The Lankville Daily News

Brian Schropp on Cuisine

A TWO-PART SERIES

The pizza trade can be a hard business- this fact becomes clearer to me each time I work at the “Pizza-A-Round.” My manager, Scott, pulled me into his office last week. “Sit down Bri, we got some serious things to discuss.” He proceeded to take out one of his guns and start fiddling with it. His gun fiddling used to make me nervous, now I know he was just deep in “Scott thought”.

Picture of my manager Scott relaxing at home.

There was a long silence. I did start to wonder if this had anything to do with my performance. I had been recently put in charge of the “dish cleaning division” of the operation. I even had two others under my “managerial expertise”, Oscar and Omar. My “mission statement” was to make sure every dish was clean and get the Lankville Health Department off our backs. It’s been a rough road in achieving this but we’re on our way.

“Is it the dishes Scott?” I finally offered. I sat down in a pizza sauce stained chair.”I’m pretty sure the whole team is using HOT water EVERY TIME–.”

“No-no nothing to do with that- I mean the dishes haven’t been great- but there’s something else.” He took out a folder and smacked it on the desk. “Have you ever heard of a profit and loss statement?”

Since it had nothing to do with actually eating food I had not.

“Well let’s just say that we are in business to make a profit and have less loss. Unfortunately it’s been the other way around recently.”

“Have you tried my mid-morning snack pizza idea yet? I know it’s a little ‘outside the box’ but I’m sure it would be a winner..”

Scott nodded. “Even though that is a brilliant concept, it’s got nothing to do with sales. This loss is coming from the inside, employee theft- plain and simple.”

Needless to say I was taken aback!! I would never think my fellow “co-buddies” (another managerial term I’m trying to incorporate) would do such a thing.

“Not only do I know who is doing it I also know what’s being stolen. It’s pepperoni being swiped out of the third pepperoni freezer.” Scott paused so I could take it all in. “Supposedly it’s a hot item on the Lankville black market. These fools think since it’s from the third pepperoni freezer I wouldn’t notice. But you can’t trick me, I’M SCOTT.”

“Who is it?”

“One of the drivers, ‘Big’ Eddie Jones. Thursday’s prep line chief, Munny Joseph. And groundskeeper/dumpster cleaner, Danny ‘Elf Boy’ Finlay.”

My “mid-morning snack” pizza idea

Inside I was happy. These three in particular were bullies and have tried to make my employment here difficult. I knew Scott was going to make those jerks pay!!

“They’ve been kinda tricky so far Bri, with all three of them working different aspects of the operation I haven’t gotten the proof I need. That’s where you come in, I need for you to gain their trust quickly. Once you have it, you tell these idiots you can supply them with better quality pepperoni from the second pepperoni freezer.”

“What then?”

“Set up a time for you to drop off the goods at a location outside of the store. Once the pepperoni is in their hands I will have the legal Lankville right to do what I need to.”

At this point I was shaking all over. This type of thing wasn’t my cup of tea and I let Scott know it (mainly in a whining, pleading tone).

“I know Bri, but you’re the only one I can trust. Plus with you being on the Lankville Endangered Species list they might not hurt you too bad if caught. The thing we have going for us is that the three are extremely dumb. I think you will gain their trust in no time, the deal will sound so sweet to them that we can set up the bust. THEN I WILL HAVE THEM!” Scott flashed his “bad look” into the work area at the sound of “Big” Eddie Jones coming in for his shift.

It really didn’t take that long for me to gain the trust of these guys. After a few days of mostly embarrassing situations (best left unsaid for purposes of my pride– there were only a few times I lost my pants) they let me hang out with them on their “breaks”. I think they liked the idea of a fourth member they could kick around. Scott had given me the ok to steal a few things if they were watching me (though Scott did say he will take the cost of what I ‘stole’ out of my paycheck). That got them talking to me about their “operation”. After a few times I told them I had access to the second pepperoni freezer and could get them quality stuff. Their eyes widened.

“Why are you doing this?” Danny “Elf Boy” Finlay asked in an unusually nasal voice. “The word was getting around that you were in with Scott.”

From L to R- “Big” Eddie Jones, Munny Joseph, Danny “Elf Boy” Finlay

“I was,” I replied while crawling on my hands and knees (they were making me crawl around on all fours acting like a dog by the dumpsters while they flicked their cigarette butts at me). “But that jerk has been treating me bad recently. I guess the whole part-man, part-bumpkin thing wore off quick.” Scott had actually started to treat me rough again just to give the illusion of some tension between us. I was yelled at, threatened with a gun a few times and even once had my head dunked in some oily dish water.

“The best way to get revenge is to get him where it hurts, in his pocketbook!” This gem came from Munny who seem to be the ringleader. “When do you think you can get that pepperoni for us?”

“Tomorrow-bark-bark-as a punishment Scott is making me do the pepperoni count in that freezer.”

“Well you better get us some choice cuts or else there will be hell to pay. And be slick about it, we have a pretty smooth operation going on here. That fool has no idea what we are up to.”

“No worries fellas, I know he doesn’t look at those reports very closely.”

“Good, once you are done with your shift and you have the stuff meet us at this address.” Munny threw a scrap piece of paper at me. “Now eat our cigarette butts like a good boy.”

They stood around and chuckled while I did that nasty deed. Little did they know Scott and I would have the last chuckle come tomorrow evening now that a time and place had been set up.

Please come back for part two where you will really learn the dark side of this pizza trade!! Until then keep your mind and mouth open to new ideas!

