Uncle Ben Has Twisted Your Minds

(An open letter to the impatient inhabitants of the United States.)

Halfway through a recent Saturday lunch service, about the time when my docket rail fills up completely and communication in the kitchen is reduced to a series of monosyllabic shouts and sharp gestures, I nearly lost it.

A middle aged woman with a broad, toothy smile darted her head under the heat lamps and into the kitchen, unnecessarily waving a hand to get the attention of the chefs who were already staring at her in a mixture of horror and disbelief (note to self: erect a sign reading “Do Not Disturb The Chefs In Their Natural Habitat). “Excuse me….”

American.

That she was American was revealed, yes, by her accent, but even more telling was her combination of white sneakers, white socks, and safari-tan half-length pants. Greater than shorts, not nearly trousers, henceforth referred to as “shants,” as in: “Hon’ where the heck are my shants? There’s a sale at ultramart and, gee, if I can’t get dressed we’re gonna miss right out, you know?”

I’m particularly aware of Americans in the restaurant (and all of Australia) because, being an American myself, I am somehow at fault whenever one of them makes an odd request (often) or does something rude (more often). Guilt by association.

“Just checking on two duck specials.” Ms. Shants looks at me. The chefs look at me. The bar staff, my dish hand, the first year apprentice. Quickly scanning the dockets I arrive at hers, next in line to be plated. “It’s next.” Then I look at the time the order was taken. 1:17. It is now 1:35. That’s 18 minuets. She ordered two serves of duck. Half a duck each, twice cooked, crispy skin, pearl barley and mushroom risotto, apple and walnut salad. 18 minuets, evidently, was too long for all of this; so long that Ms. Shants thought she better personally make sure that the kitchen hadn’t forgotten her.

Now I am “Angry Chef”. I’m finishing her risotto with a touch of butter and thinking about euphemisms for “really fucking irritated.” “Seeing red” comes to mind, and that combined with the risotto I’m plating gets me thinking about the red box of instant rice that always lurked in our cupboard when I was growing up. It could be the rage talking, but maybe Uncle Ben has something to do with this.

A bit of history. 1930’s Uncle Ben’s Converted (parboiled) Rice is first marketed in New Orleans. In 1942 Uncle Ben secures a contract to supply his rice to the army (and as you know, army rations are the golden benchmark of fine dining). By the early ‘50’s Ben is the national sales leader in rice. Fast forward to 1988, with the introduction of “Boil in Bag Rice.” Jump again to 2004 and Uncle Ben gives us “Ready Rice,” advertised as ready in 90 seconds.

Listen people, please. Rice, real rice, tasty, slightly sticky, aromatic, nutty, firm, fluffy, steamed rice, takes 20 minuets to cook. That’s it. About 8 minuets longer than your average noodle. Have a bowl of basmati rice side by side with the parboiled stuff and I promise you’ll never look back.

And that’s not even my point. Food takes time to cook. All sorts of delicious chemical reactions are going on in there – starches breaking down into sugars which in turn caramelize, connective tissue and fat melting out of and flavoring meats, proteins setting, general flavor infusing – and all these reactions take time. I’m not saying you should spend three hours at the stove every day, but for the love of sweet, crunchy, baby Jesus, 90 seconds?

Uncle Ben has twisted your minds; McDonald’s has warped your perception like some sort of special relativity, caused, no doubt, by burgers approaching you at nearly the speed of light. People expect food to be ready instantly, like some sci-fi phaser-in-bag cafeteria.

18 minuets too long for a half a duck? It’s a frickin’ kitchen miracle that we can get it done so quickly. We spent all bloody morning preparing it so that we could do it in 20 minuets. Why don’t you say: “Wow, I couldn’t cook this at home in less than an hour, this is amazing!”

Nonetheless, the two duck specials were finally served.

Moments later Ms. Shants was back at the pass, presumably to apologize and let the kitchen know that it was definitely worth the (admittedly short) wait. “Do you have a selection of sauces for the duck?”

Christ.

Anyway, I made this meal in, like, seconds.

Spaghetti Omelet

200 grams leftover cooked spaghetti
2 eggs
¼ cup parmesan, grated
¼ cup sharp cheddar, grated

Heat a pan over medium heat. Mix eggs into noodles. Salt and pepper generously. Mix cheeses in, avoiding large lumps of cheese forming. The mixture should be wet but not too loose; add an extra egg if necessary. Pour a tablespoon of olive oil into the hot pan and immediately fill with the noodle mixture. Omelets should be about 3 cm (1½ in) thick. Fry until omelet is uniformly golden and crispy in places, flip, and serve when cooked through.

In Naples this is called “Frittata di Spaghetti.” I was introduced to the dish via the tiny island nation of Malta, by my wife, who is half Maltese and half Australian mongrel. The Maltese filtering explains the use of a quintessentially English cheese in a regional Italian dish – the Maltese, once conquered by the Italians, stole the dish, then, later ruled by the Brits, stole a nation’s cheese.

Tastes good at any rate.

The observant among you may have noticed a bottle of Franks Red Hot in the background of the above image. My wife insists on ketchup, I cannot live without Frank’s as an accompaniment. The only problem is that Frank’s is impossible to get on this continent. The primitive Australians, with their pathetic little cities and laughable society, have mastered fire, sure, but not the fiery goodness of cayenne pepper sauce. I import the stuff at a great cost to my parents.