Thanksgiving Day 2009 in Harlem

We stood near the wall by the corner of the gym at the Salvation Army facility on 138th and Lenox. A long table at one end held two piles of white plastic plates, then a heavy-duty tin foil container, warmed by two Sternos, with string beans; next, a foil with stuffing; next; yams; next, mashed potatoes; then, the heart of the matter--turkey slices in turkey juices. This is where I stood, my colleague on the other side of the table. A plate would work its way down each side of the table, and a server on each side of a foil would ladle his or her responsibility on it. (My daughters Nell and Kate were charged with the stuffing; my seniority probably landed me the meat job.) Then the plates would pass our station to the gravy ladlers, and then the roll and butter guys, and then they'd sit at the end waiting for the servers to bring them to our guests.

Us turkey guys were to give 4 slices per plate. This was an exact measurement. The food that would be scooped (with ice cream scoops) had to be leveled, because these large quantities of food were to last for 1400 expected guests. If the scoops weren't leveled off, later in the day someone wouldn't get yams, potatoes or stuffing. (The beans weren't held to the same standard.) And four slices of turkey. Only. Period. (Over and out.)

The guests would come in three shifts. The 11 a.m. shift wasn't full, but it was early in the day to eat a full turkey meal. The second shift at noon was about the same, but maybe a touch more crowded, but still there were empty seats. Halfway through it, we had certainly doled out less than half the food. We figured the 1:00 p.m. shift, the last, would nail it. As we scooped and forked the food, discussions among us broke out about eating meat, eating meat that had lived or had eaten well, that had lived and died within 100 miles of here, about not eating meat at all, the tyranny of corn--one of my daughters is among the faithful and the other a gentle meat-eating cynic--the whole spectrum right there. We kept ladling, and the food smelled good. With each re-fill of turkey container, it smelled better; the juice was meatier, the meat was juicier, the skin at the edges crisper and browner, the small fatty edges more swollen. But we understood, without it having been said, that the applicable professional standards prohibited us from grabbing that tell-tale end piece swimming alone at one end of the foil, dragging a ribbon of gold fat behind it, and us gulping it down before anyone can catch us.

As each foil got close to empty, the servers would yell--Yams! or Potatoes!, whatever was ending, and a new foil would come out. You had to anticipate the timing so you always had enough to keep the service moving until the new foil came. As the plates passed, a new phenomenon appeared. Take-out containers. First one, or two, as time passed more and more. The 1:00 p.m. shift had already started, and the ratio of plates to take-outs shifted to more take-outs. Maybe some people didn't want to sit in a large public room, or the privacy of their lives better suited them, even or especially today. The number of guests in the room was about the same as before, so we were worrying less about running out. So how many slices? We stuck with four for a while, but would add on some meat scraps that had broken off and floated around. Then we'd throw in a fifth. Then we decided we should give more to the takeouts, because what they didn't finish they could keep for later. Every once in a while, we'd be really generous and put on an extra grouping of slices. But what about the plates? Maybe we should also add there, to make sure everyone is absolutely filled. But if more than four (or five) is too much, the food on the plate would go to waste (and what we would have kept--which would be distributed elsewhere in the City--would have been diminished). But if you stick with four, maybe this plate goes to a guest who's some big bruiser, and he could have eaten more. But if you put six, maybe it's a little old lady who just picks at the meat. So we went with five, give or take. But the containers...ah, the containers. They got the motherlode. Stacks of turkey no one could finish in one seating. Maybe there was someone else at home--if there was a home--who could help, or the remainder could be kept in the refrigerator--if there was one--for later in the evening (nah, turkey twice in one day?), or for Friday, eating turkey on the day after just like the rest of us. That's good. So as the other foils were depleting, we were surpried how quickly we kept yelling "Turkey!", and the new foils kept showing right up.

What would happen when they would open up their containers? Would they think it was a mistake? Would they say, good, more turkey than I can eat just right now?

We didn't get to talk with our guests, we just filled the plates and containers. Once in a while, someone who was getting take-out would come up and say: no, I don't want yams, or please no gravy; I don't recall anyone asking for more of anything; and one very fine featured woman, slight of height and in a long green emroidered dress and an emroidered skull cab pleasantly inquired if any of the servings had pork. Each one seemed to go out of our way to say no. And towards the end of the last shift, a middle aged woman in a dark ski jacket, with high sharp cheekbones and curls of white hair about her temples, came up and excitedly said: thank you, thank you, thank you. You all did a great thing today, and we all want to thank you, this is wonderful, and the food is delicious, and, pointing an index finger at each of us, kept saying, thank you, thank you, thank you.