BRI

By Brian Schropp

Brian Schropp on Cuisine

So the day started with the phones at the “Pizza-A-Round” blaring and flashing all around me. I walked slowly over to them in a daze knowing the first call I took would send me into the downward spiral of the everyday workforce. My manager Scott gave me a supportive push from behind and a “Hurry up!! These fat teenagers want their pizza before school starts!”

An order form was slapped in front of me and my hand forced onto the ringing receiver; I picked up and the true chaos began. Order after order from what Scott wisely guessed- fat high schoolers wanting some delicious pizza pie before a delay in starting their undervalued education. They talked quick and with that Southwestern Deep Northern Suburban drawl which is hard to understand- I scribbled down whatever I heard the best I could. Pepperoni, double pepperoni, pepperoni on one side and on the other side nothing but crust, pepperoni in between the cheese then cut up pepperoni on top, these fat kids wanted it all sorts of ways. Then the deals and coupons, the “Pizza-A-Round” had no less than 42 different promotions going on at once. Martha, the woman who helped work my row of phones and was put in charge of “coaching” me was none too pleased with my order sheets.

Martha (not wanting her picture taken).

“What the hell is all this scribble!! Haven’t you been listening to anything I have been barking at you?!!!”
The truth was I really wasn’t. She seemed to be from Deep Southeastern Deep Northern Suburban Lankville and their accents are a bit on the harsh side. I mumbled some apologizes with the promise of picking things up faster.

“You better or Scott will not be too pleased. He told you about the guns, right?”-
I nodded while picking up for the next order.
“And the picture with the hand?” She smirked. “You think that was an accident?”
With the horror of that picture flooding my mind again, I accidentally snapped the pencil I was taking the orders with and had to put the call on hold (which I hung up on by accident).
“Jesus Christ” Martha muttered under her breath (just like my Mom does!!)

For the next twenty minutes the orders continued to flood in. I could hear from shouts by the oven and prep stations that some orders were wrong and undoubtedly some were mine. When I mentioned this to Martha she said they were probably all mine. When the phones died down Martha took me to Scott’s office where he was reviewing the accuracy of my orders. I could tell by his slight head shaking it wasn’t good.

“Well, Bri out of the 108 orders you took in the last hour and a half only 8% of them were any sort of accurate. We still have drivers on routes trying to figure addresses out and customers complaining about wrong orders. Who the hell orders a pizza with just half pepperoni and the other half just crust?”

I tried to explain that that was a lot of orders to take in just an hour and a half.

“I know I kinda threw you to the wolves but that was just a minor rush because of a school delay. The lunch rush is going to be four times as bad!!”

“You’re going to be really thrown to the wolves then!!” Martha said, putting in her two cents worth while slapping my backside (which she had been doing the whole morning– it was making me a bit uncomfortable).

“Listen, maybe we will put you off the phones until after the lunch rush and put you on the prep station for now.” Scott then lifted his shirt slightly to reveal a handgun sticking out from his waistband.- “And hey, let’s start to really try and pick things up. Remember, I have guns.”

So I was moved to the prep area where I was introduced to Chet. Chet was real polite to Scott’s face but started bad mouthing him once he was gone. “That dude thinks he real tough and all but without his guns he couldn’t do jack shit.”

Chet, who promised we would be “best co-worker pals”.

I asked him if he ever saw the picture of the hand.

He looked at me for a few moments. “You really think that picture’s real? He made that hand after hours to scare people. I told you he’s a real shit.” Chet put his arm around me. “Don’t worry about him or anybody else around here, stick with me we are going to become best co-worker pals.”

He showed me the toppings area which had no less than 73 different toppings. The area was a huge mess. “Scott is always getting onto me about keeping clean. But how can you after a big rush like that? And hey if anything falls on the ground we have a five second rule that it’s still good to use.”

Chet said we had to restock the toppings area. He walked me to the vast mazes of walk-in refrigerators and freezers in the back. I asked if we were going to need a jacket or gloves or anything like that, he just shook his head and put his arm around me again. “No way buddy, we will be quick.”

He took me to the coldest freezer first, the pepperoni freezer. “For some reason all these asshole customers love it.” He opened the freezer door and cold freezing air came billowing out, I backed up a little and rubbed my arms for warmth. “Don’t be a chicken-shit, just walk in there and grab some pepperoni sticks.”

I walked slowly up and stuck my head in, there was a small light on because the door was open. I saw shelves upon shelves of pepperoni in various states of frozen. It was almost like a winter wonderland.

And then, suddenly, I felt a foot kick my backside and I fell face-first into the frost. I was able to turn myself around on the slippery floor to see Chet laughing with his hands on his waist. I started to shake not only from the cold but from the sense of dread that was now filling me.

“That was for my Uncle Hank, you’ve done a real number on him recently but now it’s time for a little revenge.” It was then that I noticed his full name tag “Chet Cameron”, this was the nephew of Hank Cameron, Manager of Foodville and my sworn nemesis. “Now you are going to sit in there and think about what you done.”

He slammed the door laughing madly. I was enclosed in darkness and the freezing cold. It took no time for the bitter chill to set in and I curled myself into a ball and tried my best to keep warm. I tried not to think about what would happen when I was found, I needed to put my thoughts into staying alive. Time passed one icey moment at a time, I must of been in there for hours. I picked up a frozen stick of pepperoni to gnaw on once the hunger pains set in but it did little good. My thoughts turned to stories my Dad told me of my Great Uncle Randolf who fought in the front lines of the “Great Lankville War of 1947” and how he had to suffer through below zero temperatures. I now knew Great Uncle Randolf’s pain. Time passes more slowly and after awhile I knew death was close. Then I heard the sweet song of the bumpkins and a light, a beautiful white light.

