Category: Food

Food, glorious, food (service)

Post author By Mike Gibbons
Post date December 10, 2020
No Comments on Food, glorious, food (service)

My kids have now fulfilled one of their requirements of being my kid: You have to work food service at some point in your life.

I don’t have a lot of big requirements for my kids. I’d like them to be decent people, to try and make society better by giving back, and to return their shopping carts. Pretty small asks. But I also told both of them since they were little that at some point, they need to work in a restaurant.

My daughter worked at a restaurant during one of her years in college. My son has just started a job at a burger joint, thus checking that box.

My son is finding what his sister did – that working at a restaurant can be hectic, chaotic and taxing. And that’s why I wanted them to work that job.

Food jobs have never been more difficult than they are right now, as the pandemic has thrown a curveball into everything we do. But what my son is learning – and what my daughter learned during her time as a server – is that working in a restaurant teaches you a lot of things.

I worked at a buffet restaurant after my freshman year of college. I started as a host, but graduated after a few weeks to server. I was a good server, because when you are making $2.13/hour and only can grow that by giving out solid service to your customers, you up your game immediately.

When my son comes home at night, exhausted and smelling like a giant french fry, I know he has had a good solid day of working. Your feet hurt. You’re exhausted. And you’ve hardly had a moment to Snapchat. Good for the soul.

But I also know that my kids, having worked in that industry, know to appreciate the folks who also work that on a daily basis. My daughter plans to be a psychologist, and my son a biologist. They will most likely not work in restaurants beyond the fairly near future. But they have experienced what I did, and they learned this:

When you work in restaurants, you serve a cross section of humanity. Some treat you well. Some treat you like garbage. But mostly, it’s the prior. Folks just want a decent meal, and if you are decent to them, they will be decent to you.
That said, some people are just not decent. They treat wait staff like they are in a station below them. And you remember never to treat people like that. No one is above you, and no one is below you. Treating others with respect costs us nothing in life.
Tip. Always. I am sure someone has a story that can tell me why there are times you feel you shouldn’t tip. And to that I say this: Tipping is an awful practice, and we should do away with it entirely as a means for restaurant workers to make a living wage. Pay them. Don’t leave it up to the customers to vet their performance and see if they are worthy of a decent pay day. And before you tell me that the menu prices would go up, I say, yeah, I know. I’m already tacking on 20 percent or so to my bill. Why not let me pay it up front and let everyone else also pay the staff what they are worth? Besides, nothing is stopping me from tipping on top of the bill, right?
Preparing your food and getting it to you is hard work. Never forget that. Even if you are just grabbing a burger, it takes a lot of coordination to get it all just right. And if someone forgets to take the pickles off your burger, remember – it wasn’t personal. It was someone busting their hump trying to move 100 custom-made burgers out the door in an hour. It’s not a vendetta against you. It’s the margin of error.

I’m proud of my kids for working in restaurants. And while they have other careers set in their future sights, if they ever decide they want a career in restaurants, I’d be 100 percent OK with that, too. It’s an honorable profession and one all of us rely on. I’d be happy to visit them at their restaurant. And if they are still living at home, I’ll remind them their tip is room and board. (OK, and at least 20 percent of the bill.)

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, you can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

Food

Monster cookies

I enjoy baking and cooking, and I have certainly gotten my share of new kitchen adventures over the past three months.

I have done slow-cooker bread. I have learned lots of new recipes for our fairly new Instant Pot. I have made my fudge that I call Hurricane Fudge, as I usually make it when I am riding out a hurricane, but I consider this current disrailing of life an acceptable substitute for a named storm. I have even taken my initial plunge into homebrewing, of which I can give you an update in a couple of weeks.

But my wife and I recently took on a kitchen challenge that we have been really wanting to get to for a few months.

In a previous reality we all operated in, my wife traveled a lot for business. And she often stayed in DoubleTree hotels. So you can imagine her excitement a few months back when Hilton released the recipe for the DoubleTree chocolate chip cookies they give you at check-in. And while you are imaging it, you can also imagine my attempt at a reaction to her excitement, since I have never experienced said DoubleTree cookies.

Now, I love a good cookie. Big fan. But admittedly I was kind of skeptical of her excitement of this particular recipe, because let’s be honest – just how good can this cookie be?

And now that we have made said cookies, I retract any of my skepticism and apologize profusely for not sharing her excitement, and for waiting two months to make the cookies.

