CPD

By Reeve Chudd

Sometimes, an arithmetic or statistical obsession in someone can be annoying, but my nephew’s discriminatory feeding calculations are a constant source of pride and envy for me.  

My brother, Bart, and his wife, Cindy, worked for the United States Agency for International Development (USAID, for short) and lived somewhere near Lima, Peru, trying their best to improve the economic conditions of farmers in the Huallaga Valley with better agricultural science.  

But this story isn’t about them.  It’s about their son, Danny, who lived with my younger family in Hoopeston, Illinois, while his parents are in Peru, and now off and on while he attends Purdue University in West Lafayette, Indiana, about an hour’s drive away.  Unlike my brother and his wife, Danny inherited the Math Gene.  You know what that is, right?  It’s the kid in elementary school whose most practiced exercise is raising his hand in the air as the universal signal of “Hey, ‘Teach’, I know the answer”.  My brother tells me that what the elementary teachers would often ask, when the subject was arithmetic, was “Who knows besides Danny?”

The Math Gene comes from my father, and because I, to the exclusion of my brother, inherited that trait, with my father’s encouragement I naturally became a certified public accountant which, other than academia, is a truly arithmetic profession.  Sometimes I even use a bit of elementary algebra to solve circular calculations with variables in costs and expenses.  Dad was a civil engineer for the City of Peoria, and his utensils were a pencil, an ancient slide rule, a compass (the one used to draw circles) and a pad of paper or a blackboard.  Me? I use an electronic adding machine, a computer for generating spreadsheets, budgeting and audit sampling and, yes, sometimes even a mechanical pencil.  Danny is purely computer driven; he only uses a writing utensil for scribbling his notes while taking a test.  So, we three of different generations thrive in that sea of digits.

Of course, what commonly comes with the Math Gene is the fashion and style deficit.  Danny and I can barely dress ourselves (like my father), but my brother has always been a slave to fashion. And just as my father and I, Danny has two colors in his wardrobe: white and black.  I truly believe that, in our collective subconsciousness, we three streamline our attire to minimize the pressure of our clothing selection challenges.  

Further, proving that opposites attract, when I rhetorically ask someone what the calculator of my wife, Mary, looks like, I merely make strong eye contact and reply: “You’re looking at it,” because, if truth be told, Mary has trouble with elementary multiplication tables.  But she makes our physical world thrive with beauty and style.  My bi-chromatic wardrobe is a constant annoyance to my bride, just as my father’s was to my mother.  Danny, as you might guess, was a mathematics major at Purdue. 

During a weekday in the fall, I received a text from Danny with the simple message: “Any chance you could take me out to dinner next Saturday; just you, not Aunt Mary?”  

I texted him back, inquiring why he wanted to exclude my wife from the dining adventure.  He replied that he wanted to bring a new girlfriend and thought that I’d be less judgmental and intimidating than would my Mary’s usual protective nature.  I agreed and explained to my wife, who was hurt nonetheless, but acceded to the boy’s wishes, knowing that I’d give her a fabulously detailed report of the outing, complete with photos and videos.

Now an adult, Danny is a joy with whom to break bread. We talk about his classes, his friends and his professors, (whom, for the most part, he adores).  Twenty-five years of memory deterioration have obliterated virtually all of my previous knowledge of higher mathematics, but Danny patiently instructs me in the details of the Banach-Tarski paradox, Zeno’s paradox, Knuth’s Arrows, Graham’s Number and other mathematically erudite concepts and puzzles, and I take great pleasure in knowing that I’m likely his only living family member who can possibly gain a scintilla of insight from these ruminations.  

The cost of tuition, books, fraternity room and board at Purdue is a strain upon our collective family.  His fraternity serves meals on weekdays, but Danny is on his own on the weekends.  He contributes to this burden with his summer job compensation and his occasional income from tutoring wealthy children in computer games (yes, people paid him to school young children in Minecraft and other virtual pursuits), yet we still struggled to cover his total food needs.  A contributing factor to the deficit is that Danny can eat like a horse.  My generation would say that he has a “hollow leg”.  

This financial dilemma and Danny’s natural budgeting instincts led him to identify the purveyors of food on and off campus which would produce the greatest caloric values relative to prices.  Accordingly, he created his paramount statistic, Calories Per Dollar, or “CPD” for short.