The light turned out to be my manager Scott opening up the freezer door and the outside light coming in blinding me. “There the hell you are!! What are you doing, taking a nap on the job?!!”

Picture of my manager Scott relaxing at home.

He yanked me out of the pepperoni freezer. I tried to tell him how I was pushed in there and how I was close to death.

“You were only in there 15 minutes, 20 tops,” Scott’s eyes bore into me. “And the freezer can open from the other side. It would be a death trap if it couldn’t!!”

“It never occurred to me that the freezer door could open that way,” I said, still dazed from my ordeal.

“That’s it,” Scott said grabbing me by the arm. “I’m taking you out back by the dumpsters to have a real talk with you!!”

For the second time today I saw my life ending in a horrible fashion. If this is how “real” full time employment is supposed to be, I really don’t want any part of it. We made it to the back door before his cell phone went off, luckily he stopped to answer it.

I could tell by his end of the conversation that he was talking to the owner (the old friend of my dad’s) and it was about me. Scott pleaded his case for “letting me go” but it fell on deaf ears. He was given a reason for keeping me on and it seemed to shock him a great deal but he wouldn’t let me know. Whatever the reason was he seemed to lighten up a bit with me, he grabbed my shoulder slightly hard “Listen Bri, maybe we got off on the wrong foot. The pizza trade can be tough to learn especially for someone like you. Let’s put you on washing dishes for the rest of the day and start again “new” the next time you are in.” I did learn he made a deal with the owner just to keep me on part-time instead of full-time which will give me time to write more for the paper!!! And it turned out I did the dishes wrong that day, you need to use HOT water not cold to make them clean.

My part time gig isn’t turning out to be that bad, I’m learning things ‘slowly but surely”. Chet apologized for his behavior but still plays “pranks” on me and Martha is still slapping my backside (but I’m sorta enjoying that now). Anyways, I will have more adventures for you soon from the “Pizza-A-Round” plus all my other food critic stories you have come to love.

So until next time, keep your mind and mouth open to new ideas.
BRI

By Brian Schropp

Well, it was bound to happen sometime. I knew the game was up when BOTH my Mom and Dad sat me down at the table.

“Son, we are just going to be as straightforward with this as possible. We found you a job, you start tomorrow and you’re going to keep this one.”

” But Dad I—”

“A PAYING job,” my Mom burst in, knowing I was going to bring up my food critic gig for this paper.
“You will work forty hours a week and every cent you earn will go back to pay for the lawsuit Hank Cameron won.” (YES, this did happen but through a court order I am not allowed to write details).

“But Dad I–”

“No more about him being a jerk. The Judge said you had to let it go and also stay four hundred feet away from him at all times,” my Mom chimed in again with a steel-glazed look in her eyes.

There were a few moments of awkward silence.

“So where am I heading to?” I asked.

“I happen to know the owner of “Pizza ‘A’ Round” which is on the Southwest side off Deep Northern Suburban Lankville Plaza. In fact, he is an old college friend of mine.”

I dropped my head on the table and groaned. “That’s the worst pizza place around. Only the really poor and people who don’t know any better order from there. I will lose all my cred working at a place like that.”

‘My old friend is taking you on knowing the reputation who have made for yourself. He’s sticking his neck out. If his insurance company knew he was hiring you his rates would skyrocket. You will go in there, do the job, do whatever they tell you in fact.”

“Please guys I beg, I am delicate— you know, other relatives say so.”

“Jesus Christ,” my Mom muttered under her breath.

“You will be ready to go by 8:30 tomorrow morning.”

Waking up that early!!! I knew in my heart this was going to be a disaster. I tossed and turned in bed that night thinking about starting this job– even wearing my “footie” PJs offered me little relief. I tried my CB to get a hold of my friend Trucker Joe but he was clear across Lankville and came in scrambled. With no one to turn to, I lay in dread with thoughts about the horrors that awaited me.

The next morning came quicker than I hoped. I heard my parents and siblings get up and start getting ready. This was the time I usually thought about what type of breakfast sandwich I would be having or what daytime game show I would watch after everyone would leave. But not any more, I was entering the real world.
Finally the knock came at my basement apartment door and my Dad stuck his head in– “Time to get up now.”

After he left I slowly got up and dressed into my “Pizza ‘A’ Round” standard uniform. I endured the snickers of my fellow siblings as my head hung low at the breakfast table. There was a very slight concern when I stated I wasn’t hungry but I forced down a strawberry toaster pastry for the long morning ahead. Then it was off in the car fighting the traffic and listening to the “witty banter” of Lankville’s favorite morning DJ’s on 102.3 “The Beat”. I could have still been in my bathrobe microwaving my third bacon egg biscuit but alas.

My father dropped me off right at the front door of the “Pizza ‘A’ Round”. There were no speeches, no promises– he sped off while I walked to the front door. The place didn’t open for a few hours so the door was locked, I tried the handle a few times out of sheer lack of not knowing what to do. After a few minutes of just standing there, a slightly large and scary man noticed me and came to the door. “Hey, new guy! You’re late!” Tension already at the workplace, I started shaking slightly and mumbled about the door being locked.

My manager Scott has this picture of himself on his desk.

“You didn’t see the buzzer next to the door?”

It was then that I noticed the buzzer next to the door. His eyes bore into me like the rage of a thousand burning suns. “Just get in here.”

We went inside and into a small office. He said his name was Scott and was the manager of the place, the owner’s “right hand man” so to speak. “Before we start anything Bri, the paperwork, the business of pizza- making, the art of the sale I need to ask you one question. How do you feel about gun control?”

I am in my heart of hearts a truly liberal man. I believe that most difficulties could be resolved with a nice chat over breakfast sandwiches instead of violence. But I saw the picture on his desk and knew what my answer was going to be.

