I hate ordering food. I hate it.
If it’s an even somewhat fancy place, you can never tell by reading the menu what the freaking dish is, you know? You grow old and defeated by a string of nonsensical words:
“ …goat cheese fleck carrot braise tofu dust pickled mustard seed olive greens dipped coriander fresh spice cabbage … ZZZZZZZZ … stuffed pepper sauce dill onion roasted salt sea cranberry shallot crusted pineapple spring leaf mound …”
Just TELL ME WHAT THE DISH IS.
“It’s a bowl of noodles, but spicy and oily.” That works.
“It’s ribs.” “It’s fish.” Or “You don’t want it. It’s gross vegetables.”
And don’t SPEAK food to me, for God’s sake. Oh my GOD how I hate when Terrence (“Ivan, sir.”) stands there with his crotch in my ear and his eyes scamping joyously about the peaks and valleys of my table-mate's cleavage and says menu items to us, like he’s a freaking singing skylark bird. For starters, they never say the freaking PRICE when they do that, which should be illegal.
That’s how they get you: They make you feel guilty because this little performance may be the only stage work Michael Flatley here (“Ivan. My name is Ivan, sir.”) will get any time soon, so you order from his spoken-word menu just to convey that you’re enjoying his food-reading mellifluence.
What a whimsical word-ride, Peter! (“Ivan, sir.”) You show your support for their poised showmanship by YES ordering that playful f***ing remoulade quail-scrotum pea-snap parsnip berry cake! Bring it! BRING IT, Darrell! (“Ivan, sir.”) Bring it the f*** out!
But you wanted the fried catfish and corn pudding and mashed potatoes and beer, but now you’re stuck with this WHATEVER. You can’t even remember what you TRIED to order because just as that dish was done being recited, Peter ("Ivan! Ivan!") dances onto his NEXT orated dish, his eyes prowling his other tables to make sure the hostess didn’t skip him again. So you’re exposed as an ignoramus when you ask: “I’m sorry, Mikhael-Alesandro (‘Ivan, sir.’), but what did you say that second thing was again? The thing with the … celery-root shavings, did you say?”
And once you’ve forced LeRon’s ass (“Ivan’s ass, sir.”) to recite the damn thing back to you, you HAVE to order it.
And a half hour later, you’re frowning at a single pea leaf that someone wilted by squirting lemon juice at. (“I didn’t even know peas HAD leaves, Mom!” You’re eating with your mom, by the way. Which makes the cleavage-looking that much worse, right?)
And it costs $28.
So you think, I’M GOING TO KFC!!!
Which has its own problems, because HELLO, just because you don’t want us to call it “KENTUCKY FRIED CHICKEN” anymore, we … you know … REMEMBER.
What the hell do they THINK we think "KFC" stands for?
Kale For Christians? Kronkite Fact Checking? Kangaroo Freeze-Cicles? Karen Fairchild Chilton? (my first girlfriend, who stole—yes, STOLE—my virginity)
It infuriates me.
But at least they have nice biscuits and they don’t trick you into eating a single $28 pea leaf.
