The Most Unhealthy Weekend of My Life
(For Audio Click Here)
Saturday, October 30th 1pm
Miller’s Chicken, Athens, Ohio.
Anders didn’t know what the radioactive-yellow colored liquid was, but he wanted it more than what he was drinking. “EH!” he shouted and threw his sippy cup to the floor. He stretched his arm out across the table grasping handfuls of air in vain, as he reached for his father’s Gatorade.
“Nope!” Jon leaned over, and placed his son’s plastic cup back on the table. Moving in with a spoonful of mashed potatoes, he offered, “Here have some of these.”
Anders swallowed the spoonful with a smile.
“We sure do eat healthy when Minnesota Steve is around, don’t we?” Jon asked rhetorically while directing another spoonful of potatoes into the one-year-old’s mouth.
“Minnesota Steve” is the nickname my boyfriend received while working towards his masters at Ohio University. Probably obtained out of necessity due to a copious amount “Steves” in his program and from his tendency to describe his home-state in an obsessively delusional manner. Any single conversation with the man would suggest that the only way to obtain nirvana is through a visit to Little Falls or Mankato, and — with the exception of the Swedes who have the audacity to think it appropriate to put sugar on a mysterious food called lefsa — the state’s residents boasted a higher quality of life than the rest of the nation.
Steve, begrudgingly lives Massachusetts, now. We had driven 700 miles to partake in Athens’, infamous Halloween festivities. Dressing as obscure characters from the Harry Potter Series, we would join 30,000 rowdy college kids and carouse the streets on Saturday night. I had planned to use the trip as background to a travel article on local Athens food specialties. Steve took full advantage of this and cried “local specialty” any chance he got. Thus, I joined him as he relived the unhealthy habits of his grad school days, during which, I am convinced, the only thing he did was eat.
With an automatic calorie counter ingrained in my brain by my overly health-conscience mother, I stared down at my five fried chicken wings with full knowledge of the damage I was doing to my body. Their greasy breading about to join the rest of the shlock I had eaten since I left Massachusetts.
***
At 1am the night before, I was witness to the heartfelt reunion between Steve and the man who sold him his Gyros.
Mr. Slovaki had been standing on the steps outside his Mediterranean restaurant smoking, when he saw me and Steve making our way up the street from Tony’s bar. Tears of joy filled his eyes. He dropped his cigarette to the ground and spread his arms out wide. “HEY!! BIG GUY!” He called out as he beckoned Steve in for a hug and led us inside his establishment to serve us personally.
I had been informed by his friend, Paul, that Steve was the only student in OU history to ever use the Slovaki’s Bathroom. The privilege had been lost to others many years ago, possibly by drunken undergrads who regularly missed the toilet. Steve, however, was permitted entry. Steve was family.
The Slovaki’s menu appeared formidable to my stomach which was trying to mediate the battle between the beer I had been sipping only minutes ago at Tony’s, and the three “local specialty” pizzas I had helped consume at Courtside for dinner. Barbeque chicken and onion, Pepperoni-mushroom, and a ranch-ham-bacon-tomato concoction nicknamed “Wes’ Magical Ranch Pie.”
Even if my stomach could have handled it, I would not have been able to justify another meal. Steve had also taken me on a late afternoon trip to O’Betty’s where we had selected a “Dixie -Hubba Hubba” a “Salome Dance of the 7 Veils” and a side of cheese fries, from the restaurant’s burlesque themed menu of “local specialty” hotdogs.
I ordered a piece of baklava.
Picking away at the layers of filo dough and honey I watched Steve eat his “Brute” (a gyro with extra taziki sauce and additional layers of beef and lamb) and listened to him reminisce about the time he saw Mr. Slovaki kick some drunk kid out of the place. The target of Mr. Slovaki’s aggression had been a student he caught urinating in the back corner of the dining area, an offense, that Steve admitted, had to be expected in a late night eatery with no available bathroom.
When he finished his story and gyro, he passed a handful of spicy fries over to my plate. I accepted his offer, and picked one up. “They’re just regular fries,” he informed me. “With some paprika and cayenne pepper sprinkled on them. They’re the best fries you’ll ever have.”
They were.
***
Miller’s Chicken was a solid six on Steve’s fried chicken scale, but graded on a curve it ranked a nine for southeast Ohio. I took a bite of his chicken sandwich and offered him one of my wings. Jon began to push spoonfuls of green beans towards Anders.
“I don’t know what you’re complaining about, Jon,” I remarked. “Anders has been eating better than all of us! At least he’s eating vegetables. The only vegetables I’ve eaten have been covered with cheese, and I don’t think I’ve even seen a piece of fruit since I entered Ohio.”
“What are you talking about? What’s this nonsense about not seeing any, you were outright eating fruit last night!” Steve interjected before his friend had time to respond.
“Huh? No, I was definitely not! When?” I asked defensively, my journalistic integrity threatened by the possibility I might not have properly kept track of everything I ate.
“At the bar.”
I racked my brain trying to remember what fruit he was referring to.
Then I remembered the orange slice. The healthiest thing I had eaten all weekend I had fished out of a pitcher of beer.
