Methadone and Parsnips – Billy Stanley

Methadone and Parsnips – Billy Stanley – by Billy Stanley.

I taught a summer camp for kids at the Arts Center down by the Hudson, that was my first gig in Troy.  As happens with newbies driving and parking here, I got a parking ticket, which i threw in the back seat of my old Ford Probe. Cest la vie’. I myself don’t worry about things like that; my contract with the rule of law is somewhat loosey goosey. My wife, love of my life, reason for the season (when appropriately decorated), officer of the court, best friend and worst nemesis, she believes rules were written down to be followed and obeyed. She was cleaning out the probe when she found the parking ticket which she demanded be paid for immediately. So as this was after work, immediately meant the next morning. Pre-Google state of complete information, so I looked up the address for traffic court the next day, called my boss and told him I’d be late.

Next morning I was early for the city offices and saw a line of folks waiting to take care of whatever traffic violations they had. I found a legal parking space while driving down a one-way the wrong way while following the car in front of me. I walked back and was fifteen minutes early, and there was a good line of folks and nobody was talking. I bartended in the French Quarter of New Orleans, Shreveport , Austin, the bucolic shores of Cape Cod, been knocked out cold in my lone bar fight, and driven across the Canadian border with $20,000 cash, and an Irish gambler called Tommy Patrick, and the one and only childhood hero Scotty Townsend, ( Google pool player Scotty Townsend memorial video). In other words, I’ve seen some shit. I started looking around and the folks waiting for traffic court, they look rough. I mean these folks were scratchy, random, just enough cheap suited ragged looking traffic court lawyers to make the whole court system of Troy pop in my eyes. Nobody was talking, nobody was looking in each other’s eyes, the lawyers weren’t even trying to drum up business handing out cards offering their services. Didn’t look like anyone could pay anyway.

Finally the doors open and they start letting people into the halls of justice. The line was moving slow as shit. I’m from Louisiana, so when Yankees get slowed up I’m in my natural state. We’re plodding along, the folks in line all seem to be itching. They’re all scratchin their arms and shoulders and I’m getting nervous thinking Troy must have a terrible bedbug problem. Finally I can see the front door and the cops are wanding everybody, running ’em through a metal detector. I thought it was a little much, but 9/11 was still fresh and raw and well I wasn’t gonna be a problem just get through the screening, find the court cashier, be apologetic for taking so long to pay and go about my day. I get through the security protocols and then I ask the question that brought the whole program to a stop.

I ask, ” Where do I pay for parking tickets?” The guards all look at me as if I’m a fool, I’m kinda used to that.

“Um, this is a methadone clinic, traffic court is across the street.” the guard responded.

Well, that was an introduction to Troy that the nice ladies at the Art Center had protected me from. I’ve worked in the capital district for 20 plus years, but I keep ending up in Troy doing random things. Ian at Mallo’s was one of the first people I sold mushrooms to in the area. He was slinging glorious grub at the Gastropub on New  Scotland in Albany back then. I worked for Susan Spicer in New Orleans, I was outta my league but she just needed warm bodies then. So, I’ve been exposed to glorious epicurean delights that transcend most fare you come across. The Gastropub consistently produced great food across the board. They bought more mushrooms from me than other places.  As Ian floated around the capital district, he’d be lost, then I’d find him at random joints as I’d go around slinging shrooms found in the hinterlands of the Catskills and Schoharie County. He finally has seemed to settle down.

I was disappointed when I discovered he’d just be slinging sammies next to a Korean joint. Tucked up around the corner from a cabinet shop and a rolling smorgasbord of fly by night food joints ranging from hipster grubbiness to polished theme-oriented purveyors. Ian and his buddy Max just decided they didn’t like working nights and some weekend free time would be nice. He started smoking his own meats and truth be told his vegan Reuben is better than God intended vegan food to be. Small place with a bell, some seats on the sidewalk and a smiling chubby happy cook. That’s where you find good food; never trust a skinny chef. I worked my way through his small menu and then I was really enjoying his soups.

Then he pushed some Parsnip soup out on me. Drug dealers will give you a taste to get you hooked. They know when their product has got that bite and they’ll catch you unawares. I’ve sold mushrooms and ate at all the restaurants in the area. I’m always looking for something that beats my wife’s cooking and that’s a tough proposition. Well, his soups are always good, really great, better than you can get at the sitdown white tablecloth joints.

This parsnip concoction was upstate New York. The nutty sweetness that had over wintered in the soil of the sleeping agricultural force that are the regions of this beautiful ecosydtem we’re lucky to call home came out with a creamy lush richness coddled with local butter from Jersey cows brought here by Scotch dudes that looked on the Mohawk, Hudson and Schoharie creek as a magical realm with all the good bits left in.  The soup was ethereal, just something to be savored and in the early spring, as the southern sun warmed the sidewalk in front of Mallo’s, beaming in through the plate glass windows, I’d sit in the back and wait for the soup to come out. I’d watch folks come and go and my bowls were always licked clean. The airy croutons filled with the warm liquids just enough so to go with their residual crunchiness, making me troop through Troy religiously like a good junkie going to get his fix.

Then that day came, He looks at me and goes ‘I’m out, ain’t got no more.’ I’m crestfallen and that’s when I got his game. He says, ‘I can give you a quart of my own stash.’ That’s when I remembered parking tickets and methadone and my wife’s rule of law, but I’d gotten her hooked and we were gonna gave that for supper and he says we won’t have anymore. She wanted some and I wanted some and Ian, well he had it and he could parse it out with a smile cuz he knew I’d be coming back. I took that quart and I’ll let the reader wonder if I shared with my wife or not, cuz Ian’s got the fall ‘snips coming in and like the fall we all savor our neighbors homegrown with the early sunsets. So let’s all enjoy the bounty of upstate as visualized in the pots at Mallo’s, with Ian and Max’s charms shining through. Don’t tell him I sent you cuz then he’ll raise my price again.

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