I Didn't Win

So, McSweeney's ran the winners of their column contest, and I was not one of them.

I probably wasn't twee or pithy enough for them. But I'm just the right amount of twee and pithy for you guys. Awwww. I should have written a column called "Jokes my ironically named pet bird told me about 1980s heads of state" they'd eat that shit right up. So, anyway, here's my entry for their contest. Enjoy how much better it is than the crap they are sure to run from their "winners". You're the real winners today, guys. Congratulations.

Cooking with Tony is a column that is really a front to tell stories of mine and bitch about things I want to bitch about, loosely related to food or cooking. I have the palette of a 12 year-old, and the budget and motivation of a college sophomore. The format will be adhered to as strictly as the content won’t be.

So here it is, not my funniest story, but the story that I thought best presented my proposed concept. Bon Appétit!

Cooking with Tony – Stromboli

I think we’ve all been there: it’s a balmy summer evening, I’m not wearing any pants, and it’s creeping closer to “Crap, it’s ten o’clock and I can’t eat this late or I’ll get heartburn and fat” time. I need to whip up a fun, easy menu that delivers bold flavor, charm and nutrition. Join me on a recent epicurean journey.

First off, dinner has a few requirements for me: it should be hot, and include more than one “dish”. And preferably salty. And crunchy. And not gross. I turn to my pantry (cabinet above my sink). How many Pop-Tarts are in a dinner? Three. Three Pop-Tarts are a dinner, with a side of tortilla chips (salty and crunchy!). But, the baffling two-tarts-to-a-pouch philosophy of the heatable breakfast market does me in. I can’t just leave one to go bad in its crinkley silver coffin, and I can’t eat four – eating four Pop-Tarts means you’ve failed at life.

The menu planning continues: No clean pots for pasta, and I had pizza rolls for lunch. Sometimes, if you remain uninspired, I’ve found it’s okay to look outside your own ingredients, especially when your ingredients are all microwavable, toasterable, or canned chili. So in this case, it was time to bite the bullet and set out. And by set out, I mean get dressed and walk two doors down to the pizza shop. A world of possibilities opens before me! A world which is entirely populated by pizza, cheesesteaks and stromboli. Cheesesteaks are always a bonus, because I can toss stray meat flakes to my cat, but I’m not in the mood. Pizza makes my beard smell greasy, and I’m headed to the bar later. So, it’s set, tonight’s menu: stromboli, with a side of French fries, paired with a 2011 Diet Pepsi.

Side note: I used to drink regular Pepsi, but at the staggering rate of my consumption, switching to diet was my only hope of avoiding mid-20s diabetes.

Side side note: In doing research for this recipe, I found out that the delicious stromboli is a regional dish, native to my north eastern part of America. A) You’re welcome for the culture, you rubes. B) That’s a shame, rest of the country. I feel bad for you. And C) You might not have stromboli, but I am assuming you have the internet since you’re reading this, so just Google it already.

Fine, it’s a lot like a calzone. You backwater hillbillies know what that is, right? Happy now?

Anyway.

Gathering ingredients for your menu can be a metaphor for life; you look outside yourself when you realize everything in your cabinet (pathetic life) is boring, spoiled or stale. Or you really need to stop talking to your ex-girlfriend because she’s really just a total bummer and you guys are never getting back together or even going on another date that was as good as that time you guys got ice cream and laughed so much when you had a sprinkle stuck in your beard. So don’t eat the spoiled cheese (ex-girlfriend). Go and get a stromboli (girl who goes to the bar you go to who wears too much eye make-up and definitely won’t nag you about things like how salt and pepper shakers and ketchup shouldn’t be “permanent fixtures” of your coffee table, or “paying the electric bill” or “looking at other girls’ boobs” or “Tony could you take the goddamn Guitar Hero guitar off the couch so I have a place to sit”).

