It’s a Meatloaf World That We Live In

(Originally published 4/15/21)

Recently, I made the colossal mistake of ordering the “Meatloaf Special” at a local diner. I ignored my years of accumulated experience and threw what amounted to a culinary Hail Mary pass. The diner is a high-quality eatery, I reasoned—the hamburgers are especially good—so why wouldn’t the meatloaf smothered in mushroom gravy hit the spot?

As a boy, I was served my mother’s meatloaf too many times to count. The challenge with that particular fare from yesteryear were the onions therein. They were not sufficiently sweated, soft, and sweet. My meatloaf phobia was thus ingrained at a tender age. Things that go crunch in the night were to be avoided at all costs. I could only abide a smoother than smooth meatloaf—and the same could be said of meatballs.

My maternal grandmother—an accomplished cook on many fronts—made meatloaf every now and then. While her signature dish—meat pie—was chock full of onions, they were caramelized and succulent. But not so with the meatloaf, which also included crunchy red and green peppers—multiple horrors in one frightful dish. During our summertime visits to Bangor, Pennsylvania, my brothers and I often dined on my grandparents’ back porch. One meatloaf night, my father sensed treachery afoot. His boys would be dining outside downwind of the trash cans on the side of the house. Disposing of the meatloaf without a trace would therefore be a piece of cake. I don’t recall that dinner’s precise denouement, but I suppose we were thwarted and compelled to pick apart the meatloaf, removing the onions and peppers one by one by one. Trust me: That kind of thing gets tiresome real fast, and you go to bed hungry as well.

An aunt of mine also made a meatloaf that was more or less edible. The onions were highly visible but adequately melted. Her secret meatloaf ingredients were oatmeal and a unique spice that I only remember tasting in that meatloaf. The final product, though, had a rather odd consistency. While it was appetizing enough, you could—if so desired—eat the meatloaf with a straw. It would have made a great baby food.

Interestingly, I sampled a fast-food joint’s meatloaf—Boston Market—not too long ago. It was sufficiently smooth for my tastes and covered in an appealing barbecue glaze. No crunchies to speak of and flavorsome, but—in the end—everything from Boston Market leaves my stomach feeling sour. It comes with age, I guess. All those wonderful take-out restaurants that I loved so much as a kid just don’t cut the mustard anymore.

One final note on the meatloaf phenomenon. Wherever you encounter it, a surprise awaits. It’s uncharted territory—always: No two meatloafs are the same. This can also be said of chili. My mother and grandmother also made chili with the same gastronomic roadblocks for me: crunchy onions and peppers. Two of my favorite TV detectives were chili aficionados: Lieutenant Columbo and Chief Ironside, with the latter’s unusual kitchen stocked with cans of the stuff. 1960s canned chili…yum. Columbo, meanwhile, repeatedly ordered the stuff in greasy spoons while out and about. I have studiously avoided going down the chili path for the same reason I shouldn’t have ordered the “Meatloaf Special” at the diner. With one notable exception: I have tried Wendy’s chili, which is surprisingly tasty. But, just like the Boston Market meatloaf aftershock, the chili's fast-food finish leaves a lot to be desired. Life lessons learned, forgotten, and learned again.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Remembering My COOP

(Originally published 10/25/12)

For some reason unbeknownst to me, I remember this particular date in history. Thirty-seven years ago, on October 25, 1975—a Saturday (so easily verified in this Information Age of ours)—I took the COOP exam. A familiar ritual for boys and girls in their final year of Catholic grammar school, the acronym is short for "Cooperative Admissions Examination Program." Actually, it should have been called the CAEP exam. For me, it all went down at St. Nicholas of Tolentine High School in the Fordham area of the Bronx, a few miles to the south of where I called home and attended school.

“Tolentine,” as it was popularly known, was one of the four high schools I requested the COOP results be forwarded to for either "admission" or "rejection"—a requirement, I think. There was, too, an “on waiting list” potential third response from the selected schools. Happily, I was offered admission to all four of my high school choices, although I had no intention of ever attending Tolentine or "the Mount," Mt. St. Michael. The reasons why we chose the high schools we did back then were typically multi-layered and ran the gamut from affordability to location; family tradition to gender exclusivity; "I wanna go where my friends are going" to "I have no choice because it's the only school I made." And, once upon a time, kids were actually rejected and placed on schools’ waiting lists. You know, when these institutions of fine learning were not hard up for business like so many of them are today—those that are still around. Baby boomers outnumbered the available desks in the 1960s and 1970s.

In fact, St. Nicholas of Tolentine High School closed its doors for good in 1991, the victim of declining enrollment in a demographically changing neighborhood that couldn’t afford the ever-rising tuition costs. It should be noted that after completing the arduous COOP exam, a handful of my grammar school buddies and I set out for home, but not before patronizing a local Kentucky Fried Chicken joint on Fordham Road. Last time I checked the place was still in business, although it called itself KFC now and its simple 1975 menu—regular or extra crispy—was a relic of the past. As I recall, one of my meatier mates from St. John’s grammar school in the Bronx's Kingsbridge neighborhood, ordered a three-piece dinner that day and somebody—not me—made the obligatory fat joke. Kids. By today’s yardstick, I suspect this thirteen-year-old would be considered svelte, and three pieces of chicken, a tiny cup of synthetic-tasting, dehydrated, instant mashed potatoes (which I always liked), and a small lukewarm piece of frozen corn on the cob would hardly qualify as a pig-out. After lunch—with our educational mission accomplished and appetites satisfied—we walked the few miles home without incident. We could have hopped on the Number 20 bus, but we were an adventuresome and energetic lot in those days.