“You can’t really have enough guns,” I blurted out quickly. “I mean, you never know who will attack you or how many might attack at one time.”

His eyes bore into me again to see if I was telling the truth. Somehow, I passed. “Yeah, especially South Lankvillians– you can’t trust them.”

He then rattled on about guns for a few minutes. I zoned him out for awhile and took a look out the office window into the pizza place. To be honest, the industrial complex that laid before me was a little intimidating. The pizza oven was huge and roared with life. The puzzling topping stations– one for pizza and a whole other one for subs. The dough-making area– there was already a person there slapping and whirling it in the air like a skilled circus performer. The row of telephones which at this early hour was already ringing. I was going to have to learn all of this!!

Scott could tell I had lost focus on his rant. He placed his hand on my shoulder and squeezed slightly hard. “Just remember, I’m the boss around here and I have guns.”

We walked out of the office and over to the ovens. “So Bri, I haven’t even asked you yet, have you ever worked in a pizza place before? Handled one of these ovens? One of these bad boys?”

I tried to explain about being a notable food critic for the Lankville paper and my long history of enjoying delivery pizza. He stopped me after awhile.

“Have you ever worked a real job before?”

I told him about various part part-time jobs I had had. “Pete’s Slacks Emporium” (probably the longest running job) and “The Jingle Jangle” (which sold the little bells you could put on your Santa hat at Xmas time).

He shook his head slightly. “Thought you haven’t, can always smell you guys out. I once had a guy in here much like you not making anything of his life and thought he could handle the pizza trade. We made the mistake of putting him on the ovens the first day. I need to show you a picture of what happened to his hand. I’m sorry but you need to realize the seriousness of this job.”

He took out a picture and was truly horrified.

The picture Scott showed me.

“Poor bastard didn’t stand a chance. The real shame of it all was the burn looked so much like cheese it was accidentally sent with a pizza.”

I told Scott I was feeling a bit whoozy and needed a small break. He shook his head slightly yet again and nodded over to the phones. “The phones for some reason have started ringing early. Probably school has been delayed and these damn fat high schoolers want a pizza before going. Sorry Bri, no time to really train you. Just going to have to throw you in there.”

It was then I realized that the phones I noticed from Scott’s office were only the first row of telephones. There were three other rows where a number of people were already dashing about answering and taking orders.

I slowly made my way over to start—-

Next article- Pizza Blues By The Slice Pt.2 “My Work day Begins”

By Brian Schropp

BRIAN SCHROPP ON CUISINE

So my Dad and I sat down the other day and had one of our famous “heart to heart” talks. Holding down a job and contributing to the family income is indeed not a strong suit of mine. Exacerbated by the legal strain I have put on the family recently, I was told “something must break.” My Dad in his “infinite wisdom” came up with what he called a “Family Service Plan” in which I would go see the neglected Schropp relatives that the others didn’t have time for in their “busy schedules.” I agreed.

The first on my dad’s list was Great Pap Pap Schropp at the nearby retirement facility. I stressed to my Dad there was a reason Great Pap Pap was neglected– the fact of the matter is that he isn’t a nice man. PLUS, out of all the great-great grandchildren, he liked me the least. My Dad held firm, I was to spend the afternoon with him and have lunch. The lunch part got my attention, I had begged and pleaded with my folks on many past visits to try their cafeteria with no success. Now was my chance!!

Dad dropped me off at the retirement facility’s front entrance a short time later. As I started to hop out of the minivan, my head was swimming with what food delights I might find inside. My Dad stopped me short by grabbing my arm. “I’m trusting you not to mess this up.” I looked him right in the eye. “No mess ups this time Dad, I promise.”

I walked in and told the receptionist who I was there to see, she rolled her eyes at the mention of Great Pap Pap’s name and gave me his room number. I knew his room instantly when I heard the ruckus and shouting coming from the other side of the door. A female attendant stormed out and quickly passed me grumbling about not getting paid enough. I took a deep breath, braced myself and then entered the room.

My Great Pap Pap frowned at the sight of me. “What the hell are you doing here?” I told him about the “Family Service Plan”.

Great Pap Pap Schropp

He shook his head. “Well, you look goofy as ever.”

I had no comeback for this.

There were a few moments of awkward silence, “Well, have you even kissed a girl yet?”

I tried to tell him of my brief love affair a number of years ago when I was twenty-four but he just shook his head again.

Another few moments of silence.

“Are you still writing words for the paper?”

I tried to tell him how rewarding it was writing for the Lankville paper but he soon cut me off.

“Guess that’s something. When I was your age I already had a family which was almost grown, served in two wars and owned my own roller skate repair shop. Not sure what’s wrong with you but you’re sure a disappointment to the family name—”

I sort of tuned him out and let him babble on for awhile. When I thought the time was right I asked, “Hey can we check out the cafeteria and get some lunch?” I then immediately asked him what type of food the cafeteria normally had and what he could recommend.

“Most of the food tastes like cardboard and is bland. Not sure what you are expecting.”

My heart sank a little but I kept myself optimistic. Maybe he was just being overly cynical.

My Great Pap Pap and I set forth to the other side of the facility where the cafeteria was located. Along the way he would introduce me to fellow residents as his “disappointment” (with a chuckle). After walking for what seemed like an eternity and getting no closer to the cafeteria, Great Pap Pap finally admitted he was lost in the great maze of hallways. I really wasn’t paying attention to where we were going– I was thinking about what food delights I might be having and admiring all the nice floral paintings on the walls.

