Our Bon Appetit baker Robin Riley has been at it again: Seven-Layer Bars. You could prefix that with “Killer” or “Epic” and not be charged with exaggeration. My New Year’s Resolution, made at least twice annually, is not to go there, or, if I must pass through the Strait of Desserts, it’s got to be a swift passage. I’m like Odysseus armoring himself against the lure of the Sirens, except he has a crew to lash him to the mast. I’m on my own.
In a recent email exchange, my sister and I compared notes on the NYRez front. Your life is full of temptations, she wrote, referring to the stockpiles of cookie ingredients, Klondike bars, and other necessities of opening the door to hungry teenaged hundreds on Saturday nights and random other days of the week. You’ve got to practice a lot of restraint. The plus side of it is that when you want to indulge, someone else has made it for you! (She’s totally right–plus, they’ve thought it out, shopped for it, and cleaned my dishes, too. Trust me: I am whatever the opposite of an ingrate is. Outgrate? Exgrate?)
An ER and surgical nurse (and on the side, a top Extreme Cowboy Race competitor), my sister has been working in rural hospitals most of her professional life. The ailments she treats have left her wondering seriously about the lifestyle choices that keep the same folks revolving through the door, suffering repetitive health emergencies born often of too many Seven Layer Bars or their ne’er-do-well kin, chased with Coke and a cigarette or two. She continued, with more specifics.
Our cafeteria is run by people who, compliantly enough, serve up what the majority of the employees like: chicken and steak in breaded strips, biscuits, gravy, sausage and bacon, french fries. NONE of it is scratch-made, not even the gravy. They did away with the salad bar a month ago. Whenever veggies show up are the frozen, mixed kind, cooked to death; they usually throw bacon in it to get people to eat them. You would think administration might get involved. It all flies completely in the face of health.
Given that, how could I possibly tell her that today, at lunch, the following was on the menu, created by Chef Ismael primarily of local ingredients, served with a smile by Rudy or Maria or Jorge or any other number of kitchen artisans who clearly have our best health in mind? In the hot line, homemade everything: chicken pot pie; grilled tomato, basil & cheddar sandwich on wheat; pasta primavera; Santa Fe barley pilaf; steamed broccoli-cauliflower-carrots, vegetarian lentil soup. Out that door and to the right, the double-barreled salad bar, and beyond it, five feet of deli sandwich makings.
How can I bear to say that, about once a year, I go for that well-loved last resort– Pb&J–and it’s not deep fried, but grilled to perfection on a panini machine?