In Praise of Hospital Cafeterias

Well, Ella had her latest "procedure" on Friday and came out with flying colors. Unfortunately, the operation--a combination endoscopy and choledochoscopy with a side of general anaesthetic--didn't do jack, but at least she is no worse off than she was before. I intend to write far more about Ella and the delights of modern medicine, but that is for another day. For now, I want to offer some thanks to the wonderful little people, the ones who are there for us in our time of need, yet never get the appreciation they deserve. I'm not talking about the doctors, the nurses, or even the cute lil' candystripers. No, I'm talking about the hospital food service employees.

When I was a kid, it sometimes seemed like we lived at the hospital. Ella was born with a liver defect; for much of her first few years, we were constantly seeing doctors at Bethesda Naval Hospital. In fact, for her first few months, Ella and my mother actually lived at the hospital, in a nice, big room on the seventh floor. It was kind of like a hotel, if you ignored the IVs, the medical waste disposal bags, and the nurses dropping by at all hours. On the bright side, they had custom soap. On the downside, it was iodine-infused and had a nasty reddish-yellow color.

We lived about forty-five minutes away, in Fairfax, but my father would drive my sisters and I out there every evening. At first, we would hang out with the baby, but that would inevitably grow boring, so we started wandering all over the place. We'd bounce on the chairs in the huge atrium area, practice sneaking around the sensors on the automatic door openers, and raid the goodies that the chapel always put out. We came to know all the little hidden spaces in the hospital, got on a first-name basis with the cleaning staff, and made friends with most of the nurses. Best of all, we became huge fans of the cafeteria.

The hospital cafeteria was 1970's fern bar chic, with light-wood tables and dividers, recessed lighting, and hunter green walls. It felt like a sophisticated watering-hole, particularly when my father would hand me a few dollars and send me off to feed my sisters. The food was always frest and delicious. Most of it was prepared in-house, and the staff was generally cheery and glad to help. In fact, it was so good that, even years later, my father was still able to bribe us with a visit there. Many were the times that my sisters and I were convinced to be silent or bear up through a test with the promise that we would go to the cafeteria afterwards.

Another side of the cafeteria, which I'd forgotten until recently, was the fact that it was incredibly cheap. My parents used to hand me five or ten dollars to feed myself and my sisters, and I always brought back change. Admittedly, this was the early 1980's, and Bethesda was a military hospital, but it still had really good prices. To this day, I still feel like I'm being cheated when I have to pay more than a couple of bucks for lunch. My only excuse is that the hospital cafeteria trained me to be a cheapskate.

Fast forward a few years and I recently found myself hanging out at the Geisinger Clinic in Danville, Pennsylvania, waiting for my sister to come out of her procedure. The waiting room was filled with nervous people waiting for family members, and I felt like, at least in my case, misery doesn't necessarily love company. Having finished my book and the magazine that I packed, I decided to explore the hospital.

From previous visits, I already knew that Geisinger had two restaurants: an extensive, full-service cafeteria on the second floor and a smaller mini-restaurant on the first floor. Ella's friend Wiley, an older gentleman who used to work at the hospital, mentioned a lesser-known cafe on lower level 2, near the children's ward. He told me that it was the most pleasant place to eat, so I decided to put it to the test.

Wiley was absolutely right: the cafe was a sunny little spot with only about five or six tables. The food offerings were minimal, but were perfectly prepared, and the service was fantastic. I got an italian sausage sandwich with fried onions and red peppers, a cup of potato cheddar soup, and a piece of apple pie. Along with a bottle of water, the whole thing ran me about five or six bucks, and the cashier was incredibly cheerful. I found myself a clean table near a sunny window, savored my comfort food, and thought about how nice it is to have a hospital cafeteria when you need one.

I know that many hospitals aren't blessed with this kind of outstanding food service. Roanoke Memorial Hospital, where Georgia was born, didn't have a decent cafeteria, and the food service at Montgomery Regional Hospital consisted of a couple of cruddy candy dispensers. However, the two hospitals in which I've had to spend the most time have both had outstanding, reasonably-priced places to eat. While I don't really look forward to going back to the Geisinger hospital for Ella's next operation, I have to admit that I'm glad the cafeterias will be there.

