2B -Thursday, March 14, 2013
The Michigan Daily - michigandaily.com
28 -Thursday, March 14, 2013 The Michigan Daily - michigandailycom
baked.buzzed-bored.
in this new series, three daily arts writers
in varying states of mind visit the same
place and write about their experiences.
this week's destination:
Zingerman's
The good in running away
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I don't think I've been this content in my life. Not happy, not excited -
but content. You know: Like butter running through your veins is how I
feel. I ate both a reuben and a BBQ chicken sandwich.
Well, OK, also this cookie and a black-cherry soda. Oh, man, this cook-
ie. There were these squishy raisins, and it was so soft and the cinnamon
was just like ughhhhhh. It was at this point when I ate the cookie, before
the sandwiches came, my muscles started twitching and, to be complete-
ly honest, they haven't stopped since. My thigh has been spazzing for 20
minutes.
So, anyway, I ate the sandwiches and, oh my God. I tackled the reuben
with a tiger-like force, and this roast beef was swimming in my stomach
- I mean seriously magical. It was like magma flowing in slow motion.
I thought I was full, and then I saw the #85 and I knew S wasn't done. I
destroyed this thing. This chicken - the BBQ was dancing like a fucking
madman all over my mouth - was just so tender and wow.
Plus, this black-cherry cola is literally the equivalent of God water.
Yes. God water. So, basically, if you find yourself in a mind-warping,
neck-snapping, hungry-hungry-hippo pot high, I highly (see the pun?)
recommend Zingerman's. My thigh is still twitching.
- DAILY ARTS WRITER
"Hi, please help me," I desperately exclaimed, bracing my wobbling body
between shelves of bread and vinegar and brightly colored walls. "I called ear-
lier to order, and I don't know where to go or what I'm supposed to be doing
right now."
Because Zingerman's was big- bigger than IShad remembered - its dizzy-
ing number of aisles, rooms and sandwich options flooded my senses like the
Blue Moons I downed an hour or so before.
Fortunately, however, help was immediately on its way: Within seconds, I
was rescued by a perky employee who took my arm, walked me through the
restaurant and told me how to buy my food. I was grateful for the hospitality
and, after dousing her in blearythank yous and apologies ("Please don't judge
me, I swear I'm not usually like this") I stumbled outside and fell into a patio
chair with my sandwich-packed paper bag.
Joy washed over me. It was finally time. I couldn't remember what I
ordered, but those details weren't important: As I pulled away the paper
wrapping, I knew I was holding a specimen of deli perfection. Puffy bread.
Pale, melty cheese. Enough spicy honey mustard to cut through my sinuses
and tequila-tinted breath. A thick, pillowy pile of turkey that spilled out in
meaty folds all over the table.
"I'm going to eat all of this," I announced to anyone who was listening.
The next few minutes were a messy blur of mustard, crumpled napkins and
pure jubilation. I obliterated my meal in as few bites as possible, careful to not
to miss any scraps of Challah or deli meat that might have fallen in the pro-
cess. It didn't matter that IShad paid over $10 for a four-ingredient sandwich
or that I was sitting outside in a frigid, metal chair - it was the best damn
sandwich IShad tasted, and if the restaurant hadn't closed a few minutes into
my outdoor feast, ISprobably would've sloshed back inside to order another.
-CHLOE STACHOWIAK
I walk into Zingerman's on a sunny Wednesday afternoon without a hint
of mind alteration. Decaf coffee, ahealthy butsensibly sized breakfast - I've
even had a good night's sleep. In other words, I could not feel more average.
It's been a few years since I've paid the famed delicatessen a visit, but my
memory of the market/restaurant's layout is more or less accurate. Cheeses
to the left, breads and the like at 4 o'clock and a sneaky passage enshrined in
coffees, oils, vinegars and other exotic delicacies.
Because I'm able to trust my unchanged perception, it's relatively easy to
avoid other customers and place an order with the friendly and ever-helpful
staff manning the sandwich station. I order a chicken, bacon and ranch,
and my friend orders a Detroit-style BBQ chicken sandwich. I immediately
regret my decision, but because I'm not brazen or drunk enough to ask for a
change, IStake my seat and accept my fate.
The sandwich is tasty - a little dry and a little expensive, but I'm defi-
nitely glad I decided to come here. The bacon is peppery and crispy, and
combined with the chickenbreast and creamy ranch dressing, I wolf down a
half before I realize what I've done. But since I'm not under the influence of
any hunger-inducing substances, I decide that the other wedge would make
a tasty snack later, and I get it wrapped to go (however, my friend receives
bakedbeans cooked with bacon, and I happily volunteer to help finish them).