We are doing our grocery shopping once a week these days, which is probably a better plan even without a pandemic, to be honest. We plan out our week of meals, and I go to the store, usually early on a Sunday morning, and get all of our necessary items. As we were making this week’s list, she said, “We should make the DoubleTree cookies.” So let’s add the ingredients to the list.

I have never made cookies with this many ingredients. Many of them were already on hand, but as we were reviewing the recipe – https://newsroom.hilton.com/static-doubletree-reveals-cookie-recipe.htm – I was amazed at how much stuff went into the cookies.

When I got home from the grocery store, my wife and I went through our routine – we sanitize all the products we’ve brought home and put them in their appropriate places. After retrieving our mixer and putting it on the counter, I began to put all of the cookie part purchases next to it to prep. I then went to the cupboard, the pantry and the fridge to get the rest of the recipe items. When I had all of the recipe items stacked on the counter, I said, “That’s a lot of stuff.”

I followed the recipe to the letter, mixing and pouring and adding just as they said to do.

Toward the end of the recipe, I went full tag-team with my wife, and tagged her into the match. This is because we were at the point of the recipe where (a) the mixer gets a little clogged up with the mix (b) you have to stir in the chocolate chips and nuts and (c) you spoon the cookie dough onto a cookie sheet,

I passed this part off to my wife because (a) I don’t have patience (b) I don’t have patience and (c) I don’t have patience.

The recipe calls for you to let the cookies set for one hour after cooking. After about three minutes of them sitting on the kitchen counter, their smell wafting through our house, I said, “Do I have to wait an hour?” My wife didn’t have to say it, but I knew she was thinking about the fact that I routinely burn my mouth by eating pizza too quickly after removing the oven. I’m 47-years-old and can’t resist. “Fine,” she said. I dove in. It was indeed hot, but manageable. And it was the most amazing cookie I have ever had. I grabbed a glass of cold milk, and it was heaven.

I had a couple more before dinner, but showed some restraint and did not have cookies for dinner. We will continue to do our kitchen explorations with new and exciting recipes, but I am not sure we can top this one. Unless we can figure out to make pizza you can eat the moment you take it out of the oven.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, you can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

Adventures Childhood Family Food

Take me out to the ball game

Post author By Mike Gibbons
Post date September 3, 2019
No Comments on Take me out to the ball game

I just attended my first Major League Baseball game in almost 25 years.

You must be thinking, wow, Mike, you are clearly not a baseball fan.

Au contraire.

I am a huge baseball fan. My first job ever was before I was old enough to work, and the owner of a baseball card store near my house figured out a way to game the system and, rather than pay me to work, let me have store credit if I “volunteered.” At the end of each week, he would tally up my volunteer hours and gift me a store credit. One week, my entire pay … I mean, gift … was a single baseball card, a 1980 Topps Ricky Henderson.

I love baseball. But since 1995, I’ve had a bit of mental roadblock on going to a game. Because that game I went to in 1995? Kinda special.

It was Oct. 28, 1995. The Braves were good. Super good. They had been the team of the 90s. And they finally won the World Series. And there I sat in the stands, with dad. My wife, who was my girlfriend at the time, sat a section away, with her dad.

And to be honest with you, it’s a hard thing to ever top watching your team win the World Series. In person. With your dad. I’m pretty sure if you think about it hard enough, a bald eagle will appear with an apple pie for you.

I have attended games with my kids. But those were minor league games. They have both gone to MLB games, but they did those with their grandparents in Atlanta.

But recently, I ended my streak. We were going to be in Atlanta for the kickoff to the Alabama football season, and my wife caught wind of a Friday night Braves game that was geared for Alabama fans, including a super cool ball cap that had a Bama logo on it.

And the game was everything I could have hoped for. There were Bama fans everywhere, and we all had on our signature caps, and there was no shortage of “Roll Tide” exchanges being passed back and forth through Suntrust Park. I know this sounds like torture to a lot of non-Bama fans, but trust me, it’s a nice evening for us.

The Braves won the game 10-7, and while the game did not have quite the same importance of the game I last saw, it was awesome to be there.

Among the highlights:

We saw Chipper Jones, who was a rookie when I last saw the Braves play in person. And he is a large individual.

We got to enjoy Suntrust Park, which is an amazing stadium.

We ate ballpark hot dogs, which simply makes life better.