He slumped in a nearby chair and said he wasn’t moving. “You can go on and find the damn place if you like. I’m just going to sit here and think about how much you went wrong until someone finds me and takes me back to my room. No need to come to my room again. I will tell your Dad you spent the whole afternoon with me. Nothing personal I’m just getting tired of looking at your dopey face.”

Nothing personal taken!!  With a wave goodbye I was off!

The hunger pains were getting deep, it was almost one, I never had lunch so late.

I tried to retrace my steps but found myself deeper into the complex– one hallway looking like another. The residents I encountered offered little help, usually being lost themselves or mistaking me for a relative. The hunger pains were getting deep, it was almost one, I never had lunch so late. But soon the faint smell of ham and green beans came to me and I knew I was on the right track. I came to big double doors at the end of the hall. Feeling very faint I rushed through them.

On the other side was a kitchen in the state of lunch time kitchen craziness, Large women in hairnets moved swiftly around carrying oversized pots of steaming food and pouring them into large containers. The noise, the steam of the food, the clank of the pots, the yelling, reminded me of a factory just as much as a cafeteria. I realized I had found the kitchen entrance not the main entrance and turned to leave but was grabbed by the collar by the largest of the women. “About time you got here, Not good being late for your first day. You might not get paid, you know.”

I tried telling this woman it was a mistake but she was too busy to notice. She forcibly slapped a hair net on me and an apron as well. I soon found myself mashing potatoes with another woman named Selma. This woman knew what she was doing– I never seen such force and quickness put into mashing potatoes before. I clearly wasn’t able to hold my own and after a few short minutes the large woman from before grabbed me by the collar again.

The kitchen at the Deep Northern Suburban Retirement Facility Cafeteria.

“What’s wrong with you?!! Haven’t you worked in food service before or even mashed a potato?!!”

Before I could even try to explain that she had the wrong person there was a honking by the delivery door.

“Finally the chicken salad is here!! Go help bring that delivery in– at least you can’t mess that up!!”

I went to the delivery door and tried to pull up the chain but failed. The van kept honking. Selma walked by shaking her head and said I had to unbolt the door first. After finding said bolt I hoisted up the chain while the honking reached a fever pitch. I opened the van delivery doors and started to pull out the plastic tubs of chicken salad. A voice which sounded familiar growled, “about time, I don’t have all day waiting around”. After pulling out two tubs I saw who was sitting in the front of the van and who now could see me in his rear view mirror. The chicken salad was supplied by Foodville.

I could see Hank Cameron’s face twist in furious anger from the mirror. “WHY YOU–”

I turned around and bolted as fast as I could bumping off of a few of the cafeteria ladies in the process. I heard him running up the steps and through the receiving door in hot pursuit. In a blind panic I ran towards the nearest door knocking over pots of food, dishes and a few other ladies along the way. I found myself in the main cafeteria area as the alarms and panic sirens went off. Everything erupted into a mass of chaos much like what happened at the Xmas party at the lodge expect this looked like slow motion because everyone was so old. I passed my Great Pap Pap sitting at a table gnawing on some fried chicken ignoring what was going on around him.

“Hey I thought you were going back to your room!!”

Hank Cameron (unflattering close-up file photo)

“Just a ruse Bri, to get you away from me. I thought I got you lost enough in this damn place that you’d never find the cafeteria. And you better step out of the way. Some fool is leaping right towards you.”

I felt Hank Cameron brush my shoulder as I dodged out of the way and he landed right smack on the table in front of Great Pap Pap knocking his chicken away. There was a few second stare down but then my Great Pap Pap punched Hank Cameron square in the nose knocking him out!! Who knew he still had that in him!!

Security soon came and got a handle on the situation. As I waited in the”control room” for my dad to pick me up (my hands were shaking} they were kind enough to bring me a plate of food!! I clearly avoided the chicken salad since it was from Foodville but the other offerings, especially the “denture approved” honey bake ham was a delight. I could also tell the mashed potatoes were Selma’s, so smooth!! I said to the lead security officer (Marv I think it was) that I couldn’t wait to come back and properly try the food here. He said odds are that I probably won’t be welcomed back but we will see!!
Until next time keep your mind and mouth open new ideas. Happy eating!!-Bri

By Brian Schropp

So a few days ago I was helping my friend Trucker Joe clean his big rig. “A clean truck always gets you to the promise land”, he kept telling me. I have no clue what that means but Joe is a pretty philosophical sort so a lot goes over my head. Anyway, while vacuuming his “sleeping quarters” I found, shall we say, a few “adult materials” which probably help keep his nights warm. Now me being a very “sweet” and “gentle” man, I usually would not look through such things but a few of the titles intrigued me. In the back of one I found an advertisement for “Sylvia’s Waffle House of Shame”, part S&M club (whatever that means) and part waffle house.

“The French Toast is pretty good there!!” said Joe as he snuck up behind me carrying an industrial hand vacuum. “Good both ways if you know what I mean.”
I did not. I asked him If I could just go for breakfast and nothing else.
“Not sure Bri, you should go and see. If not, it won’t do you no harm, might loosen you up a bit, maybe make you calm down about a few things.”
Now, I am a very open-minded man but cheap waffle sex is not my thing. I’m more a “warm hand-holding in the library” type of guy. Nonetheless, the place did peak my interest enough to check it out.

Now, I am a very open-minded man but cheap waffle sex is not my thing. I’m more a “warm hand-holding in the library” type of guy.

The waffle house was located in the red light district of downtown Lankville City. Per usual, my downtown adventures required nimbly passing between hustlers and dealers on every corner plus the homeless always looking for change or wanting my shoelaces. I soon came to my destination. The building looked like a waffle house but it was lit up like the surrounding buildings with garish neon signs. Their sign in particular offered the promise of eggs, waffles, and various adult delights. Inside, I found a rather large woman dressed all in leather standing at a hostess desk. This woman turned out to be Sylvia herself.

