When I was interviewing for a job at the San Diego Union-Tribune to add breaking news to their website, SignOn San Diego, I had in interview on the fifth floor with the Vice President of New Ventures (who happened to be my old editor at the North County Times). The fifth floor was where the executive suites were, including that of the publisher.
But the bigwigs only took up half the top floor — the other half was occupied by a full-service cafeteria.
In two years of stringing for the old San Diego Evening Tribune, I’d never even known there was a cafeteria on the Fifth Floor: it was a perk reserved for the full-time staff.
Once I was on staff full-time, I came to love that particular perk. The company subsidized the meals, so you could get a full lunch or dinner for about three or four bucks.
And by “full meal,” I’m not kidding: You might get half a baked chicken, mashed potatoes, steamed veggies, a salad, and dessert.
For whatever reason, the manager of the cafeteria took a shine to me. I was already struggling to keep my slender boyish figure, but she’d see me in line, come over and throw an extra pork chop on my plate. Or a full baked potato instead of half. I’d protest, but she kept doing it.
Still, I didn’t protest too hard — for a cafeteria, the food was pretty darn good. I’d compare it favorably to what you can get at a Denny’s or Marie Callender’s or iHop.
The cafeteria was also a great place to socialize with folks from other desks. And even though I was new to the U-T, I had quite a few friends and acquaintances there: Former colleagues, college pals, reporters I’d met while covering school board meetings, city councils meetings, at crime scenes, etc.
Certainly, the mid-size daily I’d come from had a very different dining arrangement: A small lunch room with three vending machines.
I realized then that a major metro was a very different beast from any other kind of newspaper.
The website staff was housed on the first floor, just off the main lobby. The newsroom coffee club, which I’d joined for about $5 month, was up on the third floor, so most mornings my first stop after turning my computer on was at the coffee station, best reachable by elevator.
I’d already noticed wonderful, savory aromas while riding the elevator before, and after asking about it, learned that the elevator shaft was connected to the cafeteria’s exhaust system.
There are worse things than smelling chicken or pork chops cooking while riding up to get your coffee.
But one day, a month or so after I was hired, I got in the elevator and slowly realized it was filled with a corrosive stench. While I was trying not to gag, a co-worker got in after me, inhaled deeply, smiled and proclaimed, “Yes! Liver Day!”
I don’t know about the rest of you, but I. Hate. Liver.
When I was young, my dad loved liver. Considered it a treat. My mom would fry it up and the whole house would reek of the wretched dish. For my siblings and I, she’d cover our portion in bacon, hoping it would mask the flavor.
It didn’t matter. I wasn’t touching it — not after the first bite she’d tricked me into when I was even younger. It was vile — I knew it, my sisters knew it, and I suspect Mom knew it, too.
But Dad loved it, and so every so often she’d make it up for him.
One day when I was about 8, I remember my 6-year-old sister just dug in her heels. She wasn’t going to eat it. I joined her. (The two younger ones were toddlers, and I think were let off the hook — or were too young to know what it was they were eating.)
T and I just sat there at the table, arms folded, scowls on our faces.
Mom’s rule was you couldn’t leave the table until you’d finished what was on your plate.
So it was a standoff.
As I recall, it was a school night, so after a few hours, she angrily told us to brush our teeth and get ready for bed — but that the liver would be waiting for us for breakfast!
We trudged upstairs, and T was crying at the thought of a cold liver breakfast.
“She’s not really going to make us eat that nasty liver for breakfast, is she?”
I was fighting back the tears myself.
“I sure hope not!” I whispered back.
Fortunately for us, when we came down for breakfast the next morning, our Wheat Chex and Cheerios were waiting for us in their usual spot.
With that kind of culinary trauma in my childhood, it’s no wonder that I learned to take the stairs to the third floor for my coffee on Liver Day at the U-T. And bring a sack lunch.
I do still reminisce about the cafeteria pork chops from time to time, though. They were heavenly.
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Liver is usually sauteed.
My mom loved liver and onions but she never cooked it (does one cook liver?) probably because dad wasn’t a fan either.
The closest I’ve ever been is Rumaki. Bacon does help.