Menu Board Quotes

I gladly gave my aunt the privilege of scraping off all gum so my job wasn’t as interesting or horrifying. I did find a few more menu drawings--a baby’s scribble, an elaborate tic-tac-toe board, and some stretched out stick figures that made me miss Addie again.

I wanted that Diet Coke. But the lines to order made no sense. Most people were huddled in random patterns, gazing up at the menu boards, eyes glazed over, touching their chins, pointing, nodding. “Are you in line?” I kept asking them. Nobody would answer me. Finally I just approached a young black boy in a visor behind the counter. I ordered my Diet Coke. “What size?” he asked me. He pulled out four cups in ascending order of size. The largest size stood about a foot high off the counter. “I’ll take that one,” I said. This felt like a great occasion. I can’t explain it. I felt immediately endowed with great power. I plunked my straw in and sucked.

Cendrillon specialized in seafood, so we had four fish stations: one for poaching, one for roasting, one for sautéing, and one for sauce. I was the chef de partie for the latter two, which also included making our restaurant's signature soups. O'Shea planned his menu seasonally- depending on what was available at the market. It was fall, my favorite time of the year, bursting with all the savory ingredients I craved like a culinary hedonist, the ingredients that turned my light on. All those varieties of beautiful squashes and root vegetables- the explosion of colors, the ochre yellows, lush greens, vivid reds, and a kaleidoscope of oranges- were just a few of the ingredients that fueled my cooking fantasies. In the summer, on those hot cooking days and nights in New York with rivulets of thick sweat coating my forehead, I'd fantasize about what we'd create in the fall, closing my eyes and cooking in my head. Soon, the waitstaff would arrive to taste tonight's specials, which would be followed by our family meal. I eyed the board on the wall and licked my lips. The amuse-bouche consisted of a pan-seared foie gras served with caramelized pears; the entrée, a boar carpaccio with eggplant caviar, apples, and ginger; the two plats principaux, a cognac-flambéed seared sea scallop and shrimp plate served with deep-fried goat cheese and garnished with licorice-perfumed fennel leaves, which fell under my responsibility, and the chief's version of a beef Wellington served with a celeriac mash, baby carrots, and thin French green beans.

Renzo from Roddino leaves us on the doorstep of Osteria da Gemma, a Langhe culinary landmark in a village scarcely large enough to fill the restaurant. Before we can shake off the wet and the cold, before we can see a menu or catch our breath, the waiter comes by and drops a cutting board full of salumi between us. Prego. Then another plate comes out- carne cruda, a soft mound of hand-chopped veal dressed with nothing but olive oil and a bit of lemon, a classic warm-up to a Piedmont meal. The plates continue, and it soon becomes very clear that we have no say in the matter. Insalata russa, a tricolore of toothsome green peas, orange carrots, and ivory potatoes, bound in a cloak of mayonnaise and crumbled egg yolk. Vitello tonnato, Piedmont's famous take on surf and turf: thin slices of roast beef with a thick emulsion of mayo and tuna. Each bite brings us slowly out of the mist of emotion and into the din of the dining room.

I won’t be sleeping with you.” I stare straight ahead at the menu board even though I always order the exact same thing. “Who said anything about sleeping?” he counters, the side of his arm brushing mine. The guy has zero awareness of personal space. “The things I’d like to do with you don’t include sleeping.

Oh, that reminds me,” Vanessa added, like it was nothing. “A great many of the guests on my side have to be gluten-free. I’m sure you’ve already made arrangements for that, but I thought perhaps I should mention it just in case you’re not prepared. You might as well make sure the entire menu and cake is gluten-free, just in case.” Rose didn’t dare look at her own reflection in the window just in case she saw steam flying out of her ears. She couldn’t believe Vanessa hadn’t mentioned her guest’s gluten allergies long before now. Julie and Andrew were going to kill Donovan’s mother...that is if Rose didn’t do it first. Of course, Vanessa didn’t seem to notice that anything was amiss as she announced, “Well, dear, let me know if you need help with anything. I’m sure I can make some calls. But now, I must leave for a coffee meeting with the board of the San Francisco Philharmonic.” Two air kisses later, one to both of Rose’s cheeks, and she was wafting away on a cloud of Chanel No. 5.

