Chicken Suprême: Reflections of a Restaurant Kid
In the 1960s, family restaurants didn’t have drive-thrus. Sure, fast food was around, and McDonald’s golden arches were popping up everywhere. However, it was still more of a novelty dining experience. There were plenty of family-owned steak houses, Italian restaurants, and good old American meat, potatoes, and seafood eateries: some fancy, some not.
Our restaurant was in the steak-and-seafood category, and I ate there often. I remember the 2-inch-thick lamb chops and sirloin steaks with their fatty rinds still sizzling from the blazing broiler. So good! The boiled lobster was delivered with flair: its gleaming red torso perched above the critter’s appendages, along with a little tureen of drawn butter, a lemon wedge, a plastic bib, and a Wash & Dry. I was forever gawking at the sight of grown men wearing bibs. The baked stuffed lobster was my preference. I got down and dirty crunching and sucking on the crispy legs, coaxing the flesh from the knuckles, cracking open the claws, and wrestling the sweet white meat from the tail. I unapologetically doused every chunk and morsel in drawn butter. Sure, it was messy, but that’s what finger bowls are for — that and a quick mock wash of my armpits. I really cracked myself up.
Chicken Suprême was another favorite of mine. A deep-fried chicken breast, tender and juicy, was topped with a ladleful of cream sauce and a mushroom cap etched with a star. I loved that fancy mushroom cap! The etched mushroom cap reminds me of the intricately carved vegetables my grandfather created for holiday displays and catered events. A jumbo waxy turnip became a rabbit, and radishes became a bouquet of tea roses. Bell peppers, celery tops, beets, carrots, and potatoes became exotic birds. Before the turn of the 20th century, my grandfather was classically trained as an unpaid (and in our world, very underage) apprentice in Italy’s finest hotels. His elegant vegetable carvings, ice sculptures, and fanciful spun sugar creations belied the harsh conditions of those kitchens.
When the staff voted against the union upstarts, my mother was very proud and, no doubt, relieved. She had a cadre of uniformed and big-haired waitresses that ruled the dining room. I remember them marching around with food-laden trays balanced on their shoulders and hot plates lined up along their arms. Getting the food to the diner while it’s hot was as critical then as it is today. Our waitresses took the chef’s mandate seriously, no dilly-dallying or waiting for a tray — just grab and go. As a little kid, and later as a cook, I always loved the action of a busy restaurant.
We had a substantial pre-meal spread. First came the scallop-edged oval dish with crunchy celery sticks and (sadly) canned olives. The olives can be forgiven because Patsy’s breadbasket picked up the slack. Patsy, our pastry chef, filled each basket with tender knotted dinner rolls, sticky sweet pecan rolls, and French rolls, light, crisp, and steaming. The pecan rolls were a big deal because, unlike the other restaurants along the Golden Mile of restaurants and retailers in the area, we didn’t charge for seconds or thirds. The stuffed quahaugs were also complimentary. Along with the celery and olives came a little dish — a “monkey” dish in restaurant lingo — of cottage cheese and chives with individually wrapped packages of crackers. My oldest and skinniest sister had no interest in the cottage cheese spread. She would open a packet of two Ritz crackers, unwrap a pat of butter, make a little sandwich, and with a big smirk, pop it in her mouth.
The pols’ table was the long table in the back of the dining room where the local politicians met for lunch. Mostly liquid, I presume. A few probably ordered food, but the rest made do with the breadbasket (no charge for the numerous refills) and a 25-cent side salad. They skimped on tips, too. Do politicians ever change? Then there were the Bacons, who lunched every Thursday. Mr. and Mrs. Bacon were older and very wealthy, Rolls Royce wealthy. They had a mentally challenged adult son, Anthony, who was always in tow. After a substantial lunch, Mrs. Bacon would pull a plastic bag from her purse and toss the remaining rolls in it. Then she would say to her husband, “One of these rolls and a nice cup of hot cocoa will be your dinner, Henry.” So, Henry was banished to his den with a roll and cocoa, and she and Anthony chowed down on TV dinners in the formal dining room? Ah, the puzzling lives of the rich and not so famous.
I cannot close without mentioning Patsy’s adorable little birthday cakes. Dense white cake frosted and piped with too sweet vanilla frosting. Today the birthday diner is presented with a single serving of dessert adorned with a lone candle. Sometimes it’s not even complimentary! Our cakes were free and served several, eliminating the need to purchase desserts from the menu. In those days, everything was not about money. We even looked the other way when the same child had three birthdays in a single year. The parties that chose to forgo the dessert menu missed out on baked Alaska, ice cream parfaits, our famous Indian pudding, and peach melba — the 60s classic composed of a scoop of vanilla ice cream nestled in a canned peach half and topped off with raspberry syrup. I loved them all! In fact, I have the Indian pudding recipe. Perhaps next year, I’ll serve a delicious memory for the Holidays: the cornmeal pudding, rich, warm, and fragrant topped with a big scoop of Brigham’s vanilla ice cream. Pure New England!
