Serve You?

Every once in a while,  I come across a little something or another that lets me know that my childhood is just a little farther away in the rear view mirror than it was the day before.

I grew up in the  seventies in a middle-class neighborhood in Baton Rouge, and as a kid it was a treat to go with the family to Piccadilly- fancy dining to kids whose only eating out usually consisted of fast food burgers and fries.

A kid could eat like a grownup at Piccadilly, picking out his own dishes (red jello!) and being waited on by ladies who only addressed you with a sing-song "Serve you?" It was a symphony of gloriously fried food that was like heaven to me. Shrimp, catfish, chicken, you name it. My favorite, though, was that icon of southern eating- the chicken-fried steak.  Cube steak coated in thick cracker crust and big enough to wholly cover a plate... so big, they'd curl up in the deep fryer and come out dark, golden brown, full of hills and valleys that would contain the creamy, white gravy like little pools. A rich, solid meal perfect for a kid who just finished a game of ball or a couple of yards worth of mowing.

Now, I normally loathe when people wax nostalgic about inane things, but hey, it's my blog so... I'm going to anyway. I try to reproduce some of the good experiences of my childhood with my children,now that I am a Dad... so as I took my youngest to Piccadilly for dinner tonight (her request, I guess it's genetic or something) I couldn't help but notice things just aren't the same.

I ordered my old friend, chicken-fried steak, along with some corn and carrot souffle' (another weakness of mine.)

Rather than the mammoth, twisty slab of fried beef that I had pictured in my head, I was instead greeted by something that looked suspiciously like a formed patty... just a little too uniform to look made from scratch. Worse yet, it barely covered HALF the plate! Panic set in, my mind racing with images of someone back in the kitchen fetching pre-formed, pre-frozen CFS patties out of a Sysco bag and tossing them in the Frialator. Shuddering, I tried it. Houston, we have a problem. This was not your father's chicken-fried steak. Instantly, I was bummed out. Now I know you are thinking, "What's the big deal? It's just a chicken-freaking-fried steak. Get a life!" But you see, it's bigger than that... this was like the food version of the J. Geils Band song "Centerfold" to me. My blood ran cold. My memory had just been sold.  My angel is a prefabricated piece of meat or something like that. Everybody now! NAH-NAH-NAHNAH-NAH-NAH! NAH-NAH-NAH-NAHNAH-NAH-NAH!

I'm sorry.

Anyway, as my shock subsided, I tried to look for positives. This was, after all, a place that- despite being a chain, and a cafeteria chain at that- has consistently over the years produced gumbo and etouffee' that I have counted among the best in the city. Piccadilly has been in financial straits throughout the years, and I guess they had to cut some corners. You know, the same way they have paper napkins now instead of the old crimson cloth ones they used to give you. There are still some good things to eat there, as demonstrated by the rapidly disappearing fried catfish in front of my daughter. It's also possible, of course, that I am romanticizing something from my past, as I am occasionally wont to do, or that things just looked bigger and better through a kid's eyes.  I guess that it's just, every time I have an experience like this... when a Baton Rouge icon like Phil's Oyster Bar closes, or changes, it becomes a milestone that I envision referencing as an old man, beginning sentences with "Back in my day...". I'm slowly (or maybe not so slowly) becoming "that guy". Then, the thought occurred that may be older isn't necessarily better. I looked down at my little daughter, doing her best to cover as much of her skin in chocolate pudding as possible. Maybe one day she'll look back fondly at eating catfish at Piccadilly with her Pop. She leans over in the booth and squeezes my arm, and lays her head on my shoulder, happy to have a dinner date with Dad. That's worth a wrong turn down memory lane.