Calories per dollar is a concept that measures the nutritional value of food in relation to its cost. It refers to the number of calories one can obtain per unit of currency, usually a dollar. He uses this metric to assess the affordability and nutritional efficiency of food options.  Of course, intuitively, one will understand that calorie-dense foods with lower prices tend to have a higher CPD. These may include staple items like candy and other sugar-laced foods, fast food, as well as starches such as rice, pasta and potatoes and many processed foods. But Danny’s CPD algorithm was far more complex than giving a high score to a chocolate bar; he also integrated into his assessment a food’s nutritional value. Thus, nutrient density, i.e., the amount of essential nutrients (vitamins and minerals) a food contains in relation to its calorie content, was also part of his comestible calculus. As a final refinement to Danny’s analysis, certain other factors played a minor, but nevertheless essential, role, such as freshness and content of sodium, saturated fat, artificial colors, preservatives and other health-sensitive ingredients.

Fortunately, with his youthful metabolism, Danny didn’t struggle with his weight, so he was less sensitive to fattening foods as were many of his peers and family.  

Thus, on the appointed Saturday, I drove to West Lafayette and retrieved my nephew.  He brought along a very fetching classmate of his, Charlotte, who went by the nickname of “Chickie”.  Apparently, Chickie, a sophomore like Danny, was an aeronautical engineering major, something of a rare offering at Purdue.  I learned that she’d chosen this field because her father was a commercial airline pilot with Delta Airlines and that she’d obtained her pilot’s license the prior year.  She seemed respectful, reserved and upbeat; my initial impression was very positive.

“So, Danny,”I asked, “Where are we going for our robust repast?”

“La Ardilla, Uncle Jack, the height of CPD.  I’ll direct you.  First hang a left at the next intersection.”  

My minimal Spanish vocabulary was sufficient to understand the reference in the name of this eatery.  “Uh, Danny m’boy, a restaurant named ‘The Squirrel’ doesn’t immediately conjure up delectable offerings to me.  Sounds more like ‘Roadkill Greasy Spoon’”.  I noticed in my rearview mirror that Chickie nodded in agreement.

“No, no,” corrected Danny, “it’s my top CPD place!  I introduced my frat brothers to it in September, and now it’s our mainstay.  Chickie and I just started going out, and I haven’t introduced her to La Ardilla.  The food is incredible, and the prices are awesome!  At the next corner, turn right.”

Chickie, somewhat quiet until this moment, inquired, “Have you heard him rant about CPD, Mr. Firestone?”  Her tone was equal parts annoyance and endearment.

“Of course… yes.  I’ve even encouraged Danny to create a newsletter for the campus detailing his CPD research of the local establishments.  In fact, Danny told me that he’d suggested a CPD algorithm for his Computer Science class.”

“Okay, but,” she replied, “this is probably some Mexican place with food to burn your tongue off.  Danny loves spicy.  Me: not so much.  And Danny isn’t fussy about the cleanliness or ambiance of a restaurant.”  

Well did I know of Danny’s attraction or, dare I say, addiction to capsaicin-laced delicacies.  When dining out with me, Danny even carried a bottle of something called, “Spicy Mike’s Hot Sauce” with the warning/product name emblazoned on the label: “YOU DON’T WANT THIS!”.  I once tried it and spent a week’s worth of mouthwash that evening trying to get the taste (and heat) out of my mouth.

“I think that most men are less impressed with a place’s physical presentation than are women, but that’s just an inductive generalization,” I told her.

“Precisely,” chimed Danny.  “And here we are,” he announced. 

This tiny, crackerbox dive was in a strip mall, accompanied by a laundromat and a doughnut shop.  Without exaggeration, it looked to me as if it had survived a nuclear apocalypse.  Patches in the one-story structure were devoid stucco veneer, and I surmised that the parking lot hadn’t been repaired since the statehood of Indiana in 1816.  

As I parked in the tiny lot affixed to this strip mall, I looked inquisitively at Danny, trying to communicate with him nonverbally that this was not the kind of dump to which one would bring a possible romantic partner, but he smiled, nodded enthusiastically and jumped from the car as I parked it, moving to open the rear passenger-side door to retrieve Chickie (thanks to my Mary, who taught him the manners of a gentleman).

