My Fair Lazy: One Reality Television Addict's Attempt to Discover if Not Being a Dumb Ass Is the New Black, or a Culture-Up Manifesto (14 page)

“Hey, sorry I missed your call last week. I was out having an adventure.” I’m in the kitchen, on the phone by the counter.

“Adventure? What kind? You weren’t out chasing down the homeless again, were you?” Angie sounds awfully concerned on the other end of the line.

I let out an exasperated sigh. “Why do you people always assume the worst of me?”

“Because it’s usually true?” Angie teases.

“Well, then maybe that guy shouldn’t have flipped me off when I told him if
he’s
allowed to throw my garbage around the alley, then
I’m
allowed to hit him with my car.
¹³⁸
And it only happened once,” I concede.

“If you ever move to the burbs, you realize the homeowners’ association will frown on your attempts to run over children with your riding mower.”

“Then they should stay off my lawn. Anyway, I had an adventure!”

“Are you going to tell me about your adventure, or shall I just turn on the news?” Angie asks.

“No, no, it was nothing like that.” Seriously, you threaten one vagrant with vehicular manslaughter, and suddenly everyone thinks YOU’RE the jerk. “Last week Gina and I went up to Little India on Devon.”

“Cool! You plan to ditch the Lacostes for saris?” Actually, saris come in the most gorgeous fabrics, and if I could figure out how to style a preppy outfit out of one, I would.

“Not exactly. Whenever it gets warm out, Gina goes up there to get a henna tattoo. And then she gets Indian food afterward. She invited me to join her because she thought it sounded cultural. But I told her,
‘I’d love to join you but I hate Indian food.’
And then I thought about the whole ‘diving in’ business and said,
‘Although I’m not a hundred percent sure I’ve ever even had Indian food.’
”

“Wait a minute. I remember when Fletch went through an Indian-food phase last year. You kept bitching about how your downstairs smelled like grad-school housing.”

“Heh, I completely forgot! You’re right. Hey, you’re a really good listener.” Last year Fletch bought a bunch of Indian simmer sauces at Trader Joe’s because he got on this whole
“I’m going to bring my lunch to work”
thing. He kept taking these sauces and trying to create dishes around them. Except he’s not familiar enough with the cuisine to improvise anything, and nothing he produced was edible. I tried to tell him it was terrible but he insisted,
“No, it’s fine,”
and a few days later I caught him sneaking the leftovers into the garbage disposal. We had a little come-to-Jesus meetin’ about it, and I made him promise never to cook Indian again or else I’d make him eat the results.

“Anyway, before we even got to the restaurant, we stopped in this salon so Gina could get hennaed, which was fascinating. The girl did this whole elaborate design on Gina’s shoulder with lots of dots and paisleys. She did it completely freehand, and it was beautiful. I wanted one, but I couldn’t figure out a place on me to have it done. Not so much my style. But I figured, hey, I’m here, I should do
something
, so I decided on threading.”

“Remind me what that is. Central Michigan’s not exactly the threading capital of the world.”

“Most people say it’s an ancient technique using two twisted pieces of string to remove hair in lieu of tweezing or waxing. And yet I maintain it’s an Indian torture device. Remember those horrible Epilady things from about fifteen years ago that ripped each individual hair out from the root?”

“I’m shuddering just thinking about it. The Epilady was as bad as childbirth.” She corrects herself. “No, worse; I had drugs during my C-sections.”

“With threading, instead of tearing out a tiny strip of hair at a time, it yanks a million out. Hard. I had my eyebrows done and it hurt like a bitch.”

I’m not sure if threading’s technically supposed to cause pain or if somehow my extensions and the threader were in cahoots. I get the feeling the woman operating the thread was somehow avenging her distant pilgrim cousin’s sacrifice. In which case, who can blame her?

I continue. “Thing is, she used cuticle scissors to trim down the thicker part of my brows first, so now I look like frigging Carrot Top.”

Angie barks with laughter. “Excellent!”

