From the beginning I was destined to lead a life full of food and travel. I came into the world in 1969 and took my first flight at the tender age of three months. My parents, fresh out of college armed with bachelor’s degrees, decided to escape the chaos in America at the time and pursue careers in academics outside the USA. After sending tons of resumes around the world they landed teaching jobs at Carol Morgan, an American school in Santo Domingo. They loved the idea of raising a family in the Dominican Republic, where they could play tennis and take me to the beach everyday.
Tragically, my father was killed a year later in a motorcycle accident and my mom and I returned to Washington, PA where she would eventually marry my godfather Sam from Monongahela, who I called Dad. My brother and sister came next. While I don’t remember those first couple of years, some of my earliest memories are at five years old flying by myself. Each year after baseball season I became an “unaccompanied minor” on a TWA flight from Pittsburgh to Philadelphia so I could visit my grandparents in South Jersey for my very own three week summer vacation. I would eagerly begin counting the summer days to departure like it was Christmas.
Every August when that day came my dad would walk me onto the plane, Stoney’s beer in one hand, Winston cigarette in the other. He would plop me down in the first seat where the seemingly 7 ft tall “stewardesses” would spoil me with attention, ginger ale and lots of snacks. I still have a few of those little plastic TWA wings they would pin to my chest. These journeys would often included visits into the cockpit to put on headphones and talk to the pilots at 30,000 ft somewhere high above Pennsylvania. Once at the gate in Philly my Granny and Pop Pop would walk onto the plane and scoop me up and vacation was officially on. Wow, how times have changed!
At their house I would spend my days playing with my cousins on the train tracks, at the beach in Ocean City or at my Uncle’s summer camp called Capps Day Camp. Here I would do all the things kids do at summer camp like swimming, boating and other fun activities like archery and weekend camping excursions into Delaware and Maryland where we would catch crabs and bluefish and cook them over a fire on the beach.
If I wasn’t at the beach or camp, I could usually be found at my grandparent’s restaurant called The Hickory Steak House in Bridgeton, NJ eating open face ribeye sandwiches covered in onions and cheese. My favorite dessert was tapioca pudding, the thick rubbery top and fresh whipped cream was like heaven. I have vivid memories of walking through their busy kitchen, dodging waitresses Aunt Ruth, Hannah, Mildred and other nice ladies most of whom were related to me. I remember lifting the ladles of soup asking the cooks what kind of soup it was and how they made it. My favorite was the house soup, French Onion, I’d eat the crispy dark edges of cheese off the sides of the crock first, before dunking my spoon through the thick raft of gooey provolone.
The cooks Charlie, Herbie and Donald, decked out in white chef coats and tall white chef hats, always took time to explain things to me. I have no doubt this is where my real interest in cooking food came from. It wasn’t until I was much older that I realized maybe those cooks were extra friendly to me because I was the owner’s grandson, but it doesn’t matter now.
Every single morning like clockwork Pop Pop would cook me a feast for breakfast. Delicious scrambled eggs, creamy and soft with lots of fresh ground pepper, small diced home fries perfectly browned and seasoned with the fat from the bacon that was always on the table too. Sweet sausage patties made an appearance maybe 3-4 times a week. If I asked the night before he would make pancakes, he called them flapjacks, or waffles with maple syrup and as much butter as I wanted. This was always after a wedge of cantaloupe and a glass of orange juice. God only knows how I finished everything, but I did.
Wake up time was 6:30 am, no exceptions, no delays. He would call my name and the smell of that food would sit me right up in bed. If I didn’t wake up after the next call of my name he would sneak into my room, lift the sheets and dump a bucket of ice on me. I only made that mistake a few times!
Granny and Pop Pop also loved to take me out to dinner. We would often drive an hour to The Charcoal Pit in Delaware, or into Philadelphia to a steak house they loved. There were rules here too. I could order ANYTHING I wanted on the menu, but if I didn’t finish it, I had to pay for it. I remember one time I had to help cut the grass in the blazing sun because I went a bit overboard ordering two dinners the night before. Another mistake I only made once.
Thanks for reading. Stay tuned for the next story in a couple of weeks about my first restaurant job and how I ended up where I am today.
– Jason Capps
