Food: A Love Story (25 page)

It wasn’t that long ago Hot Pockets were probably just a twinkle in some drunk guy’s eye. Or maybe some guy in a marketing meeting asked, “How about a Pop-Tart filled with nasty meat? No, really. This is different from my fish-stick-in-a-Twinkie idea. This would come in a sleeve.” Hot Pockets come with a crisping-sleeve thingy. I don’t recommend microwaving your Hot Pocket without the sleeve. I did that once and blew up my house. It takes three minutes to cook a Hot Pocket in a microwave. Coincidentally, that is how long it stays in your system. I believe if it took any longer to cook, people would have time to change their minds and eat something else. “Well, it’s done; might as well eat it.” It actually takes five minutes, because you’re supposed to let the Hot Pocket cool for two minutes before eating it, which can be hard, because if you’re like me, you want to feel sick right away.

Even if you haven’t eaten a Hot Pocket, you are probably familiar with that jingle: “Hot Pocket!” It’s not a very complicated jingle. It’s as if someone had just been asked to sing the
words “Hot Pocket.” I’m not a music expert, but it seems like it’s just three consecutive descending notes. Like something a four-year-old would play on a recorder. I can’t imagine the “songwriter” worked very hard on that jingle.

HOT POCKETS EXECUTIVE:
Bill, what do you have so far on the Hot Pocket jingle?

BILL:
Was that due today?

HOT POCKETS EXECUTIVE:
Yes. Do you have something?

BILL:
(
beat
) Uh, yes.

HOT POCKETS EXECUTIVE:
Well?

BILL:
(
beat
) Uh, uh, (
sings
)
Hot Pocket!
?

HOT POCKETS EXECUTIVE:
That’s good. Not as good as your “By Mennen!” jingle, but it’s good. Now, what are we going to run in Mexico?”

BILL:
Uh, (
sings
)
Caliente Pockets
?

HOT POCKETS EXECUTIVE:
You’ve got a gift, my friend. Don’t hide that under a bushel.

There really is a Hot Pocket for everyone.

Vegetarian Hot Pocket:
There are vegetarian Hot Pockets for those who don’t want to eat meat but would still like uncontrollable, explosive diarrhea. I always wondered if Hot Pockets were not just some elaborate scheme by the toilet paper manufacturers.

Lean Pocket:
A Lean Pocket is the healthy version of the flagship Hot Pocket. I don’t even want to know what’s in the Lean Pocket. I imagine the directions: “Take out of box, place directly in toilet. Flush pocket.” Possible slogan: “Half the calories, all the diarrhea.”

Breakfast Pocket:
My favorite is the breakfast Hot Pocket because I can’t think of a better way to start the day. “Good morning, you are about to call in sick.” The creative team at Hot Pockets has made it possible for you to have a Hot Pocket for breakfast, a Hot Pocket for lunch, and be dead by dinner.

Whole Wheat Hot Pocket:
Now there are whole wheat Hot Pockets. As if that is what was holding some of us back: “I’m waiting for the healthy diarrhea.”

Deli-Style Hot Pocket:
There is a deli-style Hot Pocket that is made with real deli meat. This version only made me question what type of meat they were using before the deli-style Hot Pocket. Isn’t regular meat the same as deli meat? “No, before it was iguana meat.”

Hot Pocket Sliders:
There are Hot Pocket sliders. This seems a little redundant. I expected White Castle to issue a press release that simply read, “Really?”

Hot Pocket Sub:
I have no idea what this is, but I assume the Hot Pocket sub combines the disgusting meat of regular Hot Pockets with stale bread.

Croissant Hot Pocket:
As if the French need another reason to hate us.

Chicken Pot Pie Hot Pocket:
A couple of years ago when I saw a commercial for the Chicken Pot Pie Hot Pocket, I just assumed they were messing with us. I naively believed that they had run out of new product ideas. A Chicken Pot Pie Hot Pocket? I figured it was just a matter of time before I’d hear someone ask, “Have you tried the Hot Pocket Hot Pocket? It’s a Hot Pocket filled with a Hot Pocket. It tastes just like a Hot Pocket. I’m going to go stick my head in a microwave.”

Hot Stuffs

I perform regularly in Canada. A couple of years ago someone showed me the Canadian version of a Hot Pocket. It was called Hot Stuffs. It still confuses me how the Canadians somehow came up with a worse name than we did. Hot Stuffs? Aren’t the Americans supposed to be the dumb ones in North America?

In the average box of Hot Pockets there are usually two Hot Pockets. One for you to eat and regret, and one to have in the freezer until you move. Or you can use the Hot Pocket as a measuring stick on how drunk you’ve gotten that night. (
Man opens freezer, looks at a Hot Pocket.
) “Yeah, I’m not eating that. I’m all right to drive. Let’s head to Waffle House.”

HE’S HERE!

Getting food delivered to my home combines two of my favorite activities, eating and not moving. There is something pretty pathetic about my ordering delivery. I usually have food in the next room that I could put in a microwave, but the task seems too daunting. I’m also normally ordering from places that are only a short walk away from my New York City apartment. “Yeah, I like your food. Just not enough to go down there and get it.” The worst part of delivery for me is getting up and answering the door. “Well, this is a pain in the ass. Who am I, the butler? Well, at least I don’t have to put on pants.” Apparently I am not the only one being lazy about how I obtain my food. It used to be that pizza and Chinese restaurants were the only places that offered delivery. Now you can get just about anything delivered to your home. This is a pretty clear indication that as a society we are getting lazier. It’s only a matter of time before we are on the phone: “Yeah, I’d like to get a delivery, and I’m going to need someone to feed me. No, no, I’ll be in the tub. Yeah, the key is under the mat. Chip chop chip.”

