The verdict -- Robert Gardner

I hate canned peas and carrots. This isn’t just a simple dislike of those

vegetables. This is a deep, physiological hatred.

The core of this emotion can be traced to my youth when I worked for a

restaurant called the Green Dragon in Balboa. The Green Dragon was a

class operation. Our blue-plate special will give the reader a taste of

the place.

The blue-plate special went for 35 cents and featured a breaded veal

cutlet, long on bread, short on veal cutlet. It was served on a heavy

blue plate that was divided into three compartments.

In compartment No. 1 was the breaded veal cutlet. This chef’s masterpiece

was covered with a thick, tasteless gravy.

In the second compartment was the salad. Oh, what a culinary delight was

our famous salad. The cook chopped up a 5-gallon can of lettuce early in

the morning. The dressing was supposed to be mayonnaise, but the only

resemblance to that dressing was that it was white. The Green Dragon’s

mayonnaise had the texture, appearance and taste of Milk of Magnesia. It

was poured over the lettuce--which was not chilled or refrigerated in any

way and accordingly was the same temperature as the kitchen in which it

reposed.

In the third compartment of the blue plate resided a large spoonful of

canned peas and carrots. In the morning, the cook --an ill-tempered man

named Jack--opened a 5-gallon can of peas and carrots and dished them out

during the day to fill up that third compartment.

We waiters and counter men yelled our orders to the cook through a

3-by-6-foot opening into the kitchen. Well, one day I said or did

something that snapped the always hair-trigger temper of the cook, and he

threw a whole plate full of canned peas and carrots at me. Nimbly, I

ducked and thus avoided quick and premature decapitation. Not content

with my escape, I then sneered at the cook and said, “Yeah, yeah, you

missed me.”

The cook, who was pretty big, reached through the opening through which

the canned peas and carrots had gone and said, “Pick them up, each one of

them individually.” I considered refusing, but the cook was not only big,

he was also more important to the restaurant than me. Rather than lose my

job, I spent the next half an hour on my hands and knees picking up each

pea and each piece of carrot from around our customers’ feet. It was very

embarrassing.

My next misadventure involving canned peas and carrots occurred in Guam

during World War II. It was between operations, and a group of us got

some seeds from the states and grew a vegetable garden in the jungle.

We worked our fannies off clearing the jungle, planting and growing our

vegetables. These would be the first fresh vegetables we had tasted since

we left home.

Finally, after much effort, our vegetable garden matured. We loaded

ourselves with fresh tomatoes, carrots, string beans and peas and trooped

to the mess tent. We threw our harvest down on a table and could hardly

wait for the cook to congratulate us on our efforts.

Alas, the cook in Guam had a disposition like the cook in the Green

Dragon cafe. Instead of showing enthusiasm for the job we had done, the

cook swept our vegetables off the table and on to the dirt. Then he

reached back, pulled out a 5-gallon can, opened it with three whacks of a

cleaver and snarled, “This is what you’re getting for dinner. I ain’t got

time to cook those vegetables.”

You guessed it. In the 5-gallon can were peas and carrots. And that’s why

I hate canned peas and carrots.

* ROBERT GARDNER is a Corona del Mar resident and former judge. His

column runs Tuesdays.