“And then—then! Because I’m a genius, I told the lady to get all the peach fuzz off my cheeks. But you know what? Those tiny golden hairs serve a purpose. Apparently they act as your skin’s version of pressed powder, dulling all the little lines and imperfections. Now my face is completely naked, and for only seven dollars, I look ten years older.”
¹³⁹

“So you don’t recommend threading. Noted. Was lunch any better?”

“Fortunately, yes. When I told Gina that Indian food kind of scared me, she was this total voice of reason about it. She explained that I’m familiar with ninety percent of the ingredients in most Indian dishes; they’re just combined in a way I’ve never tasted.”

“Isn’t it superhot?”

“See? That’s what I asked. I’m the biggest baby in the world when it comes to anything spicy. I don’t mind the flavor, but my colon is delicate from years of accidentally poisoning myself, and I don’t enjoy crying on the toilet. Anyway, Gina said there are a ton of nonspicy dishes. Do you know much about Indian food?”

Angie guffaws. “We went to Culver’s last night for butter burgers; what do you think?”

“Your seven-year-old isn’t begging for curry in his lunch box?”

“Don’t get me started. I just turned the younger ones’ room into Guantánamo Bay. I spent a week telling them to clean it up because it stank, and they refused. I finally go in there to do it myself because the smell was unholy. Turns out those little bastards had been stuffing their skidmarked undies behind the dresser for weeks, so no wonder I’ve been washing the same three pairs over and over.”

“So you’re waterboarding them? Kind of harsh for someone who doesn’t spank.”

“Ha, no,” she laughs. “But I stripped their room bare. I took out every single item except their beds, a chair, and their dressers. If they can’t keep it organized,
I will organize it for them
.”

“How’d they react?”

“Don’t know. I’ll tell you when they get home from practice. And I’ll tell you what, if they keep it up, I’m putting them in jumpsuits, too. Anyway, enough about my household terrorists. What’d you eat?”

I glance down at Maisy spread across my feet. Once in a while when Angie tells me heartwarming stories about her kids, I wonder for a minute if we didn’t make a mistake by opting for pets instead of children. Then I hear a word like “skidmark,” and I get real comfortable with our choices.

“Um . . .” I try to recollect all the delicious tastes and scents from that day. “We started with samosas, which are these deep-fried dumplings filled with veggies and spices. I made Gina order everything. She said the rule of thumb was to stay away from anything ‘vindaloo’ and stick with ‘tandoori.’ Then I got this mixed-grill thing that had lamb and chicken—no beef, by the way—done a bunch of different ways, and it was served with this phenomenal bread called naan. Speaking of bread, you know how when you go to dinner, you get a couple of rolls in the beginning, and then it’s never really thought of again?”

“Not at Culver’s, but yes, I understand the concept.”

“Well, it’s a whole different ball game with Indian food. This place had something like fifteen different kinds of bread—some of it filled with herbs and spices, some of it with vegetables, some of it with meat. We got a mixed basket, so I got to try a bunch of stuff. And you know what? In a country with bread that good, I can see why it would be easy to be a vegetarian. That’s probably why they’re all thin.”

Angie snorts. “Uh-huh.
That’s
why. Not dysentery or cholera or, you know, poverty.”

“Oh. Right. Anyway, I brought a ton of leftovers home, and when Fletch tasted it all, he was incredulous. ‘
This isn’t at all like the stuff I made.’
No shit. But the best part is, being there gave me a brilliant idea.”

“You’re going to stop eating beef?”

“
Pfft
, what am I, Gandhi? No. Consider
My Fair Lady
for a minute.”

“Certainly, guv’nah.”

“What did Eliza Doolittle have to do to pass herself off as a lady? Think about it. She had to shake her accent, right? But remember when she’s having tea for the first time with Henry Higgins’s mom and friends? She had the accent down, but her conversation was way inappropriate. She kept talking about her dead aunt and how someone had ‘done her in.’ ”

I pause so Angie can drink in the genius of what I’m saying.

She neatly fills in the gaps. “And then they all went out for tandoori chicken. And had their eyebrows threaded before getting hair extensions. The new version’s a smash hit on Broadway. People say it’s better than
Cats
.”

