Hats off to The Hat: Or, Why I Still Prefer Tofu

I've been a naughty, naughty girl and I'm paying the price.

I've been a vegetarian most of my life. For various reasons (including traveling to Italy for two months where I knew food and dinner invitations were going to be an issue) I decided to start eating some meat protein. I decided I would try chicken - for starters.

I started with Chicken Salad figuring the mayo, celery, onion, would cover the taste and make it easy to add it to my repertoire at least once a week.

I was right. The mayo especially made it easy to eat chicken - too easy. Then I discovered fresh, free range chicken and did other things with it: grilled over onions, baked, chicken soup. After Italy, I came back with a few signature chicken dishes. Then I remembered the barbecue sauces -- and barbecue chicken sandwiches, barbecue wings, baked chicken in barbecue sauce. It became too easy.

Never trust a chicken - it's a slippery slope, like marijuana: the gateway to bigger and badder, stuff. Next thing you know, you're meeting the chicken dealer in dark alleys at 5 in the morning for the cream of the crop before he hits to the deli circuit.

And like Marijuana, I did move on to harder stuff - I started dabbling in protein fixes from shrimp, hamburgers (hormone free - I have my standards), tacos al carbon, a lamb tamal, a piece of prime rib (the very end slice), salmon appetizers, tuna, and a bit of carnitas en chile verde. In my defense, it's never more than a little bit for fear I'll go into cardiac arrest (a vegetarian's paranoia) - just enough for some protein and variety, and okay, the memories that's in it.

But tonight, I can't explain tonight. All I can say is I had a total break in reality - I disassociated or something - right about the time I hit the intersection of Valley Blvd and Garfield. Anyone who has grown up in San Gabriel Valley/Los Angeles knows this corner -- The Hat has been there FOREVER working its magic.

Tonight I found myself at that intersection after a writing workshop (memoir writing, so of course, I have to write about this - as I remember it!) hungry, tired and disillusioned, wondering if I will ever be able to 'go deeper' in my writing, when the aroma of the steaming pastrami and warm buns wafted through my window. Nevermind the green light, I never made it across the intersection.

Next thing I know I'm wafting across the parking lot, effortlessly finding my place in a line of Hat regulars as if I've been doing this every weekend -intoxicated with the aromas of my childhood jaunts with my dad to the local hot-dog and pastrami dives. The Hat was a family staple. My mouth was watering. I was famished.

I'm up next. "A pastrami and onion rings"

Anything to drink?

"A root beer - do you have root beer? I need a root beer."

Holy crap. I just ordered a pastrami and onion rings. I couldn't stop the words from coming out. I was thinking, this is not right - you're gonna be sorry, you haven't had a pastrami in over 30 years.-- Snap out of it! But I couldn't stop. The aroma. The urge. I felt like my dad was right there in line with me, pushing me on saying 'andale mija, lo que quieras.'

Really? Whatever I want?

It was like that with my dad and food. No matter how broke he was, when ever I was with him he let me eat whatever I wanted. I think it was his way of showing me how much he loved me - even if he had no money. I wanted these days to last forever. I didn't want to let go of my dad's hand - ever - on days like this. They were so few.

People liked my dad. I wonder now if he paid for all the food, or did he barter, going back later to fix a car, cut hair, bake a cake or make some donuts in exchange for the food we got. My dad loved to barter, and my dad was a jack-of-all-trades, and a sought after baker -when he was sober. And I loved him. When he was sober.

I went to my car. I ate it. I could have stopped at any point, but I didn't. I ate the whole fucking pastrami, followed it with a few onion rings, washed it down with root beer (it was always root beer) and felt good. I felt like that little girl, happy to be with my dad, hitting some of the best pastrami and hot dog dives -- and with my dad, the sky was the limit. I was content.

For all of 10 minutes.

Jesus Christ! The ride home was one of the fuzziest ever. I felt like I was under water, my stomach telling me "Te dije pendeja que I would pay you back, but you didn't listen to me. No, you have to listen to your nose, that god damned olfactory - you know where that leads you - memories and trouble. Always the memory and troubles. Pendeja."

I'm awake at 2:37 am. I can't breathe. My stomach is messing with me, being a real pain in the ass, my head throbbing and not from sweet memories - I got a god-damned pastrami rush headache. I can't stand this conversation I'm having with this pastrami - I hurt! Did I really think I could wash it all down with a root beer? Did I think I could keep it all down?

The workshop was fun, and one I plan on going to again. Except from now on, I'm taking San Gabriel Blvd - creeping into town from the Eastside, where I'll have vegetable and tofu options should I get the urge to satisfy my needs with food; safer, none of my childhood memories attached to tofu - these are all my own and nothing to write about.

I have to tip my hat to The Hat though, it brought me back to my blog - even though it's not Wednesday.

I just wish I could get some relief - and some sleep.