One of the frustrating realities about Thanksgiving (I will be using Thanksgiving henceforth to refer only to the de-colonial confluence of turkey, stuffing, gravy, and cranberry sauce, and not to the regrettable significance of the holiday as a whole) is that it confines the unrivaled combination of turkey, gravy, stuffing, and cranberry sauce to only one day out of the year.
But if you know where to look, there is an alternate source of Thanksgiving available through the non-November months via the entree, sandwich, and senior citizen sections of your local diner menu.
Take for example the Hot Open Turkey, which I ordered at Bob’s Restaurant at 2 James St., Hudson, on a recent Tuesday in September. It was a temperate day, and through wide windows the sun reflected off of Bob’s pretty seriously discolored blue and white linoleum tile floors. A similar solar gleam sparkled upon the stainless steel foot rings of eight short stools at the breakfast counter, where golden muffins unfurled within a domed glass cloche. Upside-down off-brand ketchup bottles and sugar dispensers adorned each slightly sticky melamine table top, as a few relaxed waitresses in waist aprons shuffled between tables and a maximal zone (behind the counter) of to-go cups, ceramic mugs, cutlery, soda machines and hot chocolate machines, coffee makers and other germane accessories stacked to the ceiling, under the fluorescent lights of which framed paintings depicted quasi-biblical mountain scenes on either side of a flimsy flatscreen TV.
Further down the wall, an open window operated as a pass between the dining room and the dark, semi-occult kitchen beyond it, revealing hanging frying pans, ladles, and occasional shadowy figures.
Flipping through laminated menu pages, I found the Hot Open Turkey under the category Diner Dinners. It did not seem to be a problem that I ordered it at 12:30 p.m. The terminology “open” is misleading in this case, as the dish features carved, roasted turkey served atop a few incongruous tears of a thick white loaf of some kind, rather than sandwich slices. The turkey is coated in what the menu calls “brown gravy” (a differentiation regarding the use of stock rather than roux in its preparation). It comes with a routine cranberry sauce in a small plastic cup, which reads like jelly, a salad, a vegetable option, and choice of potato (a ubiquitous colloquialism across diner menus, invoking its own mystery). I chose mashed potatoes and peas to replicate as accurately as possible the spirit of the Thanksgiving plate.
The Plaza Diner, at 300 Fairview Ave., has a Hot Open Sandwiches section. Their Hot Open Turkey is served with all white meat, gravy, cranberry sauce, a vegetable option, and choice of potato. At the Columbia Diner in Valatie, one need look no further than the Senior Menu section to find the Roast Turkey Dinner served with stuffing, vegetables, and again, choice of potato. This one will have the benefit of ice cream or pudding at the end, as all Senior Menu items do.
Meanwhile, at Barnwood, an American restaurant at 14 Deer Ln. in Catskill, the Dinner Entrees section describes their Hot Open Turkey Dinner as “our in house roasted turkey breast served over white bread. Topped [sic] with turkey gravy and served with potato and fresh vegetable,” which, by lack of mention, raises the question of cranberry sauce and its indispensable place within the confluence of turkey, gravy, and stuffing.
Last winter, I paid a turkey visit to the Martindale Chief Diner in Craryville, recognizable by its questionable road sign depicting an Indigenous chief, setting sort of a bad aura over the prospect of eating a Thanksgiving related meal there. Their Roast Turkey Dinner, within the Diner Style Dinners section, is served with homemade stuffing, choice of potato, cranberry sauce, gravy, and a vegetable. I ordered mine with french fries and green beans, and watched some national news while I waited. A woman who’d gone out searching for her cat had fallen into a sinkhole and died.
The roast turkey breast they served in thick and varying slices was undeniably unctuous, and had an altogether home-made appeal. It was covered in a gelatinous, khaki gravy, and leaned on a mound of savory and inoffensively soft stuffing redolent of celery, rosemary and thyme. When it arrived, the Roast Turkey Dinner included almost everything I’d ordered, except the green beans, which were replaced by a lone ear of corn, rolling around on a separate plate with two blameless, hermetically sealed factory butters.
The authentic turkey-ness of the breast meat at these establishments, most of which I have eaten at, demonstrates an often overlooked mastery of the modern commercial freezer, the common denominator when it comes to safely serving infrequently ordered dishes.
At Bob’s, I asked my waitress, who seemed to genuinely enjoy her job at the restaurant, how often the Hot Open Turkey makes its way out of the kitchen per week. Her answer was a few times, and she seemed to guarantee it was not altogether slept on. To avoid impudence, I did not ask her where the turkey comes from, or how it’s stored. That is something of a personal question, but it is logical to infer that diners here use commercial freezers to safely store and prepare roast turkey breast, defrosting a small amount to have on hand for occasional preparation, or roasting and slicing it before freezing it pre-portioned, and defrosting it to order.
I like to think that some of these restaurants might even roast, slice, and freeze the turkey breast themselves, instead of ordering it from Sysco. As with many aspects of how food is grown/raised/prepared for consumption, people seem to be unenthusiastic about discussing how many of their meals out were previously frozen, but the industry-wide use of commercial freezers is something to be celebrated here in Columbia County. The safekeeping of turkey is no less than a miracle.
photos by Tepper Brossell