“Shut it, smart-ass. I wasn’t done. I said I wanted to include a fine dining element as part of my whole cultural Jenaissance, but that may be shortsighted. Sure, I’d like to use the right knife when buttering my bread in public, but that won’t resolve how picky and narrow-minded I can be about food. With a couple of notable exceptions, I ordered the same exact meal in restaurants until I was eighteen years old—a cheeseburger, fries, and an orange soda.”

“Kids like burgers. They prefer simple. That’s why you see fish sticks on the little menu and not smoked salmon.”

“Yes, but eventually
they
grow out of it. I’m not sure I did. I just upgraded my love of burgers to steak and of fries to au gratin potatoes.
¹⁴⁰
But I don’t want to be Miss Mayonnaise McWhitebread of the Connecticut McWhitebreads, getting all grossed out or throwing a fit if I don’t go to a steakhouse. I don’t want to be the asshole ordering chicken fingers when everyone else is having chicken tikka.”

“Makes sense. You can only claim that you’re ‘allergic’ to food that scares you for so long.”

I love how Angie gets it even when I’m not sure I can explain it. “Exactly, and from what I’ve seen, dining’s becoming more of an art form. With food, the envelope is perpetually being pushed. I mean, people watch shows like
Top Chef
and
No Reservations
and a million other programs on the food networks, and they’re constantly trying new stuff. Me, I’ve always been so afraid to taste anything I haven’t already had, but really, what’s the worst that can happen? I miss a meal? I’m a little hungry? I get food poisoning? Not like
that
hasn’t happened before.”

I hear her trying to muffle a giggle. “Yeah, weekly.”

I’d argue but she’s not really exaggerating. “My plan is to open my mind and palate to different cuisines exactly like I’m trying with the arts and literature. So . . . I’m going to EAT THE WORLD!”

I wait for her to shower me with kudos for this breakthrough. She doesn’t. “Meaning?”

“I’ve looked up every kind of ethnic restaurant in this city, and I’m going to hit them all. Do you know how much I’ve never tasted? I mean, there’s Serbian and Colombian and Malaysian and Afghan and Armenian, and I have to look at my list for the rest of them, but you get the gist. And maybe this isn’t keeping with
My Fair Lady
word for word, but it definitely is in spirit. The bottom line is, if Eliza hadn’t learned to dance at some point offscreen, she’d never have sold her total transformation at the ball. So, what do you think? Sublime or ridiculous?”

“Sublime. Definitely sublime.”

“Cool, because first up, I’m slated to go out for Ethiopian food with Gina and Stacey. Which is weird because, not to be an asshole, but it didn’t even occur to me that they had food.”

“Is it too late to change my answer to ridiculous?”

ALTGELDSHRUGGED TWITTER:

Never in the history of ever has one person stuffed so much crap in a single carry-on bag.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Wickedly Imperfect

W
orld, prepare to be eaten!

When I ran my “eat the world” concept by Fletch, he was not without questions. Or doubts.

“You’re going to write a book about food right after one on weight loss? How does that work?” he wondered, running his hand down his face.

“Number one, opening myself up to new flavors isn’t exactly the same thing as deciding to
‘SuperSize Me,’
and number two, there was a book in between this one and that one, so . . . shut up. Plus, I’m trying to broaden my palate, and maybe other cultures have really delicious foods that are also superhealthy?”

He grudgingly admitted, “I guess it’s possible.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“I’m not.”

I waggled a finger at him. “Listen up, mister. The next time
Top Chef
is on, watch it with me. You’ll see that almost every single gourmand on that damn show is thin. Plus Padma? The host? Is like one of the hottest women on the planet, and she eats everything!
¹⁴¹
Way I see it, there’s got to be a correlation between satisfaction and not overdoing it. If so, I intend to find it.”

“Okay . . . but so you know, I have visions of this turning into some kind of International Donut Taste-Off.”

Oh.

That’s kind of a good point.

