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Saturday Night / by Joan M. Bruderer I went out, impulsively, seeking "comfort food" to a popular Kansas City eatery. I wanted meatloaf. After all, what is more classic? I thought this, even after having seen a food special in the local newspaper the previous Wednesday describing the many ways not to fix meatloaf. I called the restaurant around 5 p.m. on a Saturday evening and was somewhat reassured to find there was a one and one-half hour wait for tables (must be good with all those people interested) but a lone diner could be seated at the bar in no time. There was ample eating room and the chairs had backs. Pitiful me, to be so delighted by such meager enticement; but I said I craved comfort food - I was very uncomfortable. So I got in my little red car and moseyed on down, finding a handy parking spot. My knee, hip and back hurt some - one reason for my discomfort. Also, I had a cold; but I was gradually regaining my senses, literally. I stopped in the crowd, mesmerized by a beautiful sunset, against the outlines of the buildings - flaming orange cooled by streaks of azure and pink. No one was looking. I think I should have found some hard rolls, good cheese, and wine - as I'd seen in Italy last summer - and stayed looking; but I turned reluctantly away, because I was hungry for comfort and a crowd. My, the people were crowding the doors, extending ten or so out, double lines. I took a side door, asked for the girl whom I had spoken to on the phone; and she said brightly that there was a spot upstairs. I finally found the waiter she mentioned - maybe five minutes later - the spot was already gone. Now, my faith in my choice was intensified; but the waiter said a ten-minute wait - and no place to sit - my body couldn't take it. Poor boy, he pushed electronic buttons madly but finally decided - what the hell! - to give me a table for two. Well, I was overwhelmed. I sat, ordered the meatloaf dinner and wine quickly; I noticed that my table waiter had his strawberry blond hair in a ponytail, about the color of mine at his age. The table to the north rather shocked me, with four kids, maybe twelve to fourteen years old, no adults. At my right, a man contemplated a very rich dessert, at least eight inches high. I continued blissfully, unaware of my imminent comeuppance. The meatloaf came; now it was a girl who said brightly, "Anything else?" I mentioned the wine and it was brought. Well, everything looked okay - three large slices of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, brown gravy, peas, mushrooms and carrots. I'd had no food for six hours - I fell upon it. I've been a fairly good cook; so, after a couple of minutes, I thought, "This is very spicy meatloaf." To me, that's not comfort. Oh, maybe the brown gravy was barbeque sauce and scrapeable - no, said the waiter; he thought the rosemary or other herbs in the mixture responsible - I ate about half, but it was not the food of my youth, or even late middle age. The servers were so bright and eager to please; the restaurant, crowded; but I wished I hadn't come. I was out of place there. For real comfort, I should have found a window, some drink and food, as mentioned, with a view of that gorgeous day's close (it tied the all-time high temperature for that January day) and watched that fiery brilliance until its glow diffused, as the night came softly down, hoping to share just a tiny touch of such a spectacular finish myself one day. When I got home, I gave the cat some of my leftover meatloaf, which she wouldn't eat; guess she's stuck on classic, too - classic salmon. To be honest, I ate the remainder of the meatloaf the next day; and it was less spicy. But I hope I'll make no more quick trips expect fanciful outcomes; for, as in any respect of life, true comfort takes planning and a bit of luck. |