I leave Zingerman's feeling pretty happy overall. True, it did cost about
$30 for a lunch for two, but it's rare to find such a carefully-crafted lunch
with such quality ingredients. And, forgoing the morning joint/Jack Dan-
iels, I'm ultimately happiest that I didn't waste $30 on a meal I'd barely
remember.
-ELLIOT ALPERN
By LOUIS MARINARO
Besttobeginthis storywith an
explanation about the prevailing
attitude andbeliefthatcorporal
punishment was good for the
child and encouraged in our com-
munity. Punishment was meted
out with some glee in the parochi-
al school systemin the earlyl1960s
in Philadelphia. The preferred
weapon of choice? A three-foot
wooden ruler, and for tougher
hides, the half-inch maple pointer.
Both instruments were employed
on a regular basis, especially on
boys who had a propensity for
wildness.
As a young boy growing up in
a practicing Catholic household,
it was assumed that we would all
attend Catholic school. I, like all of
my Italian-American neighbors,
was part of the Stella Maris parish
in south Philadelphia.
I had spent a total ofnine years
in Catholic school, and it was
beginning to wear very thin on my
gluteus and hands, not to mention
my pride. By the eighth grade,
my reputation as a troubled and
troublemaking student was well
known. As the sisters of the Saint
Joseph order so delicately putit, "I
would grow up tobe a wife beater
and a criminal."
The details of my mistake
involve two other classmates,
Nick Del Asandro and Richie
Crowbar. The three of us had the
dubious distinction of spending
most of our first semester in grade
eight standing in the back of the
classroom, a form of detention for
not completing our homework.
The problem with detention was
that it gave us an opportunity
to spend time with one another,
size each other up and eventually
decide that not doing homework
was the easiest way to be sent to
the back of the room and goof
off. After a few weeks of our plot-
ting and goofing off, Sister Mary
Catherine Marie got wise to our
scheming and decided to include
some severe corporal punishment
in addition to our standing deten-
tions.
We had had enough. The past
nine years had been a constant,
unwinnable battle and we wanted
a way out. Bishop Neuman High
School, an all boys' Catholic
school, was looming on the hori-
zon, and no pleading with our
parents was goingto getus out of
that inevitability, which would
undoubtedly be an extension of
the torture. Rumors on the street
had made us wise to the fact that
corporal punishment in Bishop
Neuman High School was meted
out not bythe sisters of St. Joseph,
but by the brothers and priests,
who weren't afraid to dole out a
much heftier class of punishment.
Our parents turned down our
repeated requests to transfer us
to the local public school. Even if
it was peopledby the "unclean"
non-Catholics of the neighbor-
hood, we were willing to take our
chances. Left with no alternative,
we decided that we were going to
run away. Our plan was simple. No
notes were to be left announcing
our departure. We would pre-
tend to go to school and pack our
school bags with food and cloth-
ing. We left one morning headed
for League Island Park at the most
southern end of the city. Atthe
edge of the park was the train yard
for the Philadelphia waterfront.
Our plan was to hop a freight train
and be out of townbefore anyone
was the wiser.
It was a cold morning, and
we built a small fire in a wooded
area next to thetrain yard while
waiting to begin our journey.
We didn't know where we were
going, butwe were getting out of
Catholic school one way or the
other. What we didn't know was
that the school had called our
parents to inquire as to why three
boys from Sister Mary Catherine
Marie's class weren't in school. By
11 a.m. that morning, there was
a citywide search on for three
missing children. Our camp was
discovered around noon, but we
managed to escape the first set
of police officers thatwere dis-
patched. We weren't so lucky with
the second, larger contingent. We
were arrested and brought to the
local police station. We were sur-
prised to find our parents waiting,
looks of worry plastered across
their face.
Though at the time this was an
incredibly difficulteventfor my
parents and I to get through, being
expelled from Catholic school
allowed me to meet many great
teachers in the public-school sys-
tem. These teachers were instru-
mental in changing my behavior
and ultimatelythe direction of my
life. The sculptor Iam today in
large part is directly a result of my
expulsion from parochial school. I
can sayI am proud of the mistake
I made.
Marinaro is a professor
in the Penny W. Stamps
School of Art & Design.
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