The cuisine of western New York is among the region’s best-kept secrets, except for one bar food institution known the world over. Of course, I’m talking about buffalo wings. These incendiary chicken tidbits are so ubiquitous that whenever Applebee patrons tuck into an order, they have little clue their savory appetizer originated in 1964 at the Anchor Bar, in the blue-collar city that’s forever waiting for a Super Bowl trophy, or a Stanley Cup.
Full disclosure: I have personally crushed a 50-piece bucket of Suicidal wings at this mecca of mastication, but I’m not here to discuss wings, beef-on-weck, or any other Buffalo repast. No, the object of my gastric desire hails from my home town of Rochester and, for reasons that will become abundantly clear, is called the garbage plate.
This sublime mess originated decades ago at Nick Tahou, an all-night Greek diner in a sketchy part of downtown, frequented by cops, streetwalkers, and anyone brave, hungry or drunk enough to venture inside. Legend has it that one such inebriate, in a moment of famished inspiration, ordered the counterman to fix him everything on the griddle and then some. That set the precedent.
Soon enough, people kept asking for that dish “with all the garbage on it,” and the name stuck. Today, true afficionados don’t even have to utter the word. Just walk up and say, “Plate, with.” They’ll know what you mean.
And here’s what will arrive: two hot dogs (your choice of either traditional red or uncured white), which are split, seared and placed face down to serve as a base. Next is a heap of home-fries with onions, plus all the scraped-up bits from the grill. Add to that a scoop of congealed baked beans, and another scoop of elbow macaroni salad.
Then to top it off, like lava flowing from Krakatoa, comes the finishing touch—a molten ladle of “hot sauce”, a greasy hamburger-based infusion of cinnamon, paprika and cayenne. A hunk of Italian bread, graciously provided to sop up everything, completes the order.
This is mammoth eating, not for the faint-hearted or queasy of stomach. I’ll bet it’s even too gangster for Guy Fieri. Yet to Rochesterians, it’s a point of pride knowing their signature dish has been proclaimed the unhealthiest food in New York State. And because of its local popularity, a host of imitators has emerged. Today you can find a trash plate, a sloppy plate, and several other variations on a theme. Everyone wants in on the action.
As with all things in life, timing is everything. Which is why you never wake up one fine spring morning and say to yourself, “I want a garbage plate.” It’s against the laws of nature. No, the plate is late night fare, and in my halcyon days, after far too many pitchers of Genesee Cream Ale, my cohorts and I would barge into Nick’s to eat ourselves sober. It’s a rite of passage and I’d be sorely disappointed if the youth of today weren’t doing the exact same thing.
A few years back, the City Council proposed a fast ferry service that would zip passengers from Rochester across the expanse of Lake Ontario to Toronto, and vice versa. To Flower City residents, this seemed like a great deal. A quick trip to the delights of a world-class destination, what could be better? But on the flip side, what would entice the citizens of Canada’s metropolis to visit their neighbor directly to the south?
An intrepid reporter from the Globe and Mail had to find out. Visiting unannounced, he wrote a poison pen column that portrayed Rochester in the most unflattering terms. His investigative journalism effectively doomed the ferry service from the start, especially when he told his readers that the city’s favorite menu item was something called “a garbage plate.”
To which I say, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.
