Roll on, Spring Rolls

Theo rolls his own spring rolls. I have, in fact, learned how to roll spring rolls, too. Quite an art. I’ll have to show you sometime.

When Theo gets to an order of spring rolls on an order ticket, he tells me to get them ready. I pull 'em out of the fridge and ask him - knowing the answer - if the deep fat fryer is ready.

"Not yet" is nearly always the reply. He opens the front of the beast and crouches down, turning knobs and fanning the air until the gas jets light up with a big whoosh and the quick fear of singed hair.

Ok, Theo, just let me know when it's ready.

A few minutes later I'll ask again, and he'll say yes, it's ready, probably without looking at it. I'll take the three spring rolls that compose an order and drop them into a basket, lower the basket, and grab a long metal skewer/poker that has a nice wooden handle. I don’t know what sort of implement this is, but it has one and only one use in Theo's kitchen. One, I should add, very important use.

I use it to poke the spring rolls.

I poke 'em because they float, and we don't want them to cook only on one side. So every time someone orders spring rolls, no matter how busy the place is, I drop whatever I'm doing to run over, grab The Implement, and poke at the spring rolls for a few minutes until they're done. Poke at 'em, roll 'em around, try to get them to cook evenly on both sides.

As a little game, I try to get each to float with its lighter side down. Each spring roll has a preferred side up (the light side, I presume), so when you roll it, it will tend to stop with the same side up each time, and that side will not cook as much as the other side. So I try to get each perfectly balanced on the light side. It never works for very long, but it makes the task marginally more interesting. Such a fantastic waste of time.

So, of course, I try to develop a more permanent solution to the problem. I am, after all, Takeout Lawyer.

Seems like I should be able to find something to weigh down the spring rolls, right? I finally find it, staring me in the face.

Theo, what if I take this other basket (there are two) and put it on top of the one with the rolls in it? That way, the top basket keeps the rolls completely under the oil.

"What? No, you be careful! You crush spring rolls! No, just use the stick."

Right, I'll crush those spring rolls between the heavy weight of the wire basket and the, uh, oil. Between a rock and the deep blue sea.

The next time Theo's buddy is around, I try again. I have found that Theo is more suggestible when the suggestions come from - or at least in the presence of - his buddy. I take advantage when I can. But even so, Theo doesn't really like the idea, in part I think, because it's harder to see the rolls when they're under the oil, cooking evenly. Fair enough.

But Takeout Lawyer, I hear you shouting, why not simply set the timer on the deep fat fryer? Experiement to find the perfect amount of time needed, set the timer for the rolls, and the problem is solved!

Great idea! The problem, however, is that Theo cannot seem to get a constant temperature on the fryer. Sometimes it's too hot, sometimes not hot enough. Often while trying to get the rolls to float on the lighter side, I mention to Theo that the temperature seems off, and he again opens the front of the fryer, crouches down, and fiddles with the knobs.

"Should be good now."

In yet another attempt to fight fate, I tried to determine what the problem with the fryer was. If we could get it to work right, maybe it would keep a constant temperature, we could cook the rolls by time, and it would be ok to submerge them. Ha! Brilliant! That law school eduation is really kicking in now.

So, Theo, what's the problem with the fryer? Perhaps we should get it fixed, or maybe I could take a look at it. I'm pretty handy, you know.

Theo thinks for a few seconds before answering. He then states "I can’t explain the problem to you." That’s pretty much a direct quote. "I can’t explain the problem to you."

Which means he can’t explain it to anyone else, I s’pose, so we’re, again, up a creek without a paddle. But with the poker/stick/skewer.

Snippets

Takeout Lawyer's been busy this last week. Lots of personal news, but you're not interested in that. So here are some random items about the Thai joint that illustrate its absurd quality.

The Envelopes

Under the counter, near the takeout window, behind the radio that usually plays NPR, is a stack of envelopes. Ok, not a stack. A stack is neat and orderly. Someone once put a bunch of envelopes there, and they sit there, like a partially-opened fan, sorta. On my first day, I thought I would take all of the order tickets for the day and put them in an envelope, label it with the date, and put it in a special place so that Theo or his accountant would know what orders came in that day.

Makes sense, right? So at the end of the night, I grab an envelope.

But I can't open it. It's sealed. I grab another. They're all sealed. Every one. Pre-sealed, I call them. So I carefully tear off one side, stuff the order tickets in, and fold the torn edge over. I put them beside a bunch of pieces of paper sitting next to the cash register. I don't know where they go from there.

The Cigarillos

Theo smokes when he's not in the zone. That is, before it gets busy and then again after it's calmed down. While he's preparing food. Once when he was rolling spring rolls, ashes fell onto the pastry wrapper thing. Theo wiped 'em off as best he could and continued to roll and to smoke.

I don't really mind the smoking so much, though, because he smokes cigarillos. They're like big cigarettes, or little cigars. Cigarillos. Brilliant name. He asked me to go to the drug store to get him some once. With great care, he slowly and deliberately wrote the name down. It wasn't the name I was expecting. He wrote: Garcia Vygenia or something like that. Hunh. I guess it's a knock-off of Garcia Y Vega. (Not that I'm an expert when it comes to smoking products, but I can certainly tell a Tiparillo from a Swisher Sweet.)