I’m already a fan of Cuban sandwiches, Cuban coffee, the smell of smoke from illegal Cuban cigars, and all things Desi Arnaz, so Cuba feels like a fine
¹⁴²
place for my maiden solo dive into the ocean of World Cuisine. Plus, there are so many Cuban restaurants by my house, I’m not sure how I’ve avoided them thus far.

I decide to try a restaurant called 90 Miles Cuban Café not because it’s well reviewed or the menu seems appetizing, but because when I looked it up on Google Maps and selected “street view,” I discovered they had a parking lot.

For me, taste and value and service are pretty much always trumped by convenience. One might offer the best product in the universe, but if I have to make a bunch of left-hand turns without benefit of traffic arrows or need to parallel park once I get there, your business may as well not even exist. Offer me a small lot with well-spaced yellow lines or, even better, a valet, and you’ll win my patronage for life.

I decide to brush up on my (essentially nonexistent) knowledge of Cuban food before I go. I pull up Wikipedia
¹⁴³
and read that Cuban food blends African, Caribbean, and Spanish cuisines, which is exactly zero help, as I’m unfamiliar with most of those flavors. I also learn how Cuban food uses some ingredients common in Mexican food, but the spices and cooking methods are different, so again, I have no real map of what’s to come. Basically I want to know if I’m accidentally going to bite into a flaming hot pepper so I can have a ramekin of ranch dressing ready, but my research proves inconclusive. I do find out that the bread in Cuban sandwiches is made with lard, which explains my affinity for it.

I get to the restaurant, park easily,
¹⁴⁴
and enter. The place is packed, which I take as a good omen, particularly since it’s almost three o’clock on a weekday. The air’s perfumed with the scent of grilled beef and caramelized onions, another excellent sign. The aroma reminds me of the time my mom wanted to make our old house smell nice for a real estate open house, so she cooked a bunch of peppers and onions right before people arrived.
¹⁴⁵

I take my place in line and try to make sense of the menu board. Everything sounds tasty and uses innocuous ingredients, such as beans, rice, vegetables, and nonoffal cuts of meat, but I’m still perplexed.

There’s an employee standing next to me, wiping the soda cooler. He observes, “You’re confused.”

“You’re right,” I reply. “I need help figuring out what to order. I want the most ‘authentically Cuban’ item on the menu. What do you suggest?”

He places his towel on the counter and takes a step back to scrutinize the menu board with me. “I’d suggest either the bistec—it’s flank steak grilled with Cuban spice—or the ropa vieja—shredded beef slow-cooked in a tomato base. I’d also do one of these.” He opens the cooler and pulls out some kind of Spanish-language soda. “You like pineapple?”

“I adore pineapple.” Not long ago, I bought a gorgeous fresh pineapple and left it sitting on the counter. For some reason, all the cats made friends with it. They nuzzled it and elbowed one another out of the way in order to sit closest to it. They loved that damn pineapple, and I have no
idea
why. But I never even got to eat it, because every time I went to cut it, they’d swarm me. Eventually, I had to toss it out when it went bad.

Wait, that’s not the whole truth.

I cut off the top, made the cats pose for pictures with it on their heads like a bunch of tiny little Carmen Mirandas, and then I threw it away.
¹⁴⁶

“You’ll want this.” He hands me a brightly colored can of Jupina. “I’d also get one of those.” He points to something toasty and golden in an encased plastic case next to the cash register. “It’s like a croissant, and it’s filled with guava and cream cheese. It’s called a—”

“Sold!” I shout. He’s a bit taken aback, so I explain, “You had me at croissant.” He grins and goes back to his cleaning.

I decide on the bistec, not because it necessarily sounds better, but because I’m wearing a yellow polo shirt, and I don’t want to dot it with ropa vieja splatters. The meal comes with rice, black beans, and plantains, and I’m interested to taste their slant on these dishes.

I place my order and pay, then wait on a stool by the window. The waiting area’s festive, full of photos of palm trees and sparkly beaches and happy fishermen reeling in giant swordfish.

