Italian Panini
May. 11th, 2011 06:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hafoc
Behind me the sky had opened. It was a downpour out there now. "I shoulda worn my poncho in."
"Yeah, who cares what it looks like long's you stay dry. Sit anywhere you'd like."
The four open tables were the big ones, each set for eight places. All the smaller tables were full. There were even three guys crowded around a little table sized for maybe two, rather than use one of the big ones. One of the three had a vest labeled DEPARTMENT OF TRANSPORTATION.
I shrugged and sat at the big table nearest the wall. It wobbled. There was a whiteboard on the wall that had TODAY'S SPECIALS handwritten in green above a large blank space.
"Anything to drink?"
"Coffee, please. Any specials?"
"I'll ask. I just got here myself."
She poured my coffee, then walked to the far end of the building, which wasn't very far. I could probably have heard what the cook said except that the two quartz clocks on the wall chose that moment to cut loose with their cheesy electronic chimes, marking the three-quarter-hour; quarter to twelve, for the clock in the corner, quarter to one for the one on the back wall by the Department of Transportation guys.
They were being a bit noisy right then too. They were having an animated discussion of soil borings, and getting the vault toilets, picnic tables, and trash barrels set up at the roadside park. And that danged pump handle. Have to find that danged pump handle. I hope Jim took it off and put it somewheres for the winter like he was s'posed to, and didn't leave it there all winter so some sumbitch stole it on us again.
The DOT guys were part of why I was here. They, the plumber, the electrician, and the three retired farmers. When you're looking for a place to buy lunch in one of these small towns, look for trucks. Working trucks, mind you, not the boy racer trucks with the chrome pipes and the painted flames, and not the shiny yuppie trucks the summer people drive. If you find a restaurant with a row of work trucks outside, you know it is the best place in town. It may also be the ONLY place in town, but in any case you won't find anything better.
The waitress wandered back. "She says we have an Italian Panini. Comes with soup or salad for $5.99."
"What's in it?"
"Italian stuff."
Not such an encouraging description, but what the heck. "I'll try it with the soup. please."
"All right, but we're running slow. The rain. All the guys came in for lunch at once."
"That's all right. I did the same."
She was back with my soup right away, though. And I had just enough time to examine the two clocks-- both had smiley-face stickers on their fake pendulums that said FOR SALE; both were done in a horrible 1960s pseudo-space age fake cuckoo clock style, even though they weren't cuckoo clocks, studded with log-looking sections of tree branches varnished with the bark on; one was painted with green flower stencils and had a barometer, hygrometer, and thermometer in a row below the clock face, while the other was almost covered in a rainbow of random glass beads-- before she came back with my Italian Panini.
Somehow I think this delicacy is something they could only have invented here in Northern Michigan.
What they had done was they had taken a veal parmesan patty-- what they call veal parmesan here, a patty of ground veal (probably), breaded, deep fried, slathered in spaghetti sauce and sprinkled with cheese that is as likely to be mozzarella as parmesan, no matter what the name of the dish may be. They took the whole thing and slapped it between two slices of bread that looked vaguely Italian in one sense or another. Then they'd grilled it in some kind of sandwich press until it was thin, golden brown, and the cheese and sauce had become integral parts of the bread.
It was delicious, actually.
"Yeah, who cares what it looks like long's you stay dry. Sit anywhere you'd like."
The four open tables were the big ones, each set for eight places. All the smaller tables were full. There were even three guys crowded around a little table sized for maybe two, rather than use one of the big ones. One of the three had a vest labeled DEPARTMENT OF TRANSPORTATION.
I shrugged and sat at the big table nearest the wall. It wobbled. There was a whiteboard on the wall that had TODAY'S SPECIALS handwritten in green above a large blank space.
"Anything to drink?"
"Coffee, please. Any specials?"
"I'll ask. I just got here myself."
She poured my coffee, then walked to the far end of the building, which wasn't very far. I could probably have heard what the cook said except that the two quartz clocks on the wall chose that moment to cut loose with their cheesy electronic chimes, marking the three-quarter-hour; quarter to twelve, for the clock in the corner, quarter to one for the one on the back wall by the Department of Transportation guys.
They were being a bit noisy right then too. They were having an animated discussion of soil borings, and getting the vault toilets, picnic tables, and trash barrels set up at the roadside park. And that danged pump handle. Have to find that danged pump handle. I hope Jim took it off and put it somewheres for the winter like he was s'posed to, and didn't leave it there all winter so some sumbitch stole it on us again.
The DOT guys were part of why I was here. They, the plumber, the electrician, and the three retired farmers. When you're looking for a place to buy lunch in one of these small towns, look for trucks. Working trucks, mind you, not the boy racer trucks with the chrome pipes and the painted flames, and not the shiny yuppie trucks the summer people drive. If you find a restaurant with a row of work trucks outside, you know it is the best place in town. It may also be the ONLY place in town, but in any case you won't find anything better.
The waitress wandered back. "She says we have an Italian Panini. Comes with soup or salad for $5.99."
"What's in it?"
"Italian stuff."
Not such an encouraging description, but what the heck. "I'll try it with the soup. please."
"All right, but we're running slow. The rain. All the guys came in for lunch at once."
"That's all right. I did the same."
She was back with my soup right away, though. And I had just enough time to examine the two clocks-- both had smiley-face stickers on their fake pendulums that said FOR SALE; both were done in a horrible 1960s pseudo-space age fake cuckoo clock style, even though they weren't cuckoo clocks, studded with log-looking sections of tree branches varnished with the bark on; one was painted with green flower stencils and had a barometer, hygrometer, and thermometer in a row below the clock face, while the other was almost covered in a rainbow of random glass beads-- before she came back with my Italian Panini.
Somehow I think this delicacy is something they could only have invented here in Northern Michigan.
What they had done was they had taken a veal parmesan patty-- what they call veal parmesan here, a patty of ground veal (probably), breaded, deep fried, slathered in spaghetti sauce and sprinkled with cheese that is as likely to be mozzarella as parmesan, no matter what the name of the dish may be. They took the whole thing and slapped it between two slices of bread that looked vaguely Italian in one sense or another. Then they'd grilled it in some kind of sandwich press until it was thin, golden brown, and the cheese and sauce had become integral parts of the bread.
It was delicious, actually.
