One good thing about getting old is you know what kind of food you like.
I like honey. That cream honey, the white stuff. God damn that stuff is good. I also like steak. Thin steak that you put on a bun. When I was a kid there were real burger joints. The kind owned by Greek fellas. Sure they’d sell burgers but they also had steak on a bun, fish on a bun, and some kind of veal cutlet. God damn that stuff was good.
And the fries were always hand cut. Homemade and hand cut—that’s what the sign would say. All this burger-joint stuff we got today is crapola. Just designed to feed the masses because nobody cooks anymore. Before people ate at home and going out was a treat, so it ought to be good. But now it’s kind ‘a like feeding cattle. Everyone lines up and gets processed.
I like cereal. With cold milk first thing in the morning. I like how it hits your mouth—the milk and all.
My mother was a shit cook. Only thing she was good at was rice pudding and sometimes French toast. She never made soup and her spaghetti sauce always came from a can. I think you have to know how to love to be a good cook, and she couldn’t do that either. All she did was take care of herself. Wasn’t abusive or nothing like that—just not very motherly. Wasn’t a real giver. Not like Arturro Matzurro’s mom. God damn that was a fine woman. There wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do for you. Sometimes I hated my mother’s genes being inside of me. And when I was about 13, I tried scraping at my skin to get her the hell out. But then I got over it.
Fruit, not too much. I find they always look better than they taste. Probably because way up here you can never get the good stuff. Vegetables, same thing, except for roast carrots. They’re always pretty good.
For years I had trouble taking number two. I’d just sit there forever, waiting for something to come out. And then when it did, it would hurt. Then someone told me about fiber and I started eating beans and stuff. Now I’m good. Funny how what goes inside can make such a difference. Like booze. Drink a whole bunch and you become an asshole. Same with drugs. A tiny pill can fuck you up. It’s amazing.
I like roast chicken and roast pork, but I like chicken better. The legs, the thighs, the tits. Roast chicken with roast carrots and cereal—now that’s my kind of supper.
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Matty would never have agreed to going into business. She wasn’t a fan of it the first time. Something about never being home. I guess she grew up with that and didn’t figure it was worth the trouble. Chasing money. Needless to say ‘cause she came to live with me.
Gonsalvo is a good worker and all. Not the type who’d ruin a partnership ’cause he’d figure he was doing more than half. All he’s looking for is a better life. Same work, better life.
The first time was a mess. We didn’t know how to get business. We hired a salesman and all he did was bring us bad deals. People who didn’t know shit from Shinola who’d ask for a discount after the work was done. And some who never had any intention of paying before they placed the order. You just can’t make money off little guys. I don’t know if I want to do that again.