So, I go out, like my hunter-gatherer ancestors: I put on pants and shoes and walk to the shop two doors down from my apartment. I always hope to order from the nice old Greek lady, to avoid interacting with the marble-mouthed 40-something who also works there. In this particular instance, I wasn’t so lucky. Before getting a chance to place my order, he somehow forces the following from his perpetually open mouth: “Hey Jeff! Hahaheeehaaaeeehh?” No, sorry, Jeff isn’t my name, but nice try at randomly guessing after interacting with me for nearly two years! I order. It’s often said that waiting is the hardest part of cooking, and they are right. I sit on my stoop and smoke two cigarettes. Like all things in life though, the wait is often the most enlightening part. I learn that a one-way sign is no deterrent as two separate cars go the wrong way on my street. I learn that people who drive hybrids can rarely be bothered with “parking between the lines” or “not being an asshole.”

Ah! The true reward of cooking is finally here: the meal is ready! I pick it up and head back to my apartment. My cat is disappointed as she doesn’t see a cheesesteak emerge from the greasy bag. I am encouraged that I made the right choice, because that was super easy. If I had to do it again, I would have said “no onions” twice, because one time they put onions in my stromboli and cooked onions are creepy and slimy and gross. Overall, this was a very successful menu: the pairings interacted like world-class dance partners and the Italo-American flair lit up the room with an ebullient “Mama-Mia!” charm. Bon Appétit!

Stromboli

Recipe (includes French fries and Diet Pepsi side dishes):

13 Dollars

1 pair shoes

1 pair pants

Ketchup (to taste)

Clean plate

Pizza place (Greek)

Preparation Time: “10 minuhs” (16 minutes)

Difficulty: No.

Pros: A stranger made my dinner. Delicious. Kitchen isn’t hot from stove. No microwave brain cancer. Cheese.

Cons: A stranger touched my dinner. Putting on pants and shoes. Washing stromboli plate. Interacting with the guy who rides a bike to work and drinks shots of Goldschläger on a begged-for credit line at the local bar. Eating too much and getting a stomach ache.

Conclusion: A really great recipe overall: simple, delicious, multicultural. The real question is: would I make stromboli again? Yes. Especially if it is really hot out or I am totally out of other food. Probably not if it was raining, though. Also, don’t order the large, that thing is like four goddamn pounds.

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When I sent this idea to some friends of mine, they all said pretty much the same thing: “You’re an idiot.” When pressed further, they said “It’s a pretty good column, but it seems pretty limited.” I am paraphrasing, because they didn’t all say exactly the same thing and because I don’t pay attention to them very well. However, as a rebuttal, here is a list of (more than the requested three) future columns:

· How Many Grapes Can Fit in Your Mouth? (A tale of youth, machismo and victory)

· The Time My Mom Ruined My Eleventh Birthday with Carrot Cake (A treatise on shit that shouldn’t be desserts, mostly)

· The Time My Friends Made Me Eat Sushi at that Fancy Restaurant (Squishy disks of fish and pretension)

· No Waffles a la Friend’s Drunk Dad at an Engagement Party (He promised me waffles and asked me to dance)

· Ham and Cheese and Tostitos (Pro: actual recipe, Con: not really)

· Getting a Sandwich Named after You (Bucket List) (The Tony Burger)

· I Love Steak More Than Any Girl I’ve Ever Met (I once said “If I ever meet a girl I love as much as the Phillies I will marry her immediately. I guess that isn’t related to steak, but you get the idea. The idea is girls are not as good as other really good stuff)

· Mozzarella Sticks: Ambrosia? (self-explanatory)

· My Favorite Vegan Meal is Telling Everyone I’m Vegan (90% of vegans are truly insufferable, also chubby because all they eat is bread and Twizzlers also quinoa tastes like un-brewed tea)

· One Time at a Bar a Girl Sent Me a Pizza Instead of a Drink (Valentine’s Day theme column?????)

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There you have it. I thought it was pretty good. Oh well.