
After feeling like we’d grown visibly older, Ida and I finally got our potty break turns.
We finished and found Walter and Armand waiting for us. They had already consumed two burgers and shakes apiece, while K. had woken up, taken his turn in the men’s room and was happily munching on the various salad stuffs he’d ordered in his Buddy Basket. Ida and I shook our heads and shrugged.
“You want a soda?” I asked Ida.
She nodded. “I’ll come with you. I need another dessert.”
The boys said they’d wait for us in the lobby. Then they walked off to take turns at losing change at one of those fake arcade games – the kind that cons you into thinking you can pick up a stuffed toy you don’t need with a mechanical arm-hook thingy that doesn’t work. But K. was intent on winning Flopsy Bunny.
Ida and I stood in line and wove our way through the cattle maze that snaked its way around and eventually made its way up toward the Buddy Burger counter. The couple behind us bickered about what they were going to order. Mrs. Couple made a crack about Buddy Burger’s plastic combination-hybrid utensils.
“Yes, be careful, they are very s
hc-aaararrrp,” Mr. Couple replied.
The couple laughed. Ida and I turned around and gaped open-mouthed at them.
“YOU!” Ida pointed, now fully returned to Lady Macbeth mode. “You are NOT AMISH after all!”
“Shhhh!!!!”
“Hsss!!!” Ida responded.
I rubbed my neck. My feet barked.
As fate would have it, Mr. and Mrs. Couple were indeed the Amish Col. and Mrs. Klink who had served (or not served, according to Armand) us our Amish Affair. Except that now, instead of being clad in black wool, they were wearing his ‘n’ her cargo shorts. And Mrs. Couple wore a purple tube top, and sported a very large tattoo of an eagle with a fish in its talons that covered her entire left shoulder. Mr. Couple wore a worn black t-shirt, ‘E=MC2’ printed across the front in white letters.
I stared at them. “What the?” I asked to no one in particular.
“NEXT!” the sweaty, middle-aged, overworked man behind the counter yelled nicely at us all.
Ida was immediately jolted back into the current plane of time. “I’d like a cappuccino with 2 shots of extra flavoring, a Chocolate Fudge and Marshmallow Pie Pocket, a Cherry Pie Pocket, a large Berry-Berry shake, and an ‘I Win! I Win!’ energy bar,” she instructed quickly.
The stout man behind the counter wiped his brow and looked at her. He shook his head. “You want a Buddy tooth brush with all that?” he asked nicely. Ida shook her head. “You?” he asked me.
“Medium cola and a small order of fries, extra ketchup,” I said automatically – my usual travel mode fare.
Then, as Ida and I were about to interrogate Col. and Mrs. Klink, they were ordered to place their orders too. We waited. They ordered a cheeseburger, large salad, onion rings, fries, a strawberry shake and a coffee. Then the four of us were dismissed to trudge down the line toward collecting our food.
“You are NOT AMISH!” Ida hissed.
Mrs. Klink shrugged. “It’s a job,” she said simply.
“Look, we’ll pay for your orders, okay? Just please don’t rat us out to Perpetua and Groggin, okay?” E=MC2 boy begged.
Ida and I considered quickly. I wished that I had ordered dinners for the rest of the week. Too bad I wasn’t more opportunistic.