Soup Friday: West Shore Plaza Family Restaurant - Chicken Orzo
Like most Soup Fridays, the restaurant and soup were not predetermined or scheduled ahead of time. In all honesty, after spending the last three days off from work and coming down from a Christmas mimosa buzz, I lost track of what day it was. Fortunately, a weather report appeared on the TV of an unoccupied elliptical at the gym while I was walking by it. The weather today: Pretty sleety and sheety but fantastic soup weather! The time at that moment: 1 PM! The day today: Friday - Soup Friday!
I drove immediately to the West Shore Farmer’s Market, a wondrous place I normally don’t get the opportunity to visit on Fridays because of work. To my knowledge, at least five vendors sell soup here, so the likelihood of finding a bowl to warm me up before the roads were blanketed with ice was fairly high. I prepared to take a lap around the market to discover what options I would get to choose from for my lunch today and potentially, for future Soup Fridays as well.
I arrived at the market at 1:30 PM. At the entrance, I held a heavy door for a slower-moving, older woman with bags full of produce in each hand. My arm ached from a strenuous pull day session at the gym as she leisurely sauntered up the stairs towards the door. I grew impatient and hungrier by the second and wanted to start my soup lap, but I knew I had to be chivalrous in that moment because if nothing else, I am a gentleman and soup scholar. She appreciated my patience and as my stomach began to rumble she noticed and commented, “You’re in the right place for that hon!” I may have lost a minute to this exchange, but my confidence in finding another flavorful soup doubled.
My optimism quickly faded. I strutted by two stands to the right of the entrance that I knew sold soup. Both were closed. The owner of the next stand I passed by was cleaning the interior of a stainless steel container and informed me that they were sold out of soup for the day. My poised stride quickly turned into anxious pacing. Every other stand that featured soup on its menu, was either closed or in the process of closing despite there being another ninety minutes until the market officially closed for the day. With my lap completed and hopes depleted, I left the farmer’s market defeated.
In my dejected and ravenous state, I craved a burrito to fill the soup-sized void in my gut and then some. There were other restaurants I could have tried to order soup from in the area, but I feared more unexpected closings and the potential disappointment of hearing they were out of stock of their chicken stock. Plus, my wallet was starting to get encumbered by all the Neato Burrito gift cards that I received for my birthday and Christmas. I parked at the West Shore Plaza. The freezing rain bombarded my windshield. I accepted that this Soup Friday would unfortunately have to feature a canned soup. In my opinion, canned soup reviews are the lowest form of Soup Fridays, but at that moment, I could not see my future self being willing to waddle around my iced-covered area like a penguin in search of its dinner. I walked into Neato and attempted to order the signature Cowboy Crunch. My bad luck continued as the burrito artist behind the counter informed me that they were out of Cajun chicken.
I left Neato with my spirits in a nadir of despair. I continued to walk down the plaza with no destination in mind. In the corner of my eye, a friend appeared. The woman I held the door for at the market earlier was eating a meal consisting of chipped beef and oatmeal with a group of fellow octogenarians at the West Shore Plaza Family Restaurant! The serendipity was astounding. I took this as a good sign and walked inside and noticed the soup specials they had listed in orange on a board in their waiting area. Neither of the standard options, chicken noodle and chili, sounded appealing to this soup reviewer. The only other soup they were serving that day was chicken orzo. Good enough for me!
I was seated on the other side of the restaurant away from my new friend in a booth in what once was a smoking section in this restaurant. I suddenly travel back in time to the late 1990s and early 2000s when I would come here for breakfast with my grandparents and several other geriatric relatives. My favorite activity to keep me entertained at those breakfasts consisted of stacking the creamers and jams as I high as I could and knocking them over with a toy car. I also enjoyed the sports banter that I, a Michigan State fan at the time, shared with my great Uncle Sam, a Notre Dame fan, over which of the two teams would win in their battle for the elegant Megaphone Trophy that year. Due to being a young nerd with asthma, my lack of coolness barred my family from sitting in the smoking section. However, because the kitchen was located in an area right next to the smoking section, your food would still come through a cloud of smoke and you’d occasionally get a hint of Marlboro in your pancakes. A nice victory for the little guys at that time: the benevolent tobacco companies!
Today, no one’s ripping cigs around me. However, while some restaurant laws have changed over the decades, the interior furniture, carpet, and décor all look the same as they did back in 2003. One wall is adorned in what looks like rejected Cracker Barrel country décor with small mounted horns and ornamental corns. Parallel to it, the other wall is decorated in a nautical nonsense manner. I understand the country side of it because I can see my aforementioned family members, who descended from generations of farmers, admiring it. The whale, lighthouse, and anchor, however, feel out of place for a Greek-owned restaurant in south central Pennsylvania that has a limited number of seafood items on the menu.
This also reminds me of the odd and slightly creepy Cartoon Network show, The Marvelous Misadventures of Flapjack.
The waitress took my drink order. I consider ordering a chocolate milk for old time’s sake, but I didn’t want it to fill me up and taint my soup score, so I kept it boring with just a water. My waitress returned to take my food order. She was surprised that all I wanted to eat was a bowl of chicken orzo, but she was thankful because she was also busy training a new employee. Unreasonably, I wished my waitress, who had a youthful appearance, was 20 or so years older and had not only a more seasoned appearance, but voice as well. In a diner or diner-adjacent restaurant this only amplifies the soup!
My waitress swiftly delivered my chicken orzo soup with a few wrapped saltine crackers on the side. I placed the crackers in my pocket for the road. You never know when your pantry may be bare or when you’ll get a random hankering for crackers! The soup passes the smell test, but the bowl is overflowing with orzo. I do my best to ignore it and take a spoonful. The orzo itself was fine. It’s cooked well and would go nicely with a chicken dish. But, dammit! This is Soup Friday, not Orzo Friday. The veggies played a nice complementary role. The chicken was delightful and created a greater overall feeling of completeness to the soup. The broth while delectable, was a rare resource to locate on this chicken orzo planet. Together, the elements assembled into a splendid dining experience. Still, I found it impossible to overlook this soup’s primary issue: the limited number of spoonfuls with all of its elements included.
Do you want some soup with your orzo?
On the positive side, compared to what other restaurants charge for their soup prices these days, the chicken orzo is at least reasonably priced for the amount of food they put in it. Additionally, it did succeed in warming me up a bit on a cold day, so that at least marginally improves my rating of it. Finally, the visit to this restaurant allowed me to reminisce about memories with many relatives who haven’t been alive for a decade.
As I prepared to leave, I heard an uproar of laughter coming from the other section. I smiled and looked forward to the future group gatherings with my elderly friends, my elderly self, and my grandchildren at this type of establishment. I like to imagine we’ll all be eating soup and knocking over towers of creamer for fun just like the Soup Gods intended.