Ever since I was a little kid, I could spot a hair on my plate. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see it if it was halfway buried under the food. They were usually from cats or dogs, since we always had some sort of menagerie running around the house.

In the early 80s, when I owned a restaurant in New Jersey, there were a couple of provision houses where I bought food items. After serving the same menu to customers day after day, occasionally I got a little sick of eating the same things, but at least I got to experiment with what I sold, just to keep it from being so monotonous. One day, I would eat a burger with lettuce and tomatoes; the next day, I’d make it with marinara sauce and Parmesan cheese. Same thing with chicken. You’re kind of limited with hot dogs. French fries, I liked to dip in ketchup one day and mustard the next. Salads were sometimes fun because I had a decent selection of dressings to choose from. But, I’d still get bored. Every so often, I’d send someone out to get me a good steak or seafood of some kind. Of course, I was never so unreasonable that I didn’t treat the messenger.

One of the nice perks of being in the restaurant business was the free samples those provision houses would proffer. A sales rep would come in and say, “Hey, this product might sell well here. You want to try it out?”

Sure, and most of them were pretty good, but I never really added much to my already existing menu unless I thought it would be a big seller. Every week, the reps would also bring in fliers that promoted new products and let you know what was on sale. One time I saw something for frozen, breaded mushrooms for deep frying . I loved deep fried breaded mushrooms and promptly ordered a 10 lb. box. From that moment on, I couldn’t wait for the next delivery to bring me my provisions and that brand new box of mushrooms. I think I waited out by the road when I saw the truck coming.

After the truck driver dropped everything off, I found that box and ripped it open. Grabbing a dozen or so, I plunked them into the fry basket. I didn’t care that it was right in the middle of the lunch rush, it was my restaurant and my mushrooms.

“What are those?” some of the employees asked.

“Mushrooms. These are mine. You can try some later.” I might have shared some as the lunch crowd dwindled.

When I closed the box to stow in the freezer, I noticed it said PRODUCT OF THE PHILIPPINES in big, bold letters. Who cares where they’re from? Not me, but it proved that, even back then, we were outsourcing. Besides, all I needed to know was that every day I could eat deep fried mushrooms. And every day – for an entire month – I fried up a batch so I could bite into the crisp breading to savor those soft, succulent morsels nestled inside, filled with all that rich, earthy flavor.

I was probably about halfway into the box when my love affair with deep fried mushrooms came to an abrupt end. Like every other day, I cooked up a few. Bear in mind, I wasn’t even close to getting tired of them yet. As I popped one in my mouth and began to chew, I felt a hair in there somewhere. I managed to grab the end of it without losing any of the mushroom. I started to pull the hair out. Out and out it came. I slowly moved my fingers away from my mouth. The farther I got, the more I realized this was no ordinary hair. It was very long and straight. And black. My God, it must have been a good two feet by the time it completely escaped my lips. I shuddered and spit the mushroom into the garbage and rinsed my mouth under the faucet. YUCK! How did something that long get wound up tightly into one mushroom? I didn’t want to think about it. My appetite was gone. I threw the rest of the box right into the garbage and I haven’t eaten one since. I still love mushrooms, but the thought of deep fried breaded ones – to this day – gives me split ends.