The man walked into the office hand outstretched, looking for a handshake. He waved his hand at EE and announced. "I'm Beauregard Lee Perrine of the Atlanta Perrines, dating back to 1848, not them Carolina Perrines. They're just carpet-bagging pretenders. My friends call me Jubal." EE barely looked over his glasses as he stamped the palm of the man's hand -- REJECTED.
"There! Your palm's been read. Now pitch your book."
"That wasn't hospitable..." Jubal said as he slid his butt onto the desk, one foot still on the floor the other resting on his knee. Tchotchkes wobbled, slid and fell over. "...and that's what we're talking about, hospitality and food... barbecue ribs and southern fried chicken. I just won three Blue Ribbons and two state fair contests and I aims to go nationwide with a book and a cooking tour. The silent majority of southern food. I grew up an orphan boy, raised by divorcees, turned to the love of Baby Jesus and schooled on grills. I know it all; the fights, the backbiting famous chefs and the insidious cheats. That's how the bland and banal triumph in the cooking of barbecue ribs and fried chicken. I'm giving you the chance to hop on my rising star of male cuisine."
"You related to the Flays of New York?" EE asked. Jubal stood nonplussed.
"A damn Yankee."
"The Sanders of Kentucky?"
"Upstarts in MSG."
"The Deans?"
"Garlic breathing charlatans." Jubal stood, lips quivering and fists clenched.
"Pity. Rejected." EE waved Jubal off his desk and fixed his gaze on another manuscript. Red ink flowed like ruby-red wine on a white carpet.
"Rejected?"
"Every man is like me... King of the grill. Duke of drumsticks. Paladin of pork bellies. Men don't read cookbooks. Men cook! Have a nice day, goodbye."
--Dave F.
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1 comment:
You know, that last bit has a lot of truth to it.
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