The food service industry long ago co-opted the phrase “all the way” to mean “everything on it,” though I am not aware of any dictionary that defines the phrase in that way. “All the way” has a meaning similar to “supersize,” another fast food term now used to describe things that have nothing to do with food.
In food service “all the way” usually means “everything on it,” a potentially ghastly request should a malcontented chef take the order literally. “Everything?” asks the chef. “No problem!” he says, burying the burger under heaps of every spice on the rack, unsmashed bullion cubes, and (just for the hell of it) a few unpopped popcorn kernels. “Hope you like olive oil on your burger!” he warns as he pours Berio Extra Virgin with one hand and sprinkles Comet Disinfectant Cleanser with the other.
Why does this phrase interest me? Because “ALL THE WAY” is found on one of my all-time favorite receipts, the DININGROOM HOT FOOD PRINTER check of June 3, 1999.
The receipt is hoarse. The blood red letters record a seemingly contradictory order: MEDIUM ALL THE WAY.
In the history of the English language this may be the first occurrence of the phrase “HOT FOOD PRINTER,” a fantastical contraption that literally prints food. I seem to remember seeing the phrase on this receipt and using it as a conversation piece: I had recently read about devices that would some day function in ways analogous to printers. Instead of using ink cartridges these devices would use cartridges filled with other types of organic matter, making it possible to zap into existence simple objects like silverware or jewelry, or even food.
“CHK 181” echoes a magic number in my life: among other happy coincidences “181” corresponds to my preferred mailing address for the last 17 years (PO Box 181, NYC 10185).
“DININGROOM” fits the spirit of the dinning room typo common around my neighborhood.
My inspiration to amass and publicly share my receipts came in 1990, at a diner on Canal Street. I ordered a bowl of soup and a Sprite.
The receipt, carefully hand-written by the waitress, alleged I had ordered
1 GLASS SPITE
1 BOWL SOUP
Spite! Had I known what I was drinking I would have asked for a bowl of hate to go with my spite.
1990 was well before the web became a public outlet, and even before I ventured into or even knew about online services. Public sharing of receipts, however, was nothing new. Found objects (receipts, shopping lists, notes to self) had been a staple of poetry ‘zines and literary publications for generations. My idea was to save these scraps of story-telling detritus in overwhelming quantities, a project whose spirit coincidentally suited the infinite copy space of the web. As my life’s experiences accumulated I imagined turning to this mass of paperwork and mining it for memories or story ideas. I also imagined that the quantity itself, this massive list of lists, would create something new.