We watched The Freeze race – and lose! If you are not familiar with The Freeze, Google it. He rarely loses.

Prior to entering the stadium, there were clowns outside who were juggling and unicycling. They were slightly amazed when my son asked if he could join them and juggle and unicycle. And then proceeded to juggle and unicycle. I do not think they were expecting a fellow clown in the crowd.

We found out that you can rent ball gloves for free. Yes, for free. You give your credit card, and they give you a couple of gloves. Both of my kids are lefties, so they were excited about having mitts in case a home run ball made it our way (it didn’t). I asked the guy at the stand how exactly you could “rent for free”? He told me that if we did not return the gloves, they charged me $750 per glove. I laughed. He did not. He said, “No, seriously.” Rest assured, we returned those gloves.

So we had a great time. And while the time my wife and I went to the World Series win with our dads will always be special, this day was special, too. Because we will always remember the time we saw The Freeze lose.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, he now lives in Mt. Pleasant. You can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike or at www.mikeslife.us.

Adventures Animals Childhood Family Food

Gone fishin’ (and eatin’)

Post author By Mike Gibbons
Post date December 9, 2018
No Comments on Gone fishin’ (and eatin’)

My son loves to fish. Loves, loves, loves to fish. If I gave him the option of having a roof over his head or fishing, it’s pretty much time to tell him goodbye.

He fishes in the morning. He fishes in the afternoon. On plenty of occasions I have called him and said, “Dude, it’s dark. How are you still fishing.”

His usual response: “Yeah, I’m packing up and will…WAIT – BITE! GOTTA GO!”

We rarely keep what he catches. Part of that is that a lot of the fishing he does is around the lakes and ponds near our neighborhood, and I prefer my fresh fish not to be marinated in a brine of lawn chemicals and road runoff.

Another reason, however, is that cleaning a fish is a lengthy investment. It’s messy, it takes a good bit of time, and it kinda smells like fish.

But every once in a while, you want to be able to catch your supper. My son had done some research online and found a new pier he wanted to fish. He was positive he was going to catch dinner. I reminded him that, should he catch dinner, he and he alone was in charge of cleaning it. He made it very clear that no one else was invited to take part in cleaning said future catch, as it was his catch, his clean. Fishermen are a prideful lot.

My daughter was home from college and she came with us to the pier. She likes to fish on occasion, but is more of a stand-by-the-rod-and-Snapchat kinda fisherperson. If she catches something, great. If not, at least there was Snapchat.

After an hour he had a few nibbles here and there. I told him we were getting close to needing to pack up, and he offered his usual closing offer, “Five most casts?” Which means 15-20 more casts, because, you know, almost got a bite on that last one…

He cast one here and there and then BOOM! His line dove. He sprung into offense, grabbing his pole and positioning himself in the perfect fishing stance, which I say because I have no idea what the perfect fishing stance is, but good chance you don’t either, so we can just go with whatever stance our mind’s eye finds appropriate.

After fighting for a few minutes, the fish broke the surface. It was a sheepshead, a beautiful black and white fish that hangs out around pier pylons. It took a few more minutes, but he pulled it in, and he measured it to ensure it was the appropriate size for a keeper. It was well within the range. Dinner time!

When we got home, my son set to cleaning the fish. Because this is 2018, he first spent about 30 minutes on the couch watching YouTube videos on how to clean sheepshead. The internet is really something.

While my son was on fish duty, my daughter and I went into the other essential component of a fish fry – hushpuppies. We had the hushpuppy mix and read the directions on the side. It said we could either use a deep fryer or bake them in the oven. I asked my daughter which we should do. “What kind of question is that?” she said. Deep fryer it is.

My son soon had the fish cleaned and ready to be dipped in a batter. My daughter tended the hushpuppies on the back deck (I learned early on that deep fryers are an outside game, lest you want your house to smell like a Waffle House for a week; I love a Waffle House, but I don’t want to live in one). Oh, the perfect fish fry was on its way.

In short order, we were loving friend sheepshead and hushpuppies. My wife is not a big fan of fried food, so she politely tasted and then went back to some spinach concoction she created for herself. But the other three of us wolfed down our health food dinner, and enjoyed every fried minute of it. Not sure when we will try and catch dinner again, but I am sure it will be before we know it. And, whatever he hauls in for the catch I’m sure will be a perfect meal for the evening. Thank goodness the internet is there to tell him how to prepare it.

