A Scorpio and His Seafood

Tony’s meal was vibrant against the gray table shoved in the way back of Reading Terminal’s Rick Nichols Room. Bright steamed broccoli complemented the fleshy salmon and butterflied shrimp. White rice swirled in sweet and sour sauce at the bottom of the bowl. He took a bite of the salmon, the chief reason he orders the dish. “It’s flavorful through the whole piece,” he said, “I would say it’s a day or two marinated.”

Little Thai Kitchen is Tony’s regular spot at Reading Terminal. “It’s a really long line but it’s worth it,” he said. When I walked by the neon sign, a string of people wound around the counter, stretching back to the neighboring Salumeria. It was by far the longest line in the Market, though I couldn’t see what was coming out of the kitchen. “Their giveaway’s these little white containers,” Tony said, tapping the side of his dish.

Tony’s been coming to Reading Terminal regularly for ten or twelve years. “It’s a get-away,” he said, “A quick ride, hop on the sub.” The Market is a place to enjoy time away from work, to have social time. “My homie and I normally come, but he had work.”

 

Tony had the day off from his job at a lighting warehouse in Northeast Philadelphia. They supply lamps, bulbs, and fixtures for big companies. “I’m a picker; I get different orders and send them to shipping,” he said. He likes it because it’s a “tell-yourself job.” He knows what he’s responsible for and he gets it done. “Routine. That’s all it is; routine everyday,” he said, shaking his head, “I like to work so it goes fast.”

Before working in the warehouse, Tony was a casual (a seasonal worker that might be put on full-time if needed) for the Postal Service. “That job,” he shook his head, letting out a high-pitched ‘Ooooo!’ “If you ain’t in shape you get torn.” He’d throw 70-80lb sacks around the sorting warehouse all night. Hard work, but he’s practiced at keeping his mind occupied. “I’m always thinking,” he said, pulling the tail off a piece of shrimp squeezed between his lips. “Seriously – I’m a Scorpio.”

“Straight Tony, no Anthony, no Antonio,” is confident and warm with a relaxed smile. He has the tendency to ask “Me?” pointing his middle finger toward his chest before answering a question. He wore a black Navy coat over a Nike sweatshirt, black watch cap pulled to his ears. I asked how long he’s lived in Philly. “Me? Born and raised.”

He lives on Erie Avenue where he’s spoiled; “You really don’t have to go anywhere for nothing.” He’ll go to Pete and Kim’s - right across from his barbershop - for Korean.  He likes Clock Bar and Black Pearl (on Erie near Broad) for seafood. “Me? I go in there and get three crab cakes, four crab sticks, six butterfly shrimp,” he said. In judging a crab cake, the breading is everything; it’s gotta be thick. And he likes tartar sauce.

At work, he avoids the vending machine and eats a packed lunch - usually soup, a chicken sandwich, or a salad with turkey bacon. The 45 minutes he’s allotted is more than enough. “I go light,” he said, “When I eat heavy and it’s time to go back to work I don’t feel like working!”

He packs his four-year-old’s lunch as well, sending her with veggie packs and apple juice in her Princess Anna lunchbox. “I try to make it my business to get her to eat healthy,” he said. He eats more veggies in hopes that she’ll learn to like them. Like father like daughter, she’s Toni. “Named after me,” he said, smiling, “Or mom… ‘cause, me? I’m named after mom.”

French Passion

The break room was empty except for a paper bag sitting on the edge of the conference table. It was on its side, stapled shut, likely enclosing a Styrofoam take-out container. I peeked at the receipt, Savas Brick Oven Pizza printed in red at the top. An order of coconut French toast for delivery to the 8^th floor of the Penn Medicine building.

While I talked with Celine (see last post), a slight young woman opened the break room door hesitantly. “Oh, honey, you’re fine,” Celine said, motioning for her to come in and sit down. She sat at the head of the table, opposite of Celine, right in front of the paper bag.

After finishing my conversation with Celine, I turned my attention to the woman who had been eating quietly, dark hair hanging over her phone as she scrolled. Five pieces of French toast, each roughly the size of my hand, smooshed together in the Styrofoam box. Shreds of toasted coconut clung to the golden, sugar-dusted slices.

