By By Robert St. John / food columnist
September 22, 2004
Hospital food is the butt of many jokes. Sometimes the criticism is deserved, sometimes not.
In the mid-1980s, after finishing the core work for my bachelor's degree, I completed an internship in a hospital cafeteria. I enjoyed the time I spent there. A hospital cafeteria is similar to a restaurant in that it has stress-filled peaks surrounding the service of each meal period.
Hospital food is plated in an assembly-line fashion. A conveyor belt winds through the plating section of the kitchen and trays are filled with meats, vegetables, bread, and fruit according to the specified dietary needs of the patient (all liquid, low sodium, no taste buds).
In my experience, hospital food looks and smells normal as it is being plated in the kitchen. However, something happens between the time the cover is positioned over the plate and when the food is removed from the mobile cart at the room. It goes through an aroma transformation. Somehow it comes out all smelling the same, like hospital food. No matter if the dish is stewed chicken, baked halibut or mystery meat, it all smells the same.
It's not the cooks. In my experience, hospital cafeteria cooks are talented culinarians. I know from experience that the food served in a hospital's cafeteria is well above average, that is, until the plate cover is placed over the food and it is shipped to the room.
So what happens when a 42-year old, overweight restaurateur/food writer, who practices the world's worst diet, is checked into the hospital after a late-night visit to the emergency room complaining of chest pains and a numb left arm?
Well, after determining my blood type (giblet gravy) and my weight (are you kidding?!) the nurse gave the preliminary diagnosis: "Doctor, he has hollandaise running through his veins." I was checked into a room.
A quick heart catheterization was done by my cardiologist friend, Eric Enger (Eric, disregard all of that inane twaddle that came out of my mouth while I was under sedation. I really do like your haircut). It was determined that your humble columnist, in the words of the wise and erudite physician, "has the heart of a teenager." To which my wife replied, "Unfortunately he has the mind of a teenager, too."
Folks, I am a freak of nature. I have endless energy, a cholesterol level of 135, and the heart of a teenager. Amazing, considering that I am the poster boy for bacon fat, heavy cream and butter. It was just stress. Welcome to the restaurant business.
Good news. Let's celebrate. Let's eat!
So I woke up from my quick visit to the cath factory and was greeted by a relieved wife and a tray of hospital food. I picked up the plate cover and there it was that smell. Hard eggs and even harder grits which smelled exactly like stewed chicken, baked halibut and mystery meat.
Feigning starvation while milking spousal sympathy, I sent my wife to the cafeteria for bacon, hash browns, eggs, two Krispy Kreme donuts, a Diet Coke (you have to draw the line somewhere) and no plate cover. While carrying this overflowing tray of food back to the room, she passed the hospital's chief administrator who asked, "Where are you going with that?"
My friend Billy Ralph Winghead will not eat hospital food.
Last year, Billy Ralph entered the hospital for a test. At 11 a.m. they brought him a bowl of chicken broth for lunch. He refused it. At 3 p.m., they brought another bowl of broth, again he refused. At 6 p.m. and 8 p.m., they brought more broth. Both times he said, "No thanks." Eventually they gave up.
The hospital sent me home with a clean bill of health and a bottle of Prilosec. I couldn't decide if the pills were for the chest pain or the food.
Robert St. John is an author, chef, restaurateur and world-class eater. He is the author of "A Southern Palate," "Deep South Staples" and the upcoming book "Nobody's Poet." He can be reached at www.nsrg.com or www.robertstjohn.com.