It Will Never Happen Again

Dearest Weddingfarters,

I know that the past few days have been difficult for everyone. On Saturday, I write, with promise of news of delicious food, and then there is nothing-- silence!-- until Wednesday. Believe me, I didn't want it to be this way.

I can explain. First, I've been busy with work. Have I mentioned I'm a lawyer? I'm a lawyer. Second, I've been in Rochester for a few days to make gelfite fish, drink wine, and shop for carpets. Third, my 7:00 flight this morning was delayed for two hours when I was already on the plane. That's not really a reason for not having written before. I share it so you know why I hate everyone at this particular moment.

But on to what you really want to know about. Food on Saturday. All I can say is, sailor jacket had barbeque in Texas on Saturday, and multiple wedding cakes, but we both agreed that we tied in eating that day 1-0. That's how good a day of Rochester eating I had.

First, Mom of weddingfarts and I made gefilte fish. Homemade gefilte fish is better, but it makes your house smell like a crab shack.

Then, we went to the lake for the good steak sandwich. The good steak sandwich from the LDR charpit, which wasn't actually as good as it should have been on Saturday, is a Rochester institution. It doesn't have the flash and the fame of the garbage plate, but it's been around a long time. It's almost so much a part of the place, that you don't talk about it. Someone says, "Let's go to the lake," and then you're sitting in a boot eating a steak sandwich. When I'm at the Charpit, I'm sad for the people who move to Rochester from somewhere else and, through no fault of their own, never get there because they don't know what "let's go to the lake" means.* It's a half inch thick steak, grilled on a griddle that has rarely been cleaned, smothered with onions on a strong enough roll. But that's not the important part. The important part is the meaty hot sauce-- another little-discussed Rochester institution. It adds heat and more meat to steak, ground round sandwiches, and Zwiegle dogs. It was a long time before I realized that it is something you don't find elsewhere.

Traditionally, the steak sandwich meal begins with a starter course of sweet pickles in small paper cups, and it is followed by Abbott's frozen chocolate almond custard-- the kind with the salty almonds. Today, however, we weren't having dinner, and it was kind of cold outside, so, instead of custard, we just lamented the folly of the ferry.

This may have been a key decision, in retrospect, as we returned home to do some work and then watch the basketball games. Midway through the Georgetown game, it became time to contemplate dinner. It being the mom of weddingfart's birthday, we let her decide where to order from (yes, we're pathetic. no, it's ok.). She suggested-- she actually suggested!-- Country Sweet wings. It was exactly the thing that had been on my mind, but it just seemed too fantastical to suggest it. The good steak sandwich and country sweet wings in the same day! Has it ever been attempted before? We ordered up a batch of 30 wings mixed and a bunch of mac, and the dad of weddingfarts and I drove to pick it up on Monroe Ave. in the waning moments of Georgetown's season.

As if this wasn't good enough, we stopped at a convenience store and picked up a six pack of a favorite beer: Ithaca Nut Brown.

The wings were delicious. They defy description. They are sweet and hot and tangy and gloppy and crunchy. They are so many things that I normally wouldn't like, and would abhor in a Buffalo wing, but it all comes together in harmonious fashion in country sweetness. They are Rochester soul food. No, they are the soul of Rochester.**

Now, I know, at this point, someone of you are drooling on the important .gov papers on your desk. And some of you are hungry. And some of you just ate a lot of matzah, and are feeling a little bit queasy. But I know that all of you wish you were there. Especially man boobs. Next year in Rochester, weddingfarters, next year in Rochester.




*I particularly feel for those who move to Rochester to follow a girlfriend after college but leave before a friend could come back to town to show him the way. I'm sorry, sailor jacket, I'm sorry.

**Besides Wegmans, of course.