Queens Line Boys and Their Buhfetts

 

I am a reminiscent sort for sure. I have a wonderful life now, but I long for the speed, power, stamina, and fast healing of my youth. And the down to earth simplicity of it. I seem to have tapped out my Scottish resilience since my hernia surgery and am nowhere what I used to be and I miss it. The degradation and demise of my strength amounts to this: I used to pick up and carry a 150 pound tractor wheel weight in each hand when I was a young man wheeling and dealing tractors. Since my botched hernia surgery, lifting 100 pounds would probably put me on my back in bed with pain killers. It has also put a definite, do not cross this line limit on my eating habits.

When we were very boisterous Scottish young lads on our side by side Queens Line farms, Tuesday night was movie night. The MacKay boys and I would take off excitedly for the new Ahnold blockbuster or some loser slapstick comedy. If it was the glorious summertime and a nice evening, we would pile into their beautiful red 1965 Pontiac Parisienne 2+2 convertible with its white tufted interior. Rodney would drive, with Scott riding shotgun, and Mike and I would relax in the opposite corners of the wide back seat with our arms spread over the back of it and along the sides looking backwards over the large trunk as much as forwards, luxuriating in the wind playing through our long '80's rocker's hair. We'd be talking with great anticipation about what was to come that evening; the movie, some chow, girls, maybe a scrape or a scrap; the sky was the limit in those days. Scottish lads love a good fight. We were Born for the Battlefield, laddie, to die in valour, guts and glory. If we didn't get there, something else had to suffice. 

So off to the movie, in our run down - and now probably much worse - Pembroke theater. Whoops and hollers or belly laughter followed. Horror movies weren't my thing. The MacKay boys loved them but I positively hated them. I went to one with them, once. I repeat: Once. I think it was called 'Pinhead'. I was so disgusted I got up and walked out. That just wasn't my thing. The boys respected that about me, and, instead of ridiculing me about it, actually commended me on having the fortitude of my beliefs to walk out and not sit through something I didn't like or agree with. 

After the movie and popcorn, we'd cruise around, looking at girls and grabbing a burger, fries, and a shake. Rodney was always very careful about what he ate. He'd condemn our choice of renewed energy with a summary, "That'll kill ya, that sh*t!" Mike and Scott and I weren't like Roddy in that regard; if it could somehow make it down our gullets, it was game and it was gone. We all had prodigious appetites. Rodney's was for sure a lot more selective, but no less insatiable. He once ate an entire large pot of spaghetti with meat sauce himself at our place after supper at theirs. I forget how many plates it took to empty the pot, but he kept Mom busy until it was all gone. I called him a pig at that time, but it takes one to know one.

Late Sunday afternoon was our typical go out for supper thing. We especially loved it in the Fall when there was still work to build an appetite, but the lack of summer heat didn't make being stuffed to the gills quite so uncomfortable. We'd pile into whatever vehicle, and take off for Pembroke for our favorite culinary pursuit: "a big buffet". We didn't pronounce it in the eloquent, 'buh-faye'; we pronounced it 'buhfett', because it sounded rough and uncouth, like clomping lumberjacks bearing down on a town. Any owner that was foolish enough to offer four hard working, growing Scottish lads all the food they could eat for 10 bucks apiece would feel buffeted by the winds of war that just blew through their establishment, that's for sure. We'd go to a couple of Chinese buffets there, but we were hungry again in no time. That stuff just didn't stick with you. No, we found that the best places to go were the hotels. They had great buffets. Roast beef, roast pork, turkey, and all that went with them. Four boisterous Scottish lads with raging hormones and voracious appetites were a recipe for disaster for any unsuspecting enterprise. We were too young and too invincible to be bothered with the model of behaviour expected of us in higher society. Our attire wasn't exactly up to snuff. Well, Scott always looked very presentable in his signature polo shirts with a brand crest on the left chest, but Rodney would be lumberjack chic and Mike and I would be just 'Fast Times at Ridgemont High' jeans and a tee shirt. Our manners weren't quite those of the upper crust, and our language would not have us mistaken for royalty, but we tried within the limits of burgeoning testosterone to be polite and respectable because we were brought up that way and the last thing we wanted was to reflect badly on our parents. Suffice it to say everybody else better hope they had their fill before we got there...

Mike and Scott and I visited the CN Tower back in 1999. We thought it would be cool to have supper in the 360° revolving restaurant far above the city. A waiter was going past our table with a bowl of slightly cloudy water with some parsley or something or other sprinkled and floating on top of it. I stopped him on his way to the table he was delivering it to with great panache, and asked him with no panache whatsoever, "What's that?" He velvet-lipped off some fancy French name for it which completely failed to impress me. "How much is it?" 

"Thirty nine ninety five, Sir".