La Ardilla contained six tables, each with four vinyl covered chairs for diners, and two ancient pinball machines.  The counter beyond the tables contained the menu under glass, and patrons would make their order there.  My first impression: calling this dive a “restaurant” would be a significant stretch.  On each table, as a “dispenser” for napkins, sat an upright paper towel roll.  In addition, each table contained salt and pepper shakers, a rack with several different hot sauce choices, and a manual bottle opener.

I lowered my gaze to the menu and confirmed Danny’s assessment: prices were indeed outrageously low, justifying Danny’s high CPD rating.  

As further indication of my perception of my nephew’s misjudgment in his selection of eatery, it was dinnertime on a Saturday evening, but we were the only patrons in the place.  I looked over at Chickie; her facial expression was a combination of wide-eyed surprise and the grimace of someone who smelled something offensive, even though the aroma from the kitchen beyond the order counter was quite delicious. At once, my esteem for her rose exponentially, simply because she didn’t turn and run out the door.  She was obviously a young woman with a more than a casual interest in my nephew because she, like I, silently agreed to endure the experience for him, without further protestations.

“Hola, Danny, que pasa?” the cook-dishwasher-owner, Pedro, exclaimed upon seeing my nephew enter.  

Danny, who reluctantly took Spanish in high school, smiled and replied, “hola, Pedro, traje mi tio y a mi amiga para experimentar tu magia.”  I had taught my nephew well: always be positive with folks who serve you food.  Here, he was alerting Pedro that he must cook magical concoctions for the guests.  After all, he knew that the décor was not going to win us over.

“Buenas tardes, Señor y Señorita,” Pedro said respectfully to me and Chickie. “Danny, ella es una novia?” inquiring as to the status of Chickie. 

“Es una posibilidad, Amigo,” replied Danny, holding his right index finger to his lips to signify that the subject must be dropped.

“Well,” said Pedro, gesturing to the menu under glass, “what can I make for you tonight, my friends?”

Chickie stared at the offerings, and without hesitation, inquired, “What can you make that’s not at all spicy?”  Then, pointing to Danny, she mentioned, “He can have all of the spice from mine.”

“No problemo, Señorita,” replied Pedro.  “I will make anything you wish on the menu muy soso, muy suave, eh, mild.

“For both of us,” I chimed in.  Danny, while at our home, had been trying to encourage me to develop a tolerance for red pepper, which he claimed to be good for my aging heart, and I had even gotten to the point of adding a dash of it to my daily coffee.  Still, I was a neophyte to the master level of tolerance which Danny had achieved for engulfing one’s tastebuds with fire. 

 Chickie and I each ordered the staples of Americanized comida Mexicana, the “combo” plate of one chicken enchilada, one beef taco and one chile relleno.  Danny said, “Por favor, Pedro, da mi orden.”  

Apparently, Danny was such a regular that he could just say, “I’ll have my ‘usual’”, and Pedro would comply.  It turned out that my nephew was well acquainted with more rarified Central American cuisine than the fare proffered at chain Mexican restaurants.  His “usual” was tacos birria, which were corn tacos filled with goat meat (one could substitute beef, lamb or chicken, but that would spoil the tradition, and Pedro’s feelings, I’d imagine) which had been marinated in a sauce made of vinegar, dried chiles, garlic, herbs and spices before being cooked in a broth.  The resulting broth was served alongside the tacos for dipping. 

“Water and Mexican Coke for all of us,” added Danny.  He explained to us that Mexican Coca-Cola, bottled in Mexico, is made with only cane sugar, whereas American Coke contains high-fructose corn syrup.  I learned that the taste was indeed different, and I liked it. 

After Pedro committed our order to memory, he beckoned us to have a seat at our choice of tables.  The bottles of Coke were stored in a refrigeration cabinet within the restaurant seating area, and Danny retrieved three for us.  Next to the drink cabinet was a stack of plastic glasses and a pitcher of water, and I poured each of us a glass.