Family Food

Florence fudge

Hurricane Florence is now behind us, and at least we can all agree on this: the fudge was pretty tasty.

Now, lest you think I took a piece of storm-powered debris to the noggin, I’ll make sense of the fudge later.

In South Carolina, the coastline was ordered to evacuate on Monday morning. Plenty of people feel that order was issued a bit premature. However, I will withhold my opinion on that and let the real experts debate it at the 21st Century Algonquin Round Table that is a newspaper Facebook page comment section. Also a great place to shape your opinion on matters as broad as politics and as specific as whether a particular intersection needs a traffic light.

We did not evacuate Monday, as (a) we were not ready and (b) the storm was still a really good ways off. We did not evacuate Tuesday as (b) we were still not ready and (b) the storm was still a really good ways off and (c) “Hey, that place across the street with the awesome Happy Hour is still open! Let’s make our plans there!”

So as we enjoyed a lovely charcuterie plate at Happy Hour, my wife and I strategized. She and our son would leave on Wednesday and head west to stay with family. I would stay back and prep the house and play it by ear.

On Wednesday, they were safe and sound a few hours away, and I had brought most of the the stuff inside that could become projectiles should a storm hit. Our dog took on the very important role of walking outside on occasion and barking at the sky, which he never does. I took this to mean that he felt a storm coming, or he was keeping aliens at bay.

On Thursday, I awoke bright and early to check the storm status. Initial reports had Florence hitting some time as early as Thursday. However, as the week progressed, Florence decided she apparently had some tasks to tend to or something and began taking her sweet time.

It soon became clear that the storm, if it did arrive, would not be here until probably late Friday night. And it was becoming more and more evident that it would hardly even graze where I lived. That said, I was becoming incredibly bored. The house was long-since cleaned. The laundry was long-since done. Netflix queue all caught up. I had googled everything I could possibly want to just to kill time. And that included “How to make fudge.” Why, you ask. Because I was sitting here and thought to myself, “I wonder how you make fudge…”

And then a short while later, I received word that our nearby grocery store would be open until 7 that night. Thus, hurricane fudge time.

I went to the store, and there were only a few people there, mostly buying a few basic essentials. I was hardly buying essentials.

That night, as I enjoyed my evening round of Jeopardy!, I successfully made fudge for the first time. And I was really surprised to learn that it costs about $5 and takes all of about 10 minutes. The next day, with my fudge solidly cooled and ready for sharing, I packed up the dog and the fudge and headed west. I was not so much fleeing a hurricane as I was fleeing the sheer boredom of the week, with maybe a smidge of desiring human interaction other than the grocery clerk and Alex Trebek.

Florence pretty much avoided where I live, although it did pack a nasty wallop north of here. There are a couple of more hurricanes brewing in the Atlantic as I write this, so who knows what will happen next. We’ll just keep an eye on the storm and make sure we are ready to act on a moment’s notice. Or, about 10 minutes notice, as I’ll need to make my hurricane fudge first.

Childhood Family Food

Thanks, Thanksgiving

Dear Thanksgiving,

I just wanted to tell you that you are not forgotten.

I know you see when the Christmas decorations start appearing in stores around August.

And I know it makes you sad. But you don’t complain, because that’s the kind of holiday you are. Stoic to the end. That’s you, Thanksgiving.

Sure, you feel a little bit better when people lament such early appearances. Sure, you get a little solace when you see people posting on Facebook that they don’t want to hear “Deck the Halls” on the store radio when Halloween decorations are still out. But never a word from you, Thanksgiving. You are strong, T’Giv.

Let me tell you something, Thanksgiving. Despite the fact the stores’ halls have been decked with holly for months, you hold your head high. You know why? Because you matter, my friend.

You may not be a holiday with a lot of marketing oomph behind it. Even if we have been buying Christmas wreaths before we’ve even set our clocks back, you’re still on our minds. You, Thanksgiving, are a humble holiday. And we dig that.

I don’t care how many inflatable Christmas Snoopy dog houses are on sale before Veterans Day, we are still not bailing on you, Thanksgiving.

This past weekend, we were all planning for your big day. Some of us have started shopping. Some of us have thought really long and hard about planning to start shopping at some point. But you rest assured, noble holiday, we are thinking about you.