I find the cigar section at the drug store. They appear to be all out of the Garcia Gevynas, but I do find the Garcia Y Vegas. Very mild.

The Menus

Ah, the menus. Theo's got a menu, of course. It's posted everywhere in the back, which is convenient. Printed on regular 8 1/2 x 11, tri-fold or bi-fold or whatever they call it. There are even some folded up on the counter for customers to take. One night we ran out of those menus, so Theo's buddy asked me to fold some more and put them in the menu display thing. He told me where they are. Theo has, apparently, 2,000 of these things.

And Theo showed me how to fold them just the right way.

So I'm folding, and I'm thinking. Theo sells a dish called salmon in red curry. Consists of an entire salmon steak. You know the kind. It's thick and big. And Theo charges $8 for it. $8. The barber, Jeff, from two doors down comes in every once in a while and buys it. Deal of the freakin' century, I think. It's fantastic.

I prod Theo on it, though.

Theo, the salmon itself must cost almost $8. How are you going to make money off that?

"Is ok. I charge not so much money now, but in three months, I raise price." He gives a little laugh. "I sell all food cheap prices, then make more expensive. Get them hooked on Thai food!" He seems really excited by this. I laugh along with him. Seems like a plan.

Then one day I come in and Theo's buddy tells me that they have new menus with new prices. Ok, fine. New menus, new prices. Now we're going to start making some money, especially on the salmon. Theo's buddy replaced all of the menus hanging in the back, so that when we take orders, we have the right prices. Cool. I'm down with that. Good thinking.

Theo's buddy leaves.

So, Theo, what do I do with all these old menus with the old prices?

"Oh, tha's ok. Just use dem. Don't want to throw away. Paid $2,000 for them. Very expensive. Just keep them, use them still."

But they have the wrong prices, so when people order, don't you think they might be a little upset if we charge them more?

"Tha's ok. Just tell them we have new prices."

I'm not sure how happy they're going to be with that, but Theo's obviously made up his mind, so I don't press the issue. New prices, old menus. I briefly wonder if maybe the old menus state somewhere on them that the prices are subject to change without notice, but then realize that I really don't care enough to look. Wu wei, man. Wu wei.

Mongo Mon

Walking down F_____ Ave. approaching the restaurant one day, I see ambling towards me in a relaxed Caribbean gait someone I recognize.

Hey hey, Mango Man, how you doin' today!

The guy is nonplussed for just a second, then makes the connection, smiles, and responds in kind.

You coming by today for some more mangoes?!

"Olready got dem, mon!" He shows me the two mangoes he's carrying in one giant hand.

Ok, Mango Man, you take it easy!

"Olright, mon, see you latah!"

The Rasta dude I call Mango Man comes into the restaurant every day or so and buys two mangoes from Theo. He pays $2 each. Theo buys them for about $1 - $1.50 each. I don't know what Mango Man did before Theo opened the joint. Went sadly mango-less, I suppose.

One day when I'm standing behind the counter, Mango Man saunters in and asks if we have mangoes today.

Sure do, Mango Man! Right there in the basket! I point.

In the basket, on one of the tiny tables at which, if you really wanted, you could eat your yummy Thai food, three mangoes sit.

Mango Man looks at them, scowls, shakes his head. "No, mon, I don't want dese mongoes, mon. Dese no good. Don't you have any others?"

What's wrong with 'em?

"Dese are," he struggles for a word, "dese are pahst, mon. Dese mongoes are pahst! I don't eat dem when dey pahst, mon. Dey got to be fresh."

Pahst? Post?

Oh. Past. Old. Overripe.

Hey, Theo, are these mangoes ok?

"Sure, they good mangoes!"

"No, mon, de skeen is not smooth! De mongo has to have de smooth skeen! I don't eat dem when dey pahst."

No, Mango Man, they're ok, actually, they're not past. We use 'em like that for the mango and sticky rice dessert. They're still good. Being a little riper makes them sweeter.

I hoped it sounded as if I knew what I was talking about, even though I didn't. All I knew was that, in the past I'd seen these really wrinkly-looking mangoes in the basket (that I myself thought were past), and watched as Theo would carefully choose one and hold it like a, well, like a new relationship you're trying to nurture, skin it, cut and slice, and bed atop some sticky rice for a hungry patron. Still sweet and yummy.

Mango Man was not to be persuaded.

"Dese are pahst mon! I don't eat dem when dey pahst. Dey got to have de smooth skeen!"

Mango Man, these are a different variety of mango. They're not past. It's ok if the skin is a little wrinkled. [I tried a different tack.]

He looked at me quizzically. "No, mon, dose are de mongo ve. Mongo ve. Dat's de other type of mongo. But dey got to have de smooth skeen. Dese are pahst, mon."

Well, I tried. Theo came over and tried, too. "What is the problem?"

"Dey pahst, mon."

I translated.

Mango Man says that the mangoes are [now I'm struggling for the word] uh, past? past their prime? too ripe? overripe?

"No, no, these are good! Very good, very sweet!" Theo didn't seem to understand.

"No, mon, de skeen got to be smooth. Dese is pahst mon. I don't eat dem when dey pahst. I come back when you got de fresh, wit de smooth skeen." He left.

Ok, Mango Man, see you when we've got de smooth skeen!