Sylvia’s Waffle House of Shame (building before the Laundry).

She greeted me warmly enough and in a thick Eastern Island accent asked me what I wanted. I replied that I understood what this establishment was about and I just wanted to sample the food.

“Oh no,” she shook her head. “You can’t taste the pleasures of our fine breakfast food without feeling some pain.”

I assured her that I was an up-and-coming food critic with a good taste palette and a particular fondness for breakfast food. “I write for The Lankville Daily News, after all,” I added.

She looked at me for a moment then asked if I was that “breakfast sandwich boy”. A certain sinister smile came across her face when I told her I was. My “stranger danger” instincts kicked in and I knew I was getting in over my head. I turned around to leave but another large woman in leather had bolted the door.

“You are going nowhere. I’m going to teach you how to really enjoy a breakfast sandwich. Take him to Room 206. I will be there shortly.”

I was escorted quite forcibly down a dark hallway. As we passed other doors I heard screaming for various breakfast foods followed by the crack of whips. Some sounded like they were having a good time, others quite the opposite. We made it to Room 206 and I was told to wait inside.

The room had a small booth to one side and the wall on the other side was covered by various whips, paddles and assorted devices. I sat down at the booth and awaited my fate– I was hoping there was still a way to reason with Sylvia. She soon came in and sat across from me.

“So, you think you know breakfast sandwiches?”

I told her in fact I was an expert and if she would only let me sample the food–but she shushed me quickly.

“You know nothing. You never had pleasure with pain.” She smiled that sinister smile again “Tell me, have you ever had a breakfast sandwich drenched in maple syrup?”

My mind started to swirl. “I–I–have heard of such things. But never had because–because–”

“You are frightened of them. But they are glorious, the most supple things ever to grace those lips but you will need the pain to go with it—”

I needed a moment to collect myself and think. “I–I need to use the restroom.”

Sylvia rolled her eyes and suddenly lost her Eastern Island accent. “Out the door, up the hall and to the left.” As I went to leave she grabbed my wrist and the accent was back. “But don’t take too long or else there will be severe punishment!”

Once inside the restroom I was able to splash water on my face and come to terms with what was going on. It was all too much, I am a man who prides himself on new experiences but this was out of my league. I needed an escape plan and fast. I noticed a window above the toilet, a little small but my frame might just squeeze through. I stood on the toilet and found the window was bolted, my heart sank. I felt my hopes dashed until I remembered the small pocket knife in my sock that Trucker Joe had given me. Good ol’ Joe, saving me even when he’s not around!! I knew that time was of the essence, Sylvia would not wait long.

Maple syrup comes from trees.

I had two of the four bolts out before the pounding started on the restroom door. Soon it was the jiggling of keys. I became too nervous, the pressure was too much. The army knife fell from my hands when I heard the door open and I blacked out. I woke up in darkness. It took me a second to realize I was blindfolded. I was strapped to something with my arms and legs stretched. And there was something in my mouth, it tasted good. Maple syrup with bacon, egg, on a tender biscuit—

SMACK!!
First there was only pain, my backside was on fire!! Tears flowed from my eyes. Then there was the sweetness of the syrup coming through–
SMACK!!
The pain was greater but so was the sweetness, the way it brought out all the flavors in the egg and bacon. I never tasted anything like this before!!
SMACK-SMACK-SMACK!!!!
The eyes rolled in the back of my head, I felt myself lift out of my body and onto another plane of existence (was this really happening?!!!). I heard music coming from somewhere, faint at first then growing until it filled my ears. It was like the greatest symphony ever composed and possibly a choir singing (sounded like bumpkins?). Then from the darkness a light. Faint at first like the music and then growing until it swallowed me whole. I blacked out again.

I awoke laying on a pile of trash bags a few blocks from my house. Not sure how I got there or how the folks at the waffle house knew where I lived. A few super squirrels were eyeing me in the distance. It was a good thing I awoke when I did. For a moment I wondered if maybe it was all a dream but then the pain in my backside told me it was all too real.

Reflecting back in my “bedroom apartment” (with a pillow on my seat) there is a part of me that feels humiliated, taken advantage of, a part of my innocence gone forever. But then there’s a small part of me, a part which experienced the sweetest taste I ever had. It opened my mind a little to something more and for that Sylvia I thank you!! Maybe I can work up the nerve one day and go back to try the “ham and egg special” I saw listed on the wall. Well until next time, keep your mind and mouth open to new ideas!!

Happy Eating,
BRI

By Brian Schropp

I’ll start out with a good tip I learned the hard way (and hopefully save you some headaches). If you’re cooking chicken make sure you cook it ALL the way through. You can’t just make up a temperature and cooking time and then expect it to be done. Even though the outside may look cooked you need to check the inside. After all, “raw is raw!!!” (thank you for that rhyming tidbit Mom). I know this from experience–in my attempts to make a “Breakfast Sandwich Pot Pie” for dinner, I sent my family to a long night at the Emergency Room (for some reason I am fine). After everyone got the all clear and the anger and the cussing died down all was forgiven. But I would like to apologize again in print to my wonderful family who bare the brunt of my “wacky” and “cutting edge” culinary ideas.

Cuisine

And a quick bonus follow-up tip- if you’re cooking with frozen and room temperature foods make sure you make the frozen food the same temperature. “You can’t just pile everything in together and expect it to cook” (thanks again Mom, my cooking guru).

