Zany Flies Solo - Empanadas and a Really Good Friday

Times have been tough without my pal Zany. When I haven’t been feeding my sense of abandonment with an endless diet of Peanut Butter and Fluff sandwiches, I’ve had to endure one bad catered business lunch after another consisting of slimy pasta salad and dry cookies the size of hockey pucks. I’ve been trying to organize a new lunch team, but so far, the candidates have been dubious at best. One of them even told me he couldn’t make a food truck run one day, because “he felt fat.” How do you respond to that?

Through it all, Zany has been an ever-present force on email. Despite the move to Chicago, she’s even more tuned in to New York truck food news than ever before. I heard the news that the Frites ‘n’ Meats Truck had exploded from Zany first. Still, I’ve worried about her. Chicago can be a lonely city for food truck aficionados. Is she keeping up her strength? Is she eating well? Is she consuming the minimum daily requirement of meat and fried foods? I learn more when the following missive - the first official "guest post" ever on Culinary Types - appears in my email box from Zany:

Dear TW -

Forty-four. That’s how many days it was since I graced the line of a New York City food truck. The drought of culinary adventure was leaving me weak and delirious. In fact, when I saw it, I was confused and thought it was a hallucination.

It was Good Friday and I had effectively accomplished little on my work holiday. It was around noon when I mustered the energy to put on my gym gear. I shuffled to the table to grab my iPod when out of the corner of my eye – there it was. Thirty-eight floors down and two blocks over was a parked, blue pastel truck with a growing crowd of people. I paused and my inner Zany hit me – “It’s a food truck, you idiot!” Easter had come early.

I gasped, causing my husband, Luigi – the Italian baker, to come dashing into the dining room exclaiming, “What happened?!” I lowered my hands from my mouth and whispered, “It’s a food truck.” Luigi – after scolding me for my sheer excitement – trudged back into his home office.

I threw down my iPod, opened the computer, and within five minutes identified the vehicle as the 5411 Empanada Truck. I quickly changed, ran into Luigi’s office and furiously started digging through a box. “Now what,” he demanded. “CAMERA – I NEED the camera,” I explained. “It’s empanadas…I’ve just got to go.” Luigi had many more questions – like “I thought you were going to the gym,” “What’s an empanada,” and “Can you get me one” – but I didn’t have time. It was 12:30 p.m. and I had to make it to the truck before lunch was over.

As I hurried out the door I felt a renewed energy. “TW would be so proud,” I thought as my smile spread and I quickened my pace. And then my step got slower. I had no TW. No Mad Me-Shell. Not even a Marie-Antoinette. I was alone.

When I joined the back of the line, I began to feel better.

In true Zany fashion, I craned my neck to examine the line and menu options, and suddenly the rain drops came. My excitement outweighed my prudence and I didn’t bring an umbrella. As I pulled my scarf over my head I mumbled, “Marie-Antoinette would never stand out in the rain.”

The line moved quickly but by the time I made it to the front, two of the six empanada options were sold out. I shared in the collective groan when a woman crossed the “beef” and “sweet corn” flavors off the board. When the kind gentlemen asked, “What would you like?” I was anxious, but with confidence I did what TW would’ve done. I asked for one of everything they had.

With brown bag in hand I ran back to my apartment, but caught the “local” elevator that made eight stops before my floor. As I impatiently tapped my foot, I noticed another smart food connoisseur carrying the same brown bag. I leaned over and in a low voice said, “So you got the empanadas, too?” He smiled and we quickly exchanged pleasantries about food trucks. Another passenger joined the conversation and commented, “I hear food trucks are really big in New York.” The smile disappeared from my face as the elevator reached my floor and I stepped out.

Back in the apartment I laid out the beautifully packaged spread – ham and cheese, spinach and cheese, barbeque chicken and caramelized onion. I called out to Luigi to join me.

Feeling bad about skipping the gym, I broke into the spinach and cheese empanada first. The pastry shell was perfect and there was a distinct hint of parmesan.

We tried the ham and cheese next. Its taste was as unique as its shape. The weight of the cheese and the thickness of ham made this empanada a true comfort food.

While I had been tackling the empanadas by finger, Luigi came to the table with silverware. I decided to cut him some slack, but asked, “So what do you think so far?” He replied, “The ham and cheese is too heavy for me.” With a blank stare I replied, “You’re going to have to do better than that.”

We tore through the barbeque chicken next, which had a tangy, sweet sauce. I took a quick break to text Mad to let her know that she would definitely enjoy that empanada. She quickly wrote back to say she was jealous of my lunch, but it was OK because she was off gallivanting on a boat somewhere in Tennessee.

Luigi and I wrapped up lunch with the caramelized onion empanada. We both didn’t know what to expect, but the sweet flavors of the onion drew us in. We almost had to rock, paper, scissors it out to determine who took the remaining piece of this empanada, but Luigi recognized it was in his best interest to let me have the honors.

In a final attempt to elicit some good discussion, I asked Luigi again about his opinions. He didn’t seem to get it. He simply ranked his opinion of the empanadas – onion, barbeque, spinach and ham and cheese – and resumed his working day. I sighed in disappointment – even Marie-Antoinette could do better.

Then I did what I should’ve done at the outset. I turned to The Boss and he was eagerly waiting to sample everything.

Yours in condiments,

Zany

©2011 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved