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Memoir of the Sunday Brunch

Memoir of the Sunday Brunch

by Julia Pandl


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For Julia Pandl, the rite of passage into young-adulthood included mandatory service at her family’s restaurant, where she watched as her father—who was also the chef—ruled with the strictness of a drill sergeant.

At age twelve, Julie was initiated into the rite of the Sunday brunch, a weekly madhouse at her father’s Milwaukee-based restaurant, where she and her eight older siblings before her did service in a situation of controlled chaos, learning the ropes of the family business and, more important, learning life lessons that would shape them for all the years to come. In her wry memoir, she looks back on those formative years, a time not just of growing up but, ultimately, of becoming a source of strength and support as the world her father knew began to change into a tougher, less welcoming place.

Part coming-of-age story à la The Tender Bar, part win- dow into the mysteries of the restaurant business à la Kitchen Confidential, Julie Pandl provides tender wisdom about the bonds between fathers and daughters and about the simple pleasures that lie in the daily ritual of breaking bread. This honest and exuberant memoir marks the debut of a writer who discovers that humor exists in even the smallest details of our lives and that the biggest moments we ever experience can happen behind the pancake station at the Sunday brunch.

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781616201722
Publisher: Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill
Publication date: 11/13/2012
Pages: 256
Sales rank: 552,857
Product dimensions: 5.62(w) x 8.02(h) x 0.75(d)

About the Author

Julia Pandl was born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, where she still lives and works. Memoir of the Sunday Brunch is her first book. When she is not writing and otherwise working, she moonlights as a stand-up comic. Author website:

Read an Excerpt


Blueberry or Plain

I thought my dad was just like every other dad, until the day I worked my first Sunday brunch. I stepped over a line that afternoon, a thin wrinkle in time, hanging in the ether between breakfast and lunch. It was subtle, a wisp of a moment, like God giggling as he licked his thumb and turned the page on Providence. Distracted by the fact that my father had traded his sanity for a paper chef hat and a set of utility tongs, I missed it — but the moment happened. They say the Lord rested on the seventh day. Not so. He went out to brunch with the rest of creation.

I began working at my father's restaurant, with the rest of my siblings, at twelve. George, my father, enlisted all of us at an early age. Child labor laws didn't apply back then in our family, so my father could do anything he wanted with us, and he did. There were nine of us: Johnny, Jimmy, Katie, Peggy, Chrissy, Amy, Steve, Jeremiah, and me. I never thought there was anything unusually large about my family. I still don't. Today, when people hear nine kids, they always gasp. The gasp that offers an implied "a lot" or "too many" or "holy cow." But when you're number nine, when you're the last one who arrives at the party, just before time runs out and the uterine door is slammed shut forever, you don't gasp — you sigh. I suppose some of the older siblings, the ones forced to rinse out poopy diapers left soaking in the toilet before they used it, may have occasionally thought eight or nine was one or two too many, but not me. I never saw what life looked like without them. Sure, I imagined it, every time Jeremiah stuck his disgusting bulbous white wart in my face, but that just doesn't count. To me, nine was normal.

I never saw what life looked like before the restaurant either. It was present in the definition of our family — the member that equaled the whole. Employment there, when we were kids, was simply understood. Every day the sun came up, and food needed to be prepared. I never heard a single conversation regarding whether or not one my siblings would go to work. What I did hear was the phone ringing, someone calling in sick, and Peggy and Chrissy fighting about whose turn it was to go. Perhaps we could have unionized, but we were too scared, and too small, to think of such a thing. The eight of them went before me, some before their tenth birthday, so I guess I was lucky.

Here's how I ended up in my father's chain gang: I slipped up and got caught stealing time on the sofa.

It was July, I think, 1982. Our summer cottage in Cedar Grove had become our permanent residence the previous August. It was a Swiss chalet replica tucked at the end of a gravel road along the Wisconsin shore of Lake Michigan. I had access to some of the most pristine beach in North America, yet instead I chose to watch TV. Late one beautiful Saturday morning, George, my father, caught me lying on our woolly plaid couch, still in my Lanz nightgown, watching The Lone Ranger. That was the moment I kissed unemployment good-bye.

Admittedly, it was a rookie mistake. Even at twelve, I knew enough to run from the TV when I heard his footsteps on the loose floorboard outside their bedroom door. Television existed in our house for the moon landing, assassinations, and my mother's sanity. Period. For us kids, any enjoyment via TV was strictly prohibited.

So that morning, my father went on a semihysterical tirade about a beautiful summer day, reading a book, laziness, and the covered-wagon days.

I just sat there with my mouth open.

Then, his parting words, "You're coming with me to work the brunch tomorrow," slapped me out of the television's tranquil grip.

Maybe I sabotaged myself, because in truth, I was actually excited to go. I adored my siblings, and aside from Jeremiah, they had been trickling out the door, one by one, for years. Johnny and Jimmy were married with families of their own, and the rest were either in college or getting ready to start. When they did come home on weekends and holidays, usually to work, I felt an excitement that I think is unique to the babies of the family — and puppies. If I'd had a tail, it would have wagged. So I raced to catch up with them; anything they were allowed to do that I wasn't held a delicious mystique. Once in a while, as our parents slept, my siblings secretly let me sit on a lap at the kitchen table in my pajamas, teaching me how to fold pizza and say "shit" while they chatted with their friends. But their time at the restaurant had still remained a mystery. After a full day at work, they came home with hands smelling of smoked fish and stale strawberries. I heard tales of needle-nose pliers and slipping the pinbones from a side of whitefish. They never talked much about George. Looking back, it seems a little odd. I honestly don't think it ever occurred to any of them to alert me, to say something like, "Hey, head's up, Dad's ... um ... not quite right on Sundays, so don't do anything stupid." That would have been nice, but it's not how they rolled. In a family business, some things, no matter how out of the ordinary, are just accepted as "normal." They didn't know any better; therefore, neither did I. All I knew was that when my time finally came, I would clean flat after flat of strawberries. And I would do it as well and as quickly as my siblings did, if not better and faster.

OF COURSE, I had been at the restaurant hundreds of times. More often than not, though, I was just along for the ride. I had never worked an entire day. Sometimes I carried a five-gallon pickle bucket and cleaned the parking lot of candy wrappers and chewed gum, but mostly I just sat at the bar, ate hot fudge sundaes, and waited for someone to take me home. My sister Katie would make fluffy grasshoppers for the customers, then pour me the remains from the blender. It was wickedly cool, minty, and grown up.

My father didn't wear a suit, sit at a desk, or hang around a water cooler, but his job at the restaurant seemed regular enough to me. I never gave it much thought. Truth be told, I didn't really care. He left the house early every day and he came home late. He brought home raw meat and other unidentifiable leftovers from his office. So what? Aside from that, George was just like every other dad: he dressed like a goober and was never home. Saturday mornings were when we usually saw him. Before going to work, he made us eggs, any way we liked them: scrambled, fried, over easy, over hard, stomped on, or perfectly softboiled.

On the rare night he was home, my father read to me: Stuart Little, Little Women, Little House on the Prairie. Lots of Littles. Before we moved to Cedar Grove, we lived in a redbrick colonial on Prospect Avenue in Milwaukee, a street lined with elm trees and loaded with kids. There were the Hoys, the Reillys, the Popaliskys, the Dineens, the Kliemans, the Kublys, and the O'Laughlins, and each family had a pile of kids. There was chaos everywhere, tumbling in every dryer, left in every driveway, smoking behind every garage, and stuck to the bottom of every shoe. One family on the block, the Downeys, had only two kids. The father was a world-renowned composer, the mother a famous opera singer. Their son and daughter channeled their energy into creative pursuits such as piano playing and ballet dancing. The rest of us channeled our energy into fashioning bongs out of soda cans and lighting stuff on fire.

Our house had six proper bedrooms; the seventh, a converted walk-in closet, was mine. I was an "oops" baby. I slept in a youth bed — not quite a twin but not a crib either — shoved up against the wall. When George came in to visit me, he had to squeeze in like a sardine in a can, head on the pillow, feet on the top of the footboard. I liked to sandwich between him and the wall, folding myself in half, resting my head on his big belly, with my dirty feet up on the wall and my knees around my ears. My room was a comfy spot. During those visits, I sucked my thumb and listened to my dad's soft voice reading about Stuart Little's adventures. Every now and then I caught him reading with his eyes closed. His ability to see the words through the puffy, pinkish folds of his eyelids was downright supernatural. I guess after eight kids he didn't need the book anymore; he could just recite the story by heart. Still, it scared the bejesus out of me.

Like most dads, he had various and exceptionally irritating ways of waking us up. Some mornings, he'd enter our rooms wearing only his boxers, slapping his stomach as if it were a snare drum and singing, "School days, school days, good ole golden rule days." Other days he whipped open the shades and bellowed, "Rise and shine, daylight in the swamps!" The most offensive was the Bee. He entered buzzing, pulled off the covers, and pinched us repeatedly, until irritation finally got us out of bed. Glasses of cold water were used on my dope-smoking siblings.

My father did not golf or play tennis. He did not run, swim, or jog. Once in a while, before we moved to Cedar Grove, he'd ride his bike to work. He wore a white button-down oxford shirt, red tartan plaid pants secured tightly around his right ankle with a rubber band, black socks, and brown wingtip shoes. His stomach was rock hard and rounded, like a watermelon, his legs skinny, like bamboo shoots with feet. He kept in shape by drinking beer and brandy Manhattans — not at the same time — and eating cheese so noxious it could be melted and used to strip varnish. He kept his hair cut tennis-ball short. He never napped. He wore bow ties decorated with unicorns, which, on him, were never stuffy. They just said: "Damn glad to meet you."

ON MY FIRST Sunday brunch, we pulled into the parking lot a little before eight in the morning, my eyes still swollen with sleep. George looked at me and said, "Wait here."

What's this? I thought. He's not even going to let me out of the car.

He returned a few minutes later, knocked on the window, and held up the pickle bucket. "Pick up the parking lot," he said.

Outside, I was immediately covered in a blanket of July heat. The humidity filled my lungs like a sack of wet gym socks.

"It's gonna be a scorcher today," he said, chuckling as he walked in the restaurant's back door.

Picking up the parking lot was among the dirtier jobs at the restaurant, but nothing compared to cleaning out the grease trap. It looked pretty harmless to me, but according to my siblings, opening it released olfactory horrors that could cause brain damage. If you complained about another job, George often threatened you with the grease trap, so now I silently took the bucket and headed straight for a pile of cigarette butts. Customers often emptied entire ashtrays right next to their cars with no regard for the small hands that had to pick up the mess. They never put any money in their ashtrays either — just old candy, gum, and aluminum flip tops. I used my bare hands — it never occurred to me that a broom and a dustpan might have been helpful, or even a pair of gloves. The work was delicate and disgusting but better than brain damage.

After I was sufficiently drenched in sweat, George opened the back door and let me in. Finally, I had officially been signed to the team, the ninth man. I stepped across the threshold into my future, the big leagues, the bowels of the basement, where my father would teach me the secret handshake.

He was already dressed: a white chef's T-shirt with snaps, houndstooth check chef's pants rolled up to his shins, and brown socks and shoes covered with what looked like pancake batter, but I knew it was Ammens powder. He had a thing about Ammens. In a constant battle against chafing, he had Fitzgerald's Pharmacy deliver cases of the stuff to the restaurant and the house. Keeping his business dry was a top priority. Of course, chef pants are loose, and so are boxers, so 90 percent of the powder ended up on the carpeting next to his dresser and in the seams of his work shoes.

That Sunday morning I sensed something different about him as he ordered me up the stairs to the kitchen, a tone I didn't recognize. A little pang of dread sprouted in my gut — I'd felt it before, when my brother Jimmy threatened to hang me on the bathroom doorknob by my underpants — but then I smelled the brunch.

Brunch was the best smell in the world. It was real food, fresh food, a potpourri of bacon, sausage, strawberries, raspberries, fresh-squeezed orange juice, cookies, cakes, cinnamon buns, and apple strudel, one scent after another, dancing like Fred and Ginger at the party in my nose. I knew then that heaven smelled like Sunday mornings.

After I washed my hands until they were raw, my sister Amy handed me an apron. I was too short to reach the stainless countertop, so she told me to flip my bucket over and hop up. The party ended quickly when she set another bucket next to me, this one filled with cooked shrimp, and said, "Start peeling." I looked over at a pile of ice full of caraway seeds and celery bottoms. The hot shrimp underneath gave rise to a hot steam that reeked of the sea. The smell made me gag.

"How many should I do?"

"All of 'em."

Crying was not an option, so I laughed. "Seriously?" "Yeah, c'mon, there's four more buckets over there." She pointed to a spot next to the stove. "Hurry up. We open the doors in an hour and a half. I'll go find you some chef clothes. You're doing pancakes."

I burrowed my fist into the ice. "I can't ... get —"

"Just do it. Dad's freaking out." She scurried away.

I was going to say, "I can't get at them because my hand is already frozen," but somehow I knew it didn't matter. Instinct kicked in; my hand could freeze solid and fall off, yet brunch would still go on. Judging by the amount of shrimp waiting, that bucket was my destiny.

She did say "chef clothes," though. That was something. Every team member has to have a uniform. I fantasized about looking all cheflike and professional — pants, coat, and tall paper hat like George, maybe even a scarf tied just so around my neck. Amy had said "doing pancakes" too. I had no idea what that meant, but if it was in uniform, I could perform. I'd never made a pancake in my life; I had no idea how to tell when they were ready to flip or when they were done, but I was up to the challenge. Besides, I'd look cool. The siblings would all wonder how they had survived without me. Customers would ask George where he'd been hiding me all these years, and he would beam with pride and wonder the same thing. He'd put his arm around me and say, "Oh, this is Julia. She's my baby."

I had to do well with pancakes. Doing pancakes would be my ticket off the bucket.

A little later, my father peeked over my shoulder to check my work, and I just about toppled over. He had a different look in his eyes, unlike the one he had when we had parked our bikes in the driveway. This expression was glassy, distracted, and a little possessed.

I showed him my bloodied fingertips, cut by shrimp tails that had poked my frozen skin — and then something happened.

He twitched. This was not your run-of-the-mill little eyebrow tick. I watched it develop, moving in stages, like a body skidding across the ice, or a ten-car pileup. His eyes closed, his neck swiveled, his right shoulder rolled, his knee jerked, and his foot kicked. Ammens, like tiny snowflakes falling from somewhere in his pants, floated slowly to the floor. At once amazed that his head was still attached and afraid that it might happen again, I thought, What the hell was that?

"Dad?" I said.

He just looked at my meager progress with the shrimp. "You know, Grandma was slow, but she was old." He walked away.

I was too shocked for the insult to register. I had seen variations on "the twitch" before, like, every time someone put the milk carton back in the fridge with two sips left in it or when he found an errant spoon in the ice cream. But that day at brunch, the twitch had an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. People's bodies were not supposed to behave like that unless they were wearing a straitjacket and buckled to a bed. And those people were heavily medicated. They could not possibly make soft-boiled eggs, or read Stuart Little with their eyes closed — could they? And what was that shit about Grandma?

Amy finally arrived with my chef clothes and took me to the employee bathroom to change. She kicked open the door and disappeared behind a wall of smoke before I got the chance to ask her about Dad's twitch. I followed. Waitresses stood before cloudy mirrors, pulling up skirts and nylons, tidying aprons, corralling hair by using bobby pin after bobby pin and gallons of Aqua Net. Cigarettes dangled from every lower lip. This was the dressing room, the inner sanctum. I was part of the club now, dressing among restaurant legends whose names I'd heard around the kitchen table — Margie, Marlene, Bernice, Gail, Sue, Geri, Willie, Lillie — names that commanded George's respect and therefore mine.


Excerpted from "Memoir of the Sunday Brunch"
by .
Copyright © 2013 Julia Pandl.
Excerpted by permission of ALGONQUIN BOOKS OF CHAPEL HILL.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Table of Contents

Author's Note ix

Part I 1

1 Blueberry or Plain 3

2 Moving Days 22

3 Driving Lessons 35

4 The Backstory 51

5 Bon Appétit 63

6 Goddamn It, Jeremiah 70

7 Mother's Day 90

8 Rise and Shine 102

9 Walkin'-around Money 119

Part II 139

10 From There to Here 141

11 Shalimar 152

12 The Promise 158

13 Hocus-Pocus 164

14 Assisi 178

15 Church and Brunch 185

16 Three Days 200

17 Swedish Fish 207

18 Stella 229

Afterword 257

Acknowledgments 259

What People are Saying About This

From the Publisher

“Pandl’s Restaurant in Milwaukee is a Midwest tradition: What makes Julia Pandl’s memoir shine is not only its charm and humor but also its insider’s look at how high standards and love equals extraordinary food. In Memoir of the Sunday Brunch, she cooks up a delicious story that deserves a wide audience. We thank her for the memories.” —Jacquelyn Mitchard, author of The Deep End of the Ocean

“I don’t use the word ‘charming’ often, but that is the word that kept coming to mind as I read Julia Pandl’s memoir. Funny, sad, sweet, inspiring, every page wrapped in genuine emotion and sharp-eyed wisdom, Memoir of the Sunday Brunch is the work of a writer we’ll want to watch.”
—Keith Dixon, author of Cooking for Gracie and The Art of Losing

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