A Prayer to St. Martha

I'm a bit of a food snob. I give in to cravings for KFC and other junk food now and then but I'm pretty fussy about restaurants and made-to-order food in general. My snobbery doesn't cover home-cooked fare. It's the meals I pay for that I critique. And it's not so much as the dish itself as much as the cook's skill (or want of) , the ingredients and the all-important presentation.

I worked in a restaurant for a while where I learned a lot about cooking. It was one of those rare places where nothing was bought pre-made and absolutely everything was made from scratch. The chef was a genius and a perfectionist and there was nothing we wouldn't try to make no matter how difficult. I'm proud to say I never broke a mayonnaise.

After working there, I've always looked closely at what I'm eating in a restaurant. I notice if the lettuce in the salad was torn by hand or cut with a knife. I appreciate home made pasta over the dried variety. And I can tell a powdered soup stock a mile away.

So every day I go to the cafeteria at work and more often than not I'm disappointed. I know they try hard. It looks like the kind of place where they only hire people who have some kind of diploma in culinary arts to flip their burgers. So even though I'm probably not qualified to run the dishwasher, I can't help but critique the menu.

Every day they put out a display of all their specials (I think they should invest in some plastic food for display because 90% of what they serve is always the same). Recently they've tried to make some of the plates more interesting by getting creative with their garnish. Their favourite trick is to take a squirt bottle of mustard and decorate the edges of the plates with stars and squiggles. I'm wondering who's seven year old kid thought that up?

I feel sorry for some of them. You can almost feel their broken spirits as they realize they went to college to get a job making grilled cheese sandwiches and fries. The only ones who seem fulfilled are the mentally challenged people who bus the tables. I really admire their determination.

Those poor cooks must know how to make a bechemel. They must dream of they day they can open their own restaurants and serve soup made with real stock. They must pray some mornings to St. Martha, the patron saint of cooks, that today will be the day they will be able to serve quality food.

I know I do. But it seems like Martha's got other priorities.