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At this point, I’ve probably spent thousands of dollars on movie-theater popcorn—and I know full well that’s a ridiculous amount to spend on kernels, oil, and salt. For the amount I spend on a large bag of popcorn at River East 21, I can buy enough of those ingredients at the supermarket to keep me snacking for months. Also, I derive more pleasure from making my own popcorn than having someone else prepare it for me. In my kitchen I have a big, old, blackened pot that’s been saved exclusively for popcorn—if you put in enough kernels to line the bottom without any overlap, you end up with enough to feed two or three people. To induce popping, I usually move the pot back and forth on the range to generate friction. I’m not sure if I actually need to do this, but this was how my dad made stove-top popcorn when I was a kid, and I enjoy remembering his ritual.
My favorite kernel-related story? The first multiplex to employ me was on the verge of shutting down when I started there. It had begun losing business when a newer theater opened down the road, and things only got worse when the manager decided not to fix the leaky roof. For the adolescents who worked there, it was like going to summer camp. We had an eight-screen cinema practically to ourselves, and the manager was too busy drinking to notice how little work we actually did. Every day we found new ways to amuse ourselves. Once we staged a concession-stand rodeo, pushing around the three-by-three wheeled contraption that held the popcorn seeds and pretending it was a bucking bronco. The coworker of mine who held out the longest also displayed a little too much zeal. Both he and the bronco crashed to the floor, spilling about 50 pounds of uncooked kernels that had to be thrown away.