“It’s pretty good,” Bella said, digging into the center of a piece with her plastic fork, not completely thrilled. “When I had this before my boyfriend ordered it with extra bananas and strawberries,” she said, “but I didn’t know that.” She looked down sadly at a bit of green in the corner of the box. “It had one strawberry, but that’s not really enough for me.”

Her eyebrows crinkled with a fresh wave of disappointment; she had also forgotten to order the Philly Sauce. “You know toaster strudel? It’s like that white icing stuff,” she said wistfully. The complementary packets of butter and syrup lay cast aside.

Bella chose French toast for lunch to satisfy a craving (and to make up for skipping breakfast). “This is not typical,” she said, waving her splayed hand over the take-out box.  She usually brings lunch from home – her mom’s Vietnamese cooking. Yesterday she had rice and salmon -“If it’s Vietnamese, it will have rice,” she said. Her mom makes a dish with rice, egg, seasoned tofu and some squash-like green vegetable she couldn’t remember the name of.  It’s one of her favorites, though Bella hasn’t picked up on a lot of her mom’s cooking techniques. “I know she caramelizes sugar a lot to make the sauces…” she said, thinking hard, “She’s a really bad teacher.”

Bella’s fresh out of college; she graduated from East Sraudsburg University last spring with a BA in French and a BS in Biology. “I already miss it,” she said, chin tilting down, “I want to go back.” She took the front desk job at Penn Fertility Care last August to try to get more exposure to her field of interest. “I’ve always wanted to go into the medical field, but it’s so broad,” she said. She checked out a few specialties in college, shadowing a neurologist for 200 hours one summer. The experience didn’t quite meet her expectations. “The office was in an outpatient, suburban setting, so we didn’t really do a lot of exciting stuff.”

She likes working in the clinic, though realizing the insane hours doctors work has made her iffy about pursuing a career in the medical field. She could see herself back at school for a Masters in French, and maybe teaching in France.

“I like a lot of things,” she said, slight stress evident in her voice. “I’m a very curious person, but I haven’t found something I’m passionate about.”

She told me a bit about her experience studying in France and the teaching assistant programs she’s applying for. She loved the small town she lived in (though Paris was disappointing); she might get an opportunity to teach through TAPIF (Teaching Assistant Programs in France) or a Fulbright scholarship; she’d move to France!

A few minutes later, staring into her last two giant, room-temp slices, she came to some kind of conclusion. “I know one thing: I’m passionate about French.” 

MA on Break

Celine is chewing when she walks into the conference-room-turned-break-room on the 8^th floor of the Penn Medicine Building.  “I have to eat where I can fit it in because I am one of the busiest people here.” She sits down in a squishy office chair and spins toward the window, brushing off a crumb near the breast pocket of her maroon scrubs.

“Number one thing for my type of work is you gotta multi task,” she says, thumping her forearms on the table. “A lot of times you’re working with three different doctors. That means three different personalities, three different ways they like to do things, three different glove sizes.” Celine is a Medical Assistant at Penn Fertility Care. She’s the first point of contact with patients; she welcomes, checks weight and blood pressure, eases nerves.

Sometimes the office is so busy the doctors order lunch in to keep the MAs close by, but usually Celine makes it down to a cart on Market Street. “I’ll go down to the Chinese truck for soup,” she said, gesturing out the conference room window. It’s customizable soup, starting at $1.95. She’ll ask for chicken, shrimp, vegetables, extra mushrooms, and extra spice. The Chinese man she compared to Seinfeld’s Soup Nazi remembers her order, keeps her coming back. “I used to be a little sketch about going to the carts, wondering where they wash their hands,” she mentions, “But then I started actually looking, and they do have sinks back there!”

When she’s in the mood for a heavy meal, she’ll go to the halal cart for a platter with rice, lamb, and veggies, smothered with spicy sauce. She likes Subway for the $6 lunch deal: half a sandwich (turkey and cheese, melted with spinach, jalapeños, olives, and oil and vinegar), a drink, and a cookie.

“I’d say Han Dynasty if you want to take a nice lunch and treat yourself,” Celine suggested. “And on a day when you’re broke?” she shook her head, “Old Faithful Wawa.”

Celine rarely packs her lunch, though she cooks often. She makes enough food for the week’s dinners on Sunday and Wednesday. “My boyfriend likes fresh stuff – not processed, not frozen, not canned,” she says with a slight eye-roll, “He wants me to cook cook.” She was pretty happy about the goat and three-bean stew she made the other night and leaned close to tell me the recipe. “The way I make my beans is garlic, thyme, and smoked turkey,” she said. “The Crock-pot is my friend; set it and forget it.”