They went to Shimmies again, but this time Johnny pulled into the long line at the drive thru, and Maggie breathed a sigh of relief. She was too tired for drama, and Shimmies was full of teen angst. Maggie took one look at the menu board and knew what she wanted. She always got the same thing. Johnny was still reading the menu, a frown of disbelief between his brows. She guessed that the prices were a tad bit higher than he was used to. Oh well, she’d warned him, hadn’t she? “Do you need me to buy?” She asked softly. Johnny shot her a look that would have caused her to shrivel up and die had she not grown a rather thick skin over the years. Still, she cringed a little bit. He clearly took her offer as an insult. “I’ve got plenty of money... but it had better be a darn good burger. The last burger I ate cost fifteen cents.” “Fifteen?” Maggie squeaked. Johnny tossed his heads toward the window at the gas station they could see across the road. The fuel prices were displayed on a large marquee. “A gallon of gas used to cost me a quarter. I can’t believe people are still driving cars at these prices.” He looked back at her, his expression unreadable. “You already know what you want?” He changed the subject abruptly. “I always get the same thing.” “Not too adventurous, huh? “Life is disappointing enough without having to take chances on your food. I always go with the sure thing

The Milked Duck was empty, save for Dahlia’s two part-time helpers, but they were all rushing around, anticipating the first guests for her Risqué Flavor Tasting event any moment now. The up front freezers were stocked with Chocolate Orgasm, Peachy Passion, Sexual Favors, Mikey’s favorite Cherry Popper and more. She had a case of Sin on a Stick treats ready to go and a temporary menu up on the board behind her.

I wander back out, and find Patrick doing the unthinkable. He is cooking. There are two placemats on the island, napkins and forks. He has found a dish of leftover pasta I made last night, linguine with chickpeas, pancetta, and toasted breadcrumbs, with torn basil leaves and lemon zest. He's put together a frittata, which he has cooked on one side, and is deftly flipping it over to cook the other side. On another burner, some of my marinara that I put up last summer simmers in a small saucepan. A pile of shaved Parmesan is on the cutting board, two plates sit at his elbow.

Inside, they took their places in line. She scanned the menu, tried to remember what she used to get at McDonald’s back when she and Bryte considered it a treat to go there. They used to get the hot fudge sundaes, she recalled. With nuts. She scanned the board and found that they still served them. This brought her an inordinate amount of comfort. Some things didn’t change. She wondered if Sycamore Glen had.

The structure of operations also encourages connection. Any employee can attend meetings of any department, including Zingerman's board meeting. A truck driver can help plan a menu, and a chef can help strategize on the online marketing strategy. To Ari [Weinzweig], part of the benefit of this is disabusing people of the notion that leadership always knows what they are doing. It's okay to acknowledge that everyone is fallible even as they strive to make the company stronger.

They walked up West Broadway to Sol’s Dining Car at the corner of C Street. Sol had just recently added the frankfurter to his menu. He’d refused to do so during the war because the meat sounded too German and he had, like most restaurants during the war, taken great pains to change the name of frankfurters to “Liberty Sausages” on his menu board. But now the Germans were beaten, and there were no hard feelings about it in South Boston, and most of the diners in the city were trying hard to catch up

The poet is happiest with the simplest of things: sourdough toast and apricot jam, an etymology dictionary, and a biography of Josef Stalin (also a poet, in his younger pre-purge days). He is interested and amused by just about anything lying around: last month’s light bill (especially the four-color chart explaining hot water usage), the Thai menu (with typos) at lunch, an old airplane boarding pass. His ADD serves him well. The poet is an introvert, but not really. He reaches out to every parcel of the planet, because everything is subject to him (he delights in this double meaning).

Eventually, the current airline industry strategy of shameless fee charging is going to collapse under its own weight. It’s the depressing result of a product mindset that prioritizes add-ons and revenue extraction and devalues customers. What could a flying experience look like in the future? Well, to start with, it might also include cars and trains. Maybe United sends you a cobranded Uber car with a monitor that includes all your hotel and flight details, a drop-down menu to preselect all your entertainment and dining options, and light rail information for your destination city. Maybe that car’s arrival time at your house is synchronized to your flight’s actual departure time. Maybe you can start binge-watching Narcos in the car and pick it up on the plane where you left off. Maybe when you arrive at the airport, a service like Clear can speed you through security lines with a swipe of your boarding pass and a thumb scan, because all your standard ID information has already been paired with your biometric details. Maybe all these services could be wrapped up in a flat annual frequent-flier membership plan.

Benny's was more of a restaurant than a bar, assuming you were prepared to be generous with your definition of a restaurant ... A menu board on the wall above had adjustable plastic letters and numbers arranged into the kind of prices that hadn't changed since Elvis died, and the kinds of food choices that had helped kill him.