Danny withdrew his phone and made a call.  “Obie, it’s Digger.  There’s no waiting at La Ardilla, man.  Round up some of los hermanos and get your butts over here.  Pedro needs the business.”  I later understood that Danny was speaking to his fraternity brother, Geoff Wilson, who had been initiated into the Sigma Gamma fraternity along with Danny.  As a pledge, Danny had mentioned to the brothers that, while in high school, he’d gotten a summer job at Floral Hill Cemetery in Hoopeston, hence his nickname. Unfortunately for Geoff, whose given name was Geoffrey, his first student ID at Purdue was misprinted as “Oboffrey Wilson”, and he’d consequently gotten the nickname of “Obie” as a pledge at the fraternity.  Apparently, Obie got the message and accepted Danny’s direction to round up some of the brothers, as the fraternity didn’t serve Saturday dinners.

Within about twenty minutes, Pedro brought our orders to our table and then disappeared behind the counter into his kitchen.  A moment later, six Sigma Gamma stalwarts burst into La Ardilla.  Danny introduced me and Chickie to his brethren.  I could tell that Chickie was both joyful and slightly intimidated that she was the sole female among so much testosterone.  Danny had not yet brought Chickie as a date to any fraternity function, and so this was her first encounter with his entourage, and vice versa.

“Wow, Obie,” said Danny. “You really did great!”

“These are all of us without dates tonight,” explained Obie.  

Pedro reappeared at the counter, and a chorus rang out from his newly arrived customers, “PEDRO!!!” The glow upon Pedro’s face was palpable. It wasn’t going to be a Saturday night failure after all.

Then Obie screamed out, “Tacos birria all around, Pedro my good man.  And keep ‘em coming!  Mexican Coke for everyone, too!”  Obie’s father was a very successful hedge fund manager, and it occurred to Danny that his buddy had been so successful in attracting his cohorts to La Ardilla by Obie’s express promise to be the sole Patrón for the feast.  Of course, I surmised that because Pedro’s prices were so low, the CPD of his menu attracted Danny as well as his brothers on a limited food budget.

The fellows joined tables so that we’d all be seated for the banquet together, and they began their rowdy banter and laughter.  I was impressed that Chickie seemed comfortable with the increased volume, but even more impressed with the excited language of Danny’s brothers, devoid of expletives and exhibiting an exceptional collective vocabulary.  Having only visited the fraternity once, when Danny invited me to a “Father’s Day” celebration the spring before (when every frat brother was probably on his best behavior), this was my first encounter with the unbridled fraternity contingent. I started taking videos with my phone (making certain to catch a shot of Chickie smiling and laughing), so that I could share them later with Mary.  I knew that she’d be equally impressed.

Ben Fitzgerald, known at the fraternity as “Monk” because during his initiation, fearing failure and rejection, he’d agreed to remain celibate during his college career (and, according to Danny, had thus far not wavered from his oath, possibly from lack of opportunity rather than emotional fortitude), politely drew Chickie into the conversation.  “Chickie and I are in two classes together.”  Monk was an aeronautical engineering major as well. 

Chickie, caught with her mouth full, smiled and nodded her confirmation.  Swallowing, she added, “Yes, and one of those professors doesn’t bathe regularly.  The front row in the classroom is usually empty for a good reason.”

“Yeah, Professor Fink.  We call him ‘Dr. Stink’”, agreed Monk. “I think that his hair is the next major oil field discovery.  But he’s a really good teacher for Fluid Mechanics.”  Chickie again nodded.

Just then, Pedro walked from behind the counter with a magnificent platter of goat tacos ordered, and he was accompanied by a small boy, who turned out to be Pedro’s son, Marco, carrying two bowls of dipping broth.

“MARCO!!!” screamed the brothers, and the child broke into a huge smile at their recognition.  

Danny then brought out his special “YOU DON’T WANT THIS” hot sauce, to the chorus of “YES!!” from the other brothers.  

“Aha, secret condimentum!,” chimed in Monk, who had attended Catholic schools before college and absorbed some ridiculous Latin phrases he was wont to express, even though Greek phrases were more likely to be uttered at Sigma Gamma. “That stuff’ll burn the hair off your chest!”

As the brothers all reached to the platter to gain access to this bounty and partake in Danny’s hot sauce, John Mastbrook, a senior whose nickname was “Gator”, named for the mascot of the University of Florida where his father was a tenured history professor, told me that La Ardilla had been adopted as a revered meeting place by Sigma Gamma.  Looking over at Chickie and then turning his head to view the physical attributes of the location, he added, “This place probably scares away 85% of the student body, so we’re probably the only regulars here.” 

“That’s probably a gross underestimation,” said Chickie. “But the food is really delicious,” she admitted. “Score one for Danny and his CPD.”  She held out her hand to Danny, and he, with mouth filled with marinated goat meat, grabbed hers and held it softly, almost longingly, for several seconds.

Danny rose to his feet, holding his bottle of Mexican Coke in an outstretched hand, and toasted “To La Ardilla, numero uno of CPD!” Obviously, Danny had shared his evaluative system with his brethren.

His brothers grabbed their bottles and rose. “Καλός (Greek for “good”, pronounced “KAH-Loce”)!!

“Hail Pedro, the master chef and bottle washer!” uttered another brother, Matt Swanson, known in his fraternity circles as “Rooster” because of his thick red hair. “Καλός, Pedro” chanted the brothers in response.  Almost in response, out came Pedro and Marco to replenish the taco platter and dipping broth.

Chickie, until then seemingly quite satisfied with her combo plate, asked Danny if she could try a taco birria.  “OK,” said Danny, “but without the special sauce.  And have your water ready in case the spice in the goat meat hits you too hard.”

So, she grabbed one of the tacos, looked at all of the brothers, who now were anxiously anticipating this newcomer’s reaction to their “regular” bill of fare, and took a huge bite.  After a few chews, she smiled, followed by her quickly raising her right hand and making a fanning motion on her mouth and downing an entire glass of water.  Her cheeks were flushed, and she held her tongue out with her mouth open, much to the laughter and praise of all.  I knew that every single brother of Danny present had come to the realization that Chickie was most definitely a “keeper”.

Finally, Pedro appeared with the bill.  I reached out to grab it, seeing as how I’d agreed to bring Danny and his date, and Danny had invited the others to attend, but Obie jumped up and took it from Pedro’s hand, holding out his other hand, palm out, to stop me from questioning his movement.  “Let me assess the damage,” he proudly announced as he surveyed the charges.

A curious look appeared on his face. “Hey, Pedro, you forgot to add the two combo plates!”

Pedro appeared from behind the kitchen counter.  “Si, those are on the house, because Danny and his friends came to my rescue on a lonely Saturday night.”

“INFINITE CPD!” screamed Danny calculating that free food was indeed the best result out of all calculated possibilities, even though he and I both knew that a fraction for which the denominator (the dollars) is zero, is characterized by mathematicians as “undefined” or, possibly, some other theoretical quotient which was far beyond my comprehension.  I chose not to correct him and spoil the elation of the moment.

Obie paid the bill with cash, the only method of payment accepted by Pedro, as evidenced by the “Cash Only — Solamente efectivo” sign above the kitchen counter. “Cheap at twice the price, Dude,” Obie added.  We all rose from our seats, and as we exited La Ardilla, a fresh group of five or six students entered.  No, Saturday night would be a success for Pedro.

The brothers piled into two cars, both subcompacts.  One was a Mini Cooper, and Danny said that he hoped his first car would be that model. “Over my dead body,” I said, thinking that I’d say exactly the same thing if my own son expressed a similar preference someday.  

“Your uncle’s right, Danny,” said Chickie.  “Safety first.  Besides, if I’m in the car with you, that’s precious cargo that needs protection.”  I took another photo of Danny opening the rear door of my car for Chickie because I knew that my Mary would find the vision joyful.  I would later tell Danny that Chickie was “a doll”.  

After I dropped the two off at Chickie’s dorm, only about a couple of blocks from Danny’s fraternity house, I raced home to share photos, videos and anecdotes with Mary.  Even though by the time I arrived home in Hoopeston I was exhausted, Mary greeted me with unbridled curiosity in my adventure.  Of course, I figured that the sooner I related the past few hours to her, the more details I would be able to retrieve from memory.  With all of her questions and my descriptions, we stayed up for hours more, laughing and crying at the wonders and happiness our nephew was capturing in college, and praying that our own children would have a similar experience when their time came to leave the nest and fly.

Reeve Chudd is a retired trusts and estates attorney from Los Angeles, now residing in Carmel, Indiana.  He wanted to become a professional writer, but he didn’t want to sacrifice eating.  His four university degrees, when added to $4.65, will purchase a grande latte at Starbucks.  He is on FaceBook, but no other social media.