On Thursday, we will gather around tables with families and friends and celebrate your big day. We will feast until we are full, and then feast a little more. We will relish the background noise of NFL football (even if it’s almost always the Lions). And we will oh so love your gracious gift of a turkey sandwich the next day. You, Thanksgiving, are the holiday that keeps on giving.

For me personally, your day is a day of some of my most wonderful family memories. When I was a kid, we would have dozens of people at our house for your big day. Our home was always the place for anyone who needed a family for the day, and we always became a great big family on your day. Thanksgiving, you brought me some of the fondest memories of my childhood. I remember football in the front yard with tons of people, including one time when one of the players was an awesome giant sheep dog someone had brought to the celebration. I remember my dad’s annual tradition of calling out, “Who wants to carve the turkey?” to which we all respond in unison, “I don’t!” (I have no idea of the origins of that, but I am pretty sure a Gibbons Thanksgiving cannot legally commence until that has been done.) I remember watching my mom deftly add card tables and folding chairs to the sprawling, growing array of tables that she started with, happily accommodating surprise (and very welcome) guests to our home. The more the merrier. (See what I did there, Thanksgiving? I took merry and used it for YOU.)

Unfortunately, Thanksgiving, I won’t be able to go to my parents’ this year to celebrate you. But I know the rooms will be full of friends and family and fellowship, and that warms my heart. But as is your tradition, you continue to make sure that people are together on your big day. A neighbor has invited us to join them on Thursday, an opportunity we embrace.

So keep being you, Thanksgiving. You may not get the retail love of other holidays. But that’s OK. That’s not your style.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, he now lives in Mt. Pleasant. You can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

Family Food

PEE-can, PICK-ahn – the debate continues.

Post author By Mike Gibbons
Post date April 15, 2017
No Comments on PEE-can, PICK-ahn – the debate continues.

Here are some things that take about 30 minutes:

Viewing a network sitcom
Cooking some chicken
Watching about 1/10 of “Gone With the Wind”

Here is something that should NOT take 30 minutes:

Ordering fast food at a drive-through

My wife, son and I recently got to experience this unnecessary delay, and we would have been far more angry had it not been a comically amazing display of ineptitude.

It started at the speaker, where we placed our order. I ordered a few fairly standard items — cheeseburger, Coke, chicken nugget meal, vanilla milk shake, apple pecan chicken salad, and an unsweetened tea.

The voice from the speaker came back, “Sir, we don’t have that salad.”

I said, “It’s right there on the menu. Apple pecan chicken salad.”

A slight pause. “Um, we have a PEE-can chicken salad.” I know there are some distinct camps on the the pronunciation of “pecan.” I fall into the “pick-AHN” camp, and I don’t begrudge those who don’t. But I acknowledge they exist.

I looked at my wife. She was laughing too hard to help. I turned back to the speaker. “Yes, I meant the PEE-can salad.”

We pulled up. There was one car ahead of us. It took them about 15 minutes to get their order, and most everything that was passed to their car window was quickly sent back. This wasn’t going to end well.

So here’s a summary of the calamity that we then endured:

Handed an unsweetened tea. My wife tastes it. It’s sweet. Hand it back. Get a second. Also sweet. I hand it back. Dude at the window says, “Oh, that’s just how our unsweetened tea tastes.” No. No it does not. Third time an unsweetened charm.
Handed my Coke. Take a sip. Clearly Diet Coke. Hand it back. “Oh, that’s just how our Coke tastes.” No. No it does not. He says, “Look, that’s what came out of the Coke button.” Perhaps your Coke button is broken. He hands me another drink, and it is, miraculously, Coke.
Dude opens the window. “And you had a chocolate milkshake?” No, I told him. I am sure that, had he given me a chocolate milkshake, he would have said, “Oh, that’s just how our vanilla milkshakes are.”

After about five more minutes, I am growing increasingly, um, let’s just say, not happy. But still being nice. As is my way.

I leaned out my car window and motioned back to the car behind me and gave what I can only describe as the universal sign for, “I’m sorry I’m delaying everything but it’s not my fault because there is nothing but chaos inside.”

A manager saw me motioning and opened the window. “Everything OK?” he asked.

No, I told him. I said that we had been in line for, at that point, 26 minutes, and nothing we had gotten had been right on the first try. And occasionally the second try.

“But you have your food, right?”

That’s a big negative there, boss.

The manager said, “Hey, I apologize for the wait and everything. He’s new and learning.”

