“Bread and Butter”
By Mort Laitner
Steven White knew how to butter his bread. When it came to this skill he was a perfectionist.
The first time I observed him with a butter knife in hand, we sat in the Baton Rouge’s only British decor restaurant—Steak and Ale.
Steak and Ale with its dimly lit dining room, it’s dark-paneled wooden walls and its stained-glass windows was loaded with atmosphere.This cozy outpost of Britannia gave the patron an urge to become an Anglophile or at least take a trip across the pond. Here in the land of grits, a juicy sirloin and a cold mug of beer warmed a colonialist’s soul.
Our waitress was dressed in a nineteenth century British servant’s costume which consisted of a long dark brown dress and a fluffy white blouse. She also wore a broad southern-hospitality smile.
As she placed pewter mugs of ice water on the table, she drawled, “Y’all want some honey-wheat bread?”
“Yes ma’am.” We replied in unison.
The way the waitress pronounced “bread” triggered an automatic brain response and I started humming The Newbeats 1964 hit tune.
As I hummed, Steven cut a thick slice off the loaf. He dug his knife into the pewter butter dish and gouged out some nearly white butter.
Ignoring my humming, Steven firmly held the bread with his left hand and slowly coated the slice. He tasked himself with covering every centimeter of the bread. Time slowed as I watched, him repeat his meticulous spreading technique.
Over and over again, his knife caressed the bread. I kept watching and humming:
I like bread and butter,
I like toast and jam,
That’s what my baby feeds me,
I’m her loving man.
Then in a Yankee second, I cut, buttered and bit into my slice. While Steven shmeared, I ate.
When he determined that he had reached the point of perfection, he lifted the slice to his mouth and slowly bit into it. He relished every morsel.
Finally, he noticed that I was starring.
He intoned, “What you looking at boy?”
I paused, shallowed and then said. “Why do you take so much time buttering your bread?”
“Cause my daddy taught me to take time to do the job right. Daddy said, ‘It pays off in the end.’
I’m an artist moving butter from my pallet to my edible canvas.”
He paused and then added, “Plus, I love my bread and butter.”
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“Bread And Butter” lyrics – THE NEWBEATS
“Bread And Butter”
| Play Music |
I like bread and butter,
I like toast and jam,
That’s what my baby feeds me,
I’m her loving man.
He likes bread and butter,
He likes toast and jam,
That’s what his baby feeds him,
He’s her loving man.
She don’t cook mashed potatoes,
She don’t cook T-bone steaks,
Don’t feed me peanut butter,
She knows that I can’t take.
He likes bread and butter,
He likes toast and jam,
That’s what his baby feeds him,
He’s her loving man.
Got home early one morning,
Much to my surprise,
She was eating chicken and dumplings
With some other guy.
No more bread and butter,
No more toast and jam,
I found my baby eating
With some other man.
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