When I come to your home you best put locks or bolts on your refrigerator, cabinets and food pantries because when you’re not in the room, I will look inside and I will eat your food. Be warned.
Yes I you heard me right, some people look in medicine cabinets (I have no idea why, I could careless what medicine, wrinkle cream, lubricant and form of birth control you use). But I do care if you use Olive Oil, Sea Salt or have Fish and Oyster Sauce and I do want to know if you have a Rib Eye Roast in your refrigerator so I can manipulate an invite back to your house to help devour it. I do want to know if by some chance you have Foie Gras or Prosciutto or maybe a hunk of Roquefort. I’d love to see a baked ham, maybe some left over Pork Strips? And I wouldn’t mind spotting some Spanish Olives, the colossal ones, I’ll stick my fingers inside the jar to get one, be fair warned! Or even better I like the green olives that are stuffed with garlic, do you have those? What’s your address? –Oh, I would for sure get into that pot of pickled beets. If I catch sight of Smoked Salmon, Fogetaboutit, that fish doesn’t have a frigging chance and I’d be pleased as Punch to try one of your day old deviled eggs.
Okay I am shameless. I admit I was caught once shoving a piece of Brie in my mouth over one of my “former” friend’s house, so what? Why wasn’t he offering it to me in the first place? Everyone knows I’d slice tires for a tad of Brie or Pate or Cambozola! Wait, did I say Pate? Yes I did. I was caught eating Pate out of Miss K——’s frig once, that didn’t go over so well. It was in the 1990’s when people where quite touchy about sharing their Pate. I was living in New York and working as a waiter for this snotty catering company who to this day, I hear, I am a “legend” I am known as “The guy who ate Miss K—–’s Pate.”
Big deal! It was a pound of Pate. You think I took her Monet (she really had an original one hanging in her living room. [it wasn’t a Monet but an original painting by an artist as revered])
This catering job was one of my first in New York. It was easy. The food was delivered at swanky apartments all over the city. All I had to do was heat and plate and serve and make two hundred bucks plus tip. I ate well and played a game with myself. I usually pretended the fancy digs where I worked belong to me and the people at the party were my guests and I was too humble to hire help so I did it myself. I’d chat with the guest and most of the time they were kind and receptive to me. Rich people are nice, I don’t care what anyone says, and sometimes, just like the poor, they can be rude. One guest, a snotty lady with deep lines around her lips, said to me, “Go check on dinner, I’m starved!” I think she was offended. I had broken the Cardinal rule of the rich, never talk about money. I had asked her if her diamond ring was real. I giggled after I said it. The diamond was the size of Mars, I couldn’t help myself. I like playing with certain people who are dictated by rigid social conventions, I was put on Earth for this reason, well, that and eating people’s food. Regardless, I had a blast doing these jobs. Most of the time I was by myself and in my own world of make-believe, lost in my imaginary Penthouse fantasy that was broken later in evening when I arrived home to my mice infected room on the Upper West Side.
When I first got to Miss K——’s fancy marble extravaganza of a Penthouse located on Park Avenue I started scanning the food pantry and lo and behold I eyed a stack of Dean and Deluca bags. I scored. I went to the refrigerator (it was restaurant size with glass doors and cans of Pepsi that were lined up perfectly, whoever did this I think used a ruler). I spotted a wedge of Pate and it had back truffles inside of it! Didn’t this high society Gal know about me?
As I was ready to take a hunk of Pate before I started to heat the catered food, the housekeeper, a meek woman who hummed when she spoke and kept her eyes on her feet, came into the kitchen. I was caught, “What are you doing?” She asked. She lived in a small bedroom off the kitchen with a huge Parrot who said all kinds of crazy things (that’s another story). I politely said to her, “When I work a party I like to go through the drawers, refrigerators and cabinets of the clients to get a feel for them, it helps me serve them better.” I smiled widely. “No, you don’t have to do that! You can’t eat Miss K——’s Pate!” She snapped. —Well….
“Guess what, Honey, I’m not eating her Pate! How dare you accuse me of doing such a thing! I hate Pate, it makes me sick! Oh My God! This is so insulting! This is outrageous!” I quipped.
That Fink of a housekeeper stormed off and quite frankly, I was glad to get rid of her. I went to town on the Pate. I took one slice, and then one more, or three or six, whatever. I ate most of it and as I was putting it away, still chomping, Miss K—– entered the Kitchen. Her eyes shifted, her expensive perfume hitting me like an afterthought, she eyed me up and down. Her auburn hair perfectly formed and sprayed, her expensive wool suit looked as if she was born into it. She twisted her lips. I smiled at her, “Hi, what time would you like me to serve dinner?” I asked keeping my cheerful smile. (I think I might have giggled nervously.) Miss K—- – didn’t say a word and left the kitchen. Her high heels clicked and clanked on the marble floor outside the kitchen, her perfume imbedded in my nose, I heard mumbling.
Next thing I know, that lousy Parrot loving Fink of a housekeeper came into the kitchen and told me I had a phone call. It was the catering company. They told me I was to leave immediately. So I left. I was angry and mad, thinking I did nothing wrong, oh youth! –As the old saying goes, when you’re young you think you know everything. But I was never like that when I was young, I never claimed or acted like I knew everything, I still don’t, the truth about me when I was young was, I’d eat your damn food and you know what, I still will!