I responded, “He’s not ready, and you need to get him some help.” The manager give me the look of a gifted painter who knows what paints he has at his disposal to create his masterpiece. And he has a child’s dried up water color set.

A few minutes later, the manager returned and began handing us our food. I said, “I know the drive-through is backed up, but I’m going to check and make sure everything is right, since nothing has been right so far, OK?”

First bag. Salad – check. Second bag – nuggets – check. Third bag – Cheeseburger, some more nuggets, and some fries. I stared into the bag for a second.

“I threw some extra nuggets and fries into the last bag. I apologize for the wait.”

So at least the manager tried to make right by throwing us some nuggets and fries. I feel bad for the new employee, as he was clearly in over his head. Hey, maybe we were somehow to blame for setting everything off the rails. Maybe it all could have been avoided had I ordered a PEE-can salad from the start.

Adventures Food

A cut above

Nobody likes line cutters. Well, at least no one who is adhering to the actual rules of the line.

I am a fan of order, so I think a nicely formed line is something to be admired and find it abhorrent when people cut in line. However, I am not sure how to handle it when I become the line cutter.

It happened recently at a Sam’s Club. When my family signed up for our membership, they had a promotion going on where, upon signing up, you would get a free rotisserie chicken. That wasn’t the sole reason we signed up, but hey, nice bonus because, hey, free chicken.

We didn’t have to get the chicken the day we signed up. A few weeks later, I found myself in the Sam’s vicinity. I remembered that we had a chicken waiting on us, and that my wife and I had not made plans for dinner that night. Free chicken to the rescue!

When I entered the store, I headed toward the customer service line. I was not sure how the chicken procurement process worked and decided I would just go there. There was a short line, but I had time to kill. As I stood in line, I noticed that the line leaving the store was growing longer. For those of you not familiar, when you leave a Sam’s, you have to show your receipt to the clerk at the door to make sure you’re not stealing a 412-pack of toilet paper.

As I stood in my line, I watched the line leaving the store grow. And then I heard her: “EXCUSE ME! EXCUSE ME!” A woman was barreling through the store, pushing her cart past all of the folks in line. The folks in the exit line took turns staring at her, and then back at each other, wondering who was going to be the line vigilante. No one, it turns out.

She got to the front of the line and handed the clerk her receipt, completely ignoring all the decent folks who were respecting the line. The clerk looked at her, and looked at the line. No good choices here. While the vengeance part of my conscience wanted her to summarily reject her push to the front of the line, the clerk probably took the best path — she checked the receipt and sent the woman on her way. Not sure where the big win was going to be had the clerk decided to exact justice on the line cutter.

As I sat watching the line collectively hate the woman who had cut, my turn was up at the customer service desk. I explained to the clerk that I was here for my chicken and needed to see what the protocol was. The clerk told me to go and grab my chicken and come right back to her. “Don’t get back in line,” she said. “Just come back to me.”

Oh, boy.

I went to the other side of the store and got my chicken, which was about a six mile walk. When I came back to the customer service area, I saw the line, as well as the line going out the door. And I was about to go cut in line, as I was directed to do.

I walked to the clerk I had spoken with earlier and set my chicken down on the counter. I looked around and felt the eyes on me. They saw me as the Excuse Me lady.

“Everyone thinks I’m cutting in line,” I said, trying to make small talk to someone who probably had no interest in small talk.

That’s when she stepped up to the plate and tried to make my line cutting OK. She turned to the lines, all of whom I certainly felt like were staring holes in me. “It’s OK, everybody. I told him to come back here.”

I gave a little wave to say, “I’m not a line cutter!” to the folks, and grabbed my chicken and headed out the door, making sure not to make eye contact with any of the folks who were no doubt staring a hole in me.

I hope some of the folks in line understood that I was not cutting, per se, as the other woman had clearly done. I was just following directions, and thus helping to keep order, right? Because order is good. As good as free chicken.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, he now lives in Charleston. You can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

Family Food

To serve and deflect

If there is one thing in life I have learned, it’s that yelling at your server will rarely yield positive results.

I base this on the fact that (a) I have been a waiter before and (b) I’m a fairly decent human.

Childhood Family Food

No kidding

I recently read an article about a restaurant that was under fire for posting on Facebook that it would no longer allow “small screaming children,” adding that the establishment is “an adult themed restaurant that caters to those who enjoy food and are out to enjoy themselves.”