"Forty freakin' bucks for a bowl of water?!" I turned back to my companions. "We're outta here, boys!" They heartily agreed. Lofty panoramic view be darned, we were all up and heading for the elevator door and terra firma far below just like that. They probably didn't have enough food fit for Queens Line boys, and we didn't have enough money to be fed to anything close to our satisfaction there. We drove around, and came to a tall Victorian house on a street corner with a fancy scrolled 'Steak House' sign on it. We stopped and went in. It had a very nice atmosphere and the aroma of steak grilled to perfection were tantalizing and mouth watering. It was evident from the get-go there was no way we were leaving there without eating. We were seated on lovely, ornate chairs at a table with a fresh white linen tablecloth, neatly ironed. An absolutely elegant, beautiful, and totally classy older lady in a white satin blouse and black skirt demurely waited on us like royalty. For the cost of a warm bowl of water at the CN Tower, we each thoroughly enjoyed the undeniably best steak of our lives; huge, out-of-this-world and beyond description flavourful, tender and juicy, with mushrooms and peppers also cooked to perfection, along with a very generous serving of potatoes of our choice and tender vegetables and a big, fresh-baked bun with all the soft, sweet, creamy butter we desired. We had desert, but the overwhelming culinary level of that once in a lifetime steak blots the memory of what we chose from my mind. It was an absolutely incredible meal, the likes of which normally only people far beyond our station in life ever get to experience. Never have any of us left an eating establishment more happy and satisfied. Blown away by every bit of it, start to finish, really. I can't imagine having another steak as mind-blowingly perfect this side of Heaven. It just doesn't seem possible.

One time Rodney and Mike took me to this breakfast joint in Ottawa. All I really remember about it is they had front doors like English phone booths. They had this glutton special that was free if you could eat the whole thing. It was a completely ginormous platter with you name it on it: eggs, bacon, sausage, ham, homefries, hash browns, beans, a half a loaf of toast... I'm probably missing a thing or two. Just a stupendous offering. I will be completely honest: I didn't make it. I'm kind of embarrassed to say so, but it was too much for me. I had one slice of toast left and I knew if I ate it I would reverse the entire process. Rodney still thought it was a great achievement; "When Dad hears you ate that whole thing but one slice of toast he'll be impressed, boy! It's normally only guys way bigger than you that can handle it!" I was a little too uncomfortable to really care much at the time, but I was very satisfied. I didn't do my best eating in the morning. I did it at lunch or supper time. If that had been a supper challenge I would have niftily tucked it all away and sat back from the table with a happy smile on my face.

A little later on, I did smash an eating record in the Valley. I had gone to Ottawa with an older buddy, Ben. I think it was to pick up a load of tractor parts at a courier depot or some building materials for my shop. I forget which, but I suspect more the latter. Anyway, whatever restaurant it was that we landed in had this chocolate cake challenge: If you could eat their entire "Can't Eat This!" absolutely massive 'piece' of chocolate cake, you got it or your entire meal for free; I forget that too. There seems to be a theme here. There was also an award, and your name on their wall in honour. Nobody had ever done it. We didn't know about the cake challenge, and the waitress only presented it after our meal when she brought the desert menu. I'd had a good sized meal. Not a soup and sandwich deal. A big steak with mushrooms and mashed potatoes, I think. Not the kind of meal you'd want before an eating challenge of any sort. Ben instantly volunteered me. With a big, confident grin, he said, "If anyone can do it, you're looking at him right here!" Thanks pal. I shrugged and agreed to give it a go. They brought out the 'piece' of cake and it was positively gigantic. It was its own tower on the plate. I guess, 'platter' would be a more apt description. It was dense and heavy, insanely rich, with a ridiculously thick shovelful of icing slathered on top and all around. I'll admit it was pretty intimidating. I really didn't think I could do it but I kept that to myself. Oh: there was a time limit, too: One Hour. You had one hour to eat it. Well, the long and the short of it is I did indeed manage to eat it all. The whole darn thing. Pacing myself carefully, I stuffed it all away in a little over 50 minutes. I was choc'd out for a good week. I likely didn't sleep a wink for just as long. They took my picture and gave me a commemorative mug (that was the 'award') and told the entire large restaurant they just witnessed the biggest glutton in Eastern Ontario devour the impossible. I can't remember the name of the place. If it still exists, my picture might still be on their wall. Who knows? There is no possible way I could repeat that now. I wouldn't even try. But a guy that could work like I could had to have a quite a furnace and I guess I did. Part of it was also probably attributable to my rather unusual metabolism. I won't go into it in detail out of courtesy but there's a very short cycle time to my throughputs. 

When I'd be under the gun at haying time, I'd get Scott to rake for me to save time over doing it myself, then I could concentrate on baling. There was no catching up to our 22 foot vee rake and the speed you could go with it with the baler, so once Scott started off I was left behind but assured that the entire field would be ready for me. There was rain coming one evening so I had him rake the back field on the Bennett side with my 1550 while I baled behind him with the 1850 and round baler. I finished baling around 7:30 or so, and we folded up the rake and pinned it and headed back to the barnyard. Then it was off to the Kountry Kitchen for supper. We each had a full meal of salisbury steak or something like that, but I still wasn't satisfied. I'd put in a full day from 3AM til then and I was still hungry. I ordered a second meal. Pork chops, I'm pretty sure, and easily chomped the whole thing down without hesitation. The MacKay boys' Dad, King, used to say, "That boy sure can eat!" "Myr-NAA!" (He always called his commentary to his beloved wife in the kitchen) "I'd rather pay that boy than feed him, Mryna!" 

The truth is, we all could eat. Rodney and I especially, but Mike and Scott descending with a built up, day-long appetite on an unsuspecting buffet could make it wish it had never opened in the first place. All four of us? Look out! 

Sharon is an amazing cook. She can throw together a spread that'll put you in a coma without hardly batting an eye. She was the perfect culinary fit for an All You Can Eat Buhfett Queens Line boy. Her roast beef is almost impossible to stop eating until it's all gone. They say, "The way to a man's heart is through his stomach". That goes double for a Scotsman! Albeit at a slower pace, the odyssey continues...