In other news, turns out Mort Freidberg of “Mort’s Pump and Food Depot” has changed the recipe for his nacho cheese and not for the better. “Well Bri, I didn’t change too much,” Mort said to me as he mopped up someone’s vomit in the discount sandwich aisle. “I just brought the machine out, cleaned it up a bit and put in new cheese.”

I get it. The publicity I brought to the delicious nacho cheese was too much. Maybe Mort and his wife couldn’t keep up with the demand? A lesson learned in the food writing trade, you gotta keep the real gems to yourself. Next time I might offer Mort some money for the original recipe. Then, I could see one of my childhood dreams of owning a restaurant that serves only nacho cheese come true!!!

And finally, my attempts to inquire about the bumpkins are going nowhere. Both Lloyd Byas-Kirk and Detective Gee-Temple have gone very hush hush on the subject. Is their new information? When is the memorial going to happen? Maybe a little update before my column will help?

As always readers, remember to keep your mind and mouth open to new ideas.

Happy eating!
BRI

By Brian Schropp

CUISINE BY BRIAN SCHROPP

Please do not take this article the wrong way. I believe myself to be a reasonable person (my female relatives refer to me as a “sweet” man). It is rare that I speak ill of anyone. But the editors and readers of this paper must come to understand what type of man Hank Cameron is. Far too often, people put on a front to their neighbors, their community, and society at large which turns out to be false and in fact causes greater harm–take any of the Lankville dictators of the 19th century for example. I know the risk I am taking so everything written in this article has been thoroughly checked by myself or by members of the BSU (Breakfast Sandwich Underground).

Hank Cameron (unflattering close-up file photo)

I went to speak with a few former employees of Foodville who served under the hegemony of Hank Cameron.

Shane Laksby is now a “Pizza Chef” at the “Pondside Pizza A Go Go” but was formerly a stockboy at Foodville. I caught him on a smoke break behind the pizza joint.

“Oh yeah I worked for him,” Shane said, taking a big puff of his nasty smelling hand-rolled cigarette. “SOB fired me about a year ago, he gave me a whole list of bogus reasons. I was never THAT late going into work and coming back from my break, what’s a few minutes here and there? And the pepperoni cooler is cold, dude, I mean really cold so I had to take a lot of small breaks to warm up. It makes no difference now, I found this sweet job in the pizza trade making fifty more cents an hour.”

Shane’s new manager suddenly came to the door and screamed at him to get inside so he couldn’t offer any other details.

The next former employee I went to see was Shelia Denton who use to be a Lead Grocery Bagger under Hank Cameron’s yoke. She is still unemployed so I went to see her at the Triple Caved-In Hills Apartment Complex. Yes, I know its a rough area filled with all sorts of unsavory characters. I did my best to “look the part” of living at a complex, even purchasing a cap to wear sideways. Shelia answered on the third buzzer with her newest child bouncing in her arms. “He was such a douche,” she told me over the loud voices of other kids and some roving guy in the apartment. “He said I was never quite quick enough bagging the groceries and kept holding up the line. The thing is I would get my nails done before work so I was trying to be careful. That [expletive] didn’t care, he fired me even though he knew I was about to have Little Tony here.”

Sheila Denton: Destroyed by Hank Cameron

“So Ms. Denton can you tell me about any other incidents? Maybe you saw him take money out of the register and pocket it? Did he ever ask you for any sexual favors?” I held my pen over my notebook hopefully.

“He might of eyed me up if I was wearing a tight outfit. Are you a cop? No, wait, you’re that breakfast sandwich boy aren’t you? The one who used to call the store all the time!!!”

Before I could respond the boyfriend (who was probably called Big Tony) came to the door. “Did I hear someone say cop? Who are you? What do you want? Wait, you’re that breakfast sandwich freak! Didn’t I beat you up a lot in high school?”

Big Tony made a grab for me but I was already moving down the hallway towards the steps. He chased me a little but luckily in the twenty plus years since high school Big Tony got big. And though I’m not the most athletic person in the world, I can be quite “nimble” as my female relatives note. I made it out of there pretty handily.

Next up, I went to see Koala Bears and Walnuts Club Accounts Manager Mitch Bowman. I had been given financial documents by a certain member of the BSU which related to the monthly statements of the club, a youth organization Hank Cameron is in charge of. Looking through these documents I found that during the month of October, 2012 the club was short $11.61. Mr. Bowman met with me in his windowless office.

“Where did you get these papers?”

“It doesn’t make any difference Mr. Bowman. Tell me about October of 2012. There was a $11.61 shortage.” I eyed him up knowingly.

Mitch Bowman: Clearly Hiding Something

“Yes, things like this happen sometimes.”
“But to have a shortage means Hank Cameron kept that money.”
“It could mean a lot of things Bri.”
“But that’s the most likely scenario.”
“It’s only $11.61.”
“That could have bought a pizza for a pizza party for the youngsters. Or even a new Walnut Badge for a hard working member?”
“Yeah sure but–”
I cut him off. That was all I needed to hear.

Finally, I went to a “neighborhood friend” of Hank Cameron who didn’t want to be named. Their families were close at one time but the events of the following story put a strain on their friendship.

“Our families would exchange gifts all the time, holidays, birthdays, mainly for the kids you know? My wife and I would really go out of our way to find good gifts, sometimes they were expensive but that was ok it was good quality. Hank had always been appreciative of this and said he did the same for our kids.”

He paused for a moment to wipe a tear forming in his eye.