The fortyish mom of two, self-described as “aggressive, but a softie” is from Northeastern Philadelphia and has been working at Penn Fertility for 13 years. She likes the job despite its challenges. “A doctor yells a you and you just want to cry, and then you have to go out for the next patient,” she said, “We have to speak and smile when we don’t feel like it.”

Lunchtime is precious time to herself; she can turn off the ever-pleasant tone. Plus, she can enjoy her food with out hearing, “Ooo, that looks good,” or “Can I have some, Mom?” from her boyfriend or daughter. Today she’s going to try the new Caribbean Cart on 18^th and Market with the other MAs. She clicks her sparkly lacquered nails on the conference table, ready to get moving.

Soup & Salad: An American Still Life

“Well, yeah, when I’m done eating.”

The first thing I learned about Roy is he has good manners. My request that he answer questions while eating lunch, necessitating talking with food in his mouth, was preposterous. Understood. I did a lap through the photography exhibit at the Philadelphia Museum of Art and circled back to the cafeteria where Roy sat, napkin crumpled on his empty salad plate.

Roy drove down from West Chester, New York on Sunday to catch the Art of the American Still Life exhibit before it closes next week. He happened to come on the day of Pay What You Wish admission – a deal the museum offers every first Sunday of the month (and Wednesdays from 5:00-8:45pm). He makes the hour-and-a-half-long trip - plus a few minutes for a coffee stop - about once a month.

He’s eaten at the museum cafeteria a number of times and usually sticks with soup and a salad. Today he assembled a salad with garbanzo beans, hard-boiled egg, carrots, and a dressing we determined was probably white balsamic. “I don’t know, I just picked one,” he said, peering into the two-ounce dressing cup. He had a cup of soup to go with. “Chicken noodle, and there were actually noodles in there,” he said with a barely perceptible smile, “At least three.”

Roy keeps his lunch simple and consistent. “Since I’m retired I eat at home, just some soup and a breadless sandwich,” he said. He’ll typically have tomato, minestrone or chicken noodle. “It’s all canned soup, I don’t make it,” he said, “It’s either Progressive, Campbell, or Private Label.” (A product sold under the retailer’s brand name rather than the manufacturer. Think Whole Foods’ 365 brand, or Costco’s Kirkland.) The sandwich is a cold cut piled up with your standard sandwich toppings. Roy eats it with a fork. “I just call it breadless, I’m not sure if that’s actually a phrase.”

Before retiring, Roy edited and wrote for Trade Publications – magazines written for an audience working in a particular profession or industry – for 50 years. “I wrote about supermarkets and drugstores from a business point of view,” he said, shrugging his green-fleeced shoulders slightly, “Kind of pedestrian.”

But I was interested, particularly in the pinnacle of natural foods market that I’ve been scrutinizing lately. “Whole Foods earns about three times the net profit on annual sales as a conventional grocery chain,” Roy told me. 3.9% compared to 1.5%. Despite the negative publicity, the numbers are still good. “Because they have higher end products; it’s as simple as that,” Roy said. “They position themselves as providing discounts, but an expensive discounted product is still an expensive product.” He thinks Whole Foods also has a greater interest in training employees and maintaining low turnover, improving the shopper’s experience. “They have store employees who actually know what they’re doing; you can actually ask them questions and expect to get an answer,” he said, hazel eyes earnest.

Roy has worked in different offices all over Manhattan. In those days, he typically went out to lunch. “There was this place… what’s it called?” He leaned his white head of hair into his open palm, pressing his finger against his temple. “It’s Panera,” he recalled, where he used to get the soup and half sandwich ‘deal’. “Actually, it was kind of an exorbitant price, but it was the cheapest thing on the menu.”

Now that he’s retired, he’ll occasionally go out for a slice of pizza at Louie and Ernie’s, arguably the top rated pizza joint in the Bronx. It’s an unpretentious affordable eatery, with rave reviews on the sausage pie, though Roy sticks with plain cheese.

After we left the cafeteria, I ran into Roy in the Dave Heath exhibit, hands clasped behind his back, peering at the black and white photos through his stylish glasses. He’ll wander around for a couple more hours before getting on the road and heading north.