Horribly Offensive Party

WARNING: This blog post contains humor of a scatological and sophomoric nature. Before you proceed any further, you should be aware that a strong stomach and a well-developed sense of irony are prerequisites for this particular account. On the other hand, there are LOTS of fun pictures.

As I mentioned in a previous post, I like to throw birthday parties for myself. Every year, I celebrate my nativity by cooking an awful lot of some obscure cuisine for my nearest and dearest. This gives me the opportunity to share the wonder of me, while simultaneously letting the people in my life know that their existence makes mine a little more meaningful.

My friend Tom always helps out. He selflessly spends hours preparing food, kicks in for the cost of the groceries, and helps me clear out all that obnoxious beer that keeps filling up my fridge. This year, Tom decided to adopt my course of action and celebrate his own birthday. However, Tom's focus is not on obscure cuisine; he prefers delicious food that looks like other things.

And so, "Tom Kippur, the Horribly Offensive Party" was born.

Eager to celebrate the wonder of Tom, and tempted by the possibility that his fridge, like mine, might be infested with the dread "bottled beer" parasite, I kicked in. Tom and Dani, his girlfriend, set out to define the boundaries of bad taste with good food. I think they succeeded. All of the following pictures were taken by Manu, our amazing Sri Lankan/West Virginian friend.

The first theme was "politically offensive," so they offered "Pol Pot Pies":

Celebrating the brutal leader of the Khmer Rouge, these tasty treats offered chicken, sodium, and a commemoration of the man who masterminded the destruction of a country and the deaths of millions of Cambodians.

In a nod to the wonders of Alexander Solzhenitsyn, Tom also offered "Goulash Archipelago," a Hungarian-spiced tribute to Soviet literature and the most advanced prison-camp system ever developed:

Although the Creme Fraiche and chives were not, actually, part of the goulash, they were delicious garnishes that gave shape to the "archipelago." And, of course, they looked cute in their little bowls.

Finally, lest World War II-era ethnic slurs be underrepresented, Tom tossed in "Nips in Rice Paddies." Inspired by the Japanese flag, these morsels featured rice pudding and caramel nips:

As you can see, the "Nips and Rice Paddies" are in front of my personal favorite, the "Dirty Diapers," aka croissants with Nutella spread. My contribution was a little more scatological. In addition to the diapers, it included the "sausagefest Charcuterie plate":

The "sausage" on the left is Sopressata, which I like to call "Italian Crack." It is, simply, an incredibly delicious sausage. The "pubes" are constructed out of sauteed onions. The sausage on the right is made from braunschweiger, a german pate, garnished with shredded lettuce. Both sausages feature Sicilian meatball "testicles." We also offered a blutwurst penis, which was garnished with sauerkraut and the ubiquitous Sicilian meatballs:

Although some people liked it, I found the flavor of the blutwurst to be as disturbing as its looks. It tasted like iron and week-old refried beans.

Lest the female genitalia be underrepresented, there were also "Pink Tacos," available in "meaty" and "vagitarian":

We also offered "Fur Pie," which was filled with strawberries in a balsamic-port wine reduction and garnished with grated dark chocolate:

As you can see, this was our first attempt with creating a chocolate "bush," and it was a little off kilter.

For those who preferred their fur pie sans garnish, we offered a "shorn" version. This one featured whipped cream:

For the fan of seafood, Tom also offered calimari "condoms" stuffed with horseradish sauce:

As we had a few leftover meatballs, we were able to offer "Overstuffed Diaper, Sicilian Style":

The final theme was religious humor. As Tom was raised Catholic, there were "Filipinos at Easter," a tribute to gingerbread and religious dedication:

Dani, on the other hand, was raised Jewish, hence the beautiful "Jewish Princess Cake" that she prepared:

As you can see, "Bergdorf's Barbie" is perfectly accessorized, and is ready for a night on the town.

All in all, we celebrated Tom's birthday with joy and delight, and a wonderful time was had by all. Once again, many thanks to Manu for memorializing this wonderful occasion.