Given the amount of delivery I get, you’d think I’d be better at ordering. I’ve spent embarrassing amounts of time strategizing about what I want to eat, only to call up and find out they’ve stopped delivering at that hour. Generally I’m bad at ordering food over the phone. I think I’m ready, but I never am. It doesn’t help that the guy on the other end of the phone is always impatient.

RESTAURANT:
Delivery, what do you want?

ME:
Uh, uh, uh, you got food there?

RESTAURANT:
Yes, what would you like?

ME:
Um, uh, let me call you back. I have to write it down. I wasn’t ready for these trick questions.

I understand that many people order food online with their computer, which I think is unnatural and un-American. Do you think George Washington ordered his Thai food on a laptop? Of course not. He called on the phone and dealt with the person who didn’t speak English because he was a patriot.

The most exciting part of the ordering process is when the delivery guy rings your buzzer or knocks on your door. It’s like Santa has arrived at your house. “He’s here! He’s here! The delivery guy is here.” Yet when I open the door, I don’t treat the delivery guy like he’s Santa. I behave like I’m in the middle of a hostage exchange. “Whoa, whoa. You wait there at the door. Here’s the deal. I’ll give you the money. You hand over the food. Then I want you to back away slowly. I don’t need you casing the joint.”

Then there’s the awkward decision about how much you should tip the delivery guy. Everyone knows that at a restaurant a 20 percent tip is appropriate. Who’s supposed to give us the guidelines for the delivery guy’s tip? I always feel like
saying, “Look, I’ll give you twenty percent if you stay here and wait on me while I eat. Could you do something about the music in here? And bring me a glass of ice water right away.” In reality, the delivery guys should probably get more of a tip, since they are going outside and getting in a car or on a bike and in my case carrying my food up five flights of stairs, which is actually way more than a waiter does. But still you just give him a couple of bucks and loudly lock the door behind him so you can open the paper bag and start eating your delivery before it gets cold.

I don’t know why they include all that extra crap in the delivery bag. Even if I’ve only ordered food for one person, they still always stuff in twenty-five of the flimsiest paper plates imaginable and a bunch of tiny plastic utensils that look like they would break while cutting butter and that I imagine are from the stockroom of a prison. Why are they bringing disposable utensils to a home that presumably has a fully functioning kitchen? It’s not like I’m ordering from a campsite. Judging from the poor quality of these “free” items, I am guessing that they are just trying to get rid of them. “What should we do with these five thousand worthless plates?” “Uh, just stuff them in the fat guy’s bag. Let him throw them away. He’s lazy enough to be ordering food from a block away, so he probably doesn’t care about the environment.”

Also in the bag of the delivered food is usually a menu for the restaurant. What is the purpose of that? Didn’t I just order from the menu? I didn’t just guess what they had at the restaurant. Did they get too many menus printed and they are hiding the mistake from their boss? I also have about five thousand pairs of chopsticks that came with random deliveries cluttering up my drawers. Who the hell is using chopsticks when they eat by themselves? Everyone knows you only eat with chopsticks to show off when you are actually
in
a restaurant. Also, in the
delivery/garbage bag are enough condiment packets to get you through a zombie apocalypse. I never know what to do with all the packets. I feel bad throwing them out, but it’s not like I can give them to a homeless guy. “In case you ever get that food you’re begging for, here’s some ketchup.” Aside from these minor inconveniences, getting delivery remains my favorite nonsleeping activity. I mean, besides eating cheese.

SAY CHEESE

Drinking milk is a rather disgusting thing when you think about it. We are, in simple terms, drinking the breast milk of a cow. Growing up, we all heard, “Drink your milk.” I wonder how we would have responded if our mothers had said, “Don’t forget to drink that liquid that comes from one of the cow’s six nipples.” By that last statement I may have just killed any opportunity for me to do one of those creepy “Got Milk?” campaigns. I still don’t understand why that advertising campaign worked. “Oh, this actor or athlete has a disgusting milk mustache. I guess I’ll buy some milk.”

Some people can’t drink milk or ingest any dairy because they are lactose intolerant. For a short period I thought I was lactose intolerant because one night I drank four milkshakes and my stomach hurt pretty bad. Eventually I remembered I had also eaten four green-chile hamburgers that probably had bad meat in them. If you are lactose intolerant, you shouldn’t be ashamed. It just means your sensitive tummy can’t handle that spicy milk. “Do you have anything milder than milk? But not water. That gives me the runs.”

While I find milk generally unappealing, what we make from the cow’s breast milk is truly amazing: cheese, ice cream, whipped cream, butter. Cow’s breast milk is really rather resourceful. Cheese is probably the most all-purpose dairy product. Everyone loves cheese. Supposedly the average American eats twenty-three pounds of cheese a year. That seems kind of low to me. I guess I’m making up for the non-cheese eaters. I’m not just referring to the rugged, lactose-intolerant folks. I’m including the people who don’t like cheese. I don’t mean little kids or people who don’t like a really stinky blue cheese; I’m talking about people who don’t like ANY cheese. I know. I can’t believe those people exist either. These are usually the same people who don’t like foods of certain colors or shapes. “I don’t like eating food that is yellow, or square hamburgers.” These food-complaining people are the first people I would eat if I were in the Donner Party, even though they probably wouldn’t taste as delicious as the people who ate everything.