Hank Cameron entering a men’s bathroom. Why? (Photo by Brian Schropp)

“Turns out my wife saw him down at the “Dee Less Book and Music Bargain Bin” buying gifts– that, that place for lower-class people. She said Hank was yelling at the clerk to find the most pristine copy of things. He even took a bunch of their free wrapping paper. His whole “going out of his way to find a perfect gift” was a sham. Is that what he really thinks of my kids? Getting them a $1.98 book “The Butterflies of Eastern Lankville” then saying he paid $9.95 for it!! I’m done talking about this–”

Hank’s neighbor ran inside his home sobbing. I walked away shaking my head, another good man brought down by Hank Cameron.

I know I have severely run over my word count for this article but all of this needed to come out to the public. I ask you, is Hank Cameron Manager of Foodville a good man? A man who fires teens and pregnant women? A man who steals from the “Koala Bear and Walnuts” club? A man who buys the cheapest gifts for his neighbor’s kids? Is this the type of man we want to give praise to? I leave you to answer that.

On a quick side note, has anyone heard about the bumpkins lately? Seems like the story has faded away. Email me at breakfastsandwichboy@lankvillenews.net if you have.

Until next time keep your mind and mouth open to new ideas.

BRI

By Brian Schropp

HARD WORK AND HOLIDAY SAUCE

Cuisine

Yes, it’s that time of year again when the holiday eats are in full bloom. And nothing says holiday eats like holiday sauces– a staple of festive meals. Many Lankvillians will instantly think of cranberry, mint and hollandaise but my sauce of choice is nacho cheese. Sure, it’s an odd choice, you might say, but I find that the subtle nuances in a good nacho cheese can put a whole new spin on a good turkey or honey baked ham (sorry Mom, I did not ruin Thanksgiving– you just need to give these culinary ideas a chance).

 My favorite nacho cheese comes from a gas station…

My favorite nacho cheese comes from a gas station– Mort’s Pumps and Food Depot off Interstate 42. Now, I will be the first to admit that you take a gamble getting any food there. “I don’t mean to make people sick,” owner Mort Freidberg once told me, his azure eyes filling with tears. “My staff and I honestly forget to check expiration dates.” Nevertheless, I find there is something about Mort’s nacho cheese– the flavor, the texture, the way it melts into the oft-stale chips and the frequently cold chili that is simply delicious and overly-satisfying. I actually took a cup home and added it as a glaze to the Thanksgiving turkey my Mom was preparing. And although I was a party of one on the results and even though Dad says I’m on my “second strike” relating to ruining holiday functions, I’m still going to try and make it a yearly tradition.

I decided to head down to Mort’s and speak with him about his exuberant nacho cheese sauce. I was hoping he would open up and share his recipe, perhaps reveal the creator of this stunning snack nectar. Was it the delicate touch of his wife LeAnna? Was Mort himself the gastronome? What sort of cheeses are used (I taste MANY, EVERY time). So off I went with my compass and atlas of Lankville in hand (I could not get a lift from any family members, post-Thanksgiving anger still appears to be lingering) to Interstate 42. I owe another big shout-out to my dear friend Trucker Joe who found me lost, confused and screaming near the Lankville Badlands of Route 71 and got me to my desired destination.

The station was bustling with activity upon my arrival. Gas pumps were flowing and customer stomachs were wobbly and turbulent. After talking down a patron who wanted to call the health department over a ham and cheese sandwich, Mort was able to give me a few minutes of his time.

Mort examines the interior of the nacho cheese dispenser.

“What can I do for you, Bri?”

“I’m here to talk about your nacho cheese, Mort. It’s some of the best I’ve ever had and believe me sir, I have been trying nacho cheese all over Lankville since I was a little kid. I’m hoping you will show me how this marvelous sauce is made.”

“Wait, I sell nachos here?” Mort responded.

“Yeah, I get them all the time when my Dad stops for gas.”

“At my place? You’re not talking about Ben’s Double Food Arena up the road? The place with the high seats?” Mort put his hand above his head for illustrative purposes.

I was confused. “No, it’s right over here,” I said. I walked him to a back corner of his store near the canned meat and pastry goods island.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Guess I do.” Mort walked over and slapped the side of the machine. “So, it works you say?”

I rolled my eyes– I could tell he was playing some sort of game.

He took a nearby bag of chips then (shaking his head at the expiration date) and placed it under the nozzle. There was a loud cranking sound and then that beautiful nacho cheese was luxuriously ejaculated.

“I’ll be damned,” he muttered under his breath. “Tell you the truth, Bri, I bought this thing at a flea market a few years back. I put it in this darkened corner with the intent of eventually looking it over. Then I just plain forgot about the sucker.” He fingered the nacho cheese atop his chips gingerly.

It was then that I knew his game. “It’s okay, Mort, I understand. You don’t want anyone to know your secret. Why would you? Some things are just too good to share.”

“No, I’m dead serious,” he responded. “I don’t think this thing has been touched since you started lurking around back here. I can’t believe there’s still cheese in it.” He gave me a fatherly look. “You probably oughta’ go to the hospital, Bri. How much of this have you had?”

“Sure, sure,” I chuckled and walked away. I knew he wasn’t going to let me into his inner cooking circle.

Walking back home I reflected on Mort Friedberg and his nacho cheese sauce and how lucky we are to have him in Lankville. Think about it– this man takes the time and loving care to make such a beautiful sauce only to shove it into a distant corner of a store for people like me to find. The searchers, the real foodies, the ones who will go the extra mile (or aisle) to find culinary masterpieces. Now that I let “the cat out of the bag” I’m sure many readers will be heading over to try this pleasure (just avoid Interstate 71 at all costs) but I am also sure Mr. Friedberg will step up his game. Until next time keep your mind and mouth open to new ideas.

HAPPY EATING,
BRI