When my food’s ready, I have to grip my carryout container by the bottom because it’s so heavy. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to eat it all,
Fletch.
Even if the smell practically intoxicates me on the way home and I have to struggle to keep my hands on the wheel and out of the bag for fear of getting a DWI.
¹⁴⁷

Once home, I arrange about a third of the meal on a plate. I lay down a bed of rice, top it with a piece of the bistec, and wedge my plantains in next to it. The black beans are the consistency of soup, so I put those in a ramekin. I tear off half of the pastry, and guava cream cheese oozes out. My intention is to save it for dessert, but I might not be able to wait.

I’m tentative at first because I can’t guarantee the meat wasn’t basted in kill-the-gringo chili peppers. But a few chews in, I realize the seasoning evokes a nice, smoky taste. There’re garlic and sweet peppers and onions, and nothing sets my mouth on fire. The rice is just right—not too hard, not too mushy, and the same can be said about the beans. The plantains aren’t sticky-sweet like they can be when they’re too ripe, and overall, the meal perfectly balances flavor and texture. The pastry’s creamy, tangy, and flaky—three of my favorite adjectives—and I wolf down the entire half, finishing it first.

Maybe there will be a little bit of International Donut Taste-Off in this. Shut up.

I take my time and savor each bite. I try pairing different things together—the tender rice is even better combined with the beans’ rich broth, and the mellow saltiness of the beef is enhanced by a chunk of plantain. And I realize everything’s more delicious when followed by a swig of Jupina, which is so magical, I have to call Fletch and narrate my lunch.

“Why has our country never created a pineapple soda?” I demand.

“Are you looking for a dissertation on America’s taste in nonalcoholic carbonated beverages, or are you being rhetorical?” he inquires.

“I mean, what’s wrong with us? We invented lightbulbs and telephones and the sixty-nine Mustang, but no one ever thought,
‘Hey, why don’t we throw a little pineapple juice into this here can of 7-Up?’
I tell you what, if I lived in a place that sold Jupina, I’d never leave.”

He snorts. “You do; it’s called Logan Square.”

“
Pfft
, you know what I meant.”

“Yeah, and yet with all that free and clear access to pineapple soda, can you believe some Cubans still float over here on doors and inner tubes? Sure is a mystery.”

“Don’t patronize me; I’m just saying the soda’s really good. Also, the country looks beautiful. I mean, Hemingway spent
all
that time down there, right? And on
Road Rules: Semester at Sea
, they visited Cuba because oily Veronica needed to meet her grandmother, which was totally emotional, and for the first time that season, I didn’t want to kick her until she was dead. Anyway, the landscape was nothing but lush greens and hot pinks, all surrounded by palm trees
¹⁴⁸
and an endless blue ocean.”

“That sounds great,” he concurs.

“The whole scene was lovely—lots of tropical birds and big-game fishing.”

Fletch adds, “Think of how tan you’d get if you lived there. Plus, you could drink all the pineapple soda you wanted on the beach.”

“Tell me about it! That stuff’s meant to be consumed with a little sand between the toes. And what if someone served it in an actual pineapple? Ooh, or a coconut? Heaven! By the way, did you know Cuba used to be a huge hot spot for American tourists? It was like Florida Jr.”

“You’re right. Sounds like a terrific place. And perhaps when you move to Havana in search of your precious fruit soda, Fidel will ask you to write his newsletters.”

“Wait, are you mocking me?”

He is the very model of innocence. “Not me.”

“Whatever. My point is the food was delish and there’s a ton left over, so I’m saving it for your dinner.”

“I look forward to it. But hey, do me a favor,” he requests.

I reply, “Sure, what do you need?”

“Try not to become a Communist before I get home, okay? Bye!”

Pfft.
Communism is based on egalitarianism and the equal distribution of resources.

And I’m totally going to violate those principles when I eat Fletch’s share of the pastry.

I spend the next week toggling between random cuisines. So far, I’m a huge fan of Mediterranean food. Who knew the humble chickpea was so versatile? And much as I love pork and beef, suddenly I’m all
lamb, where’ve you been my whole life?

The one regional cuisine I haven’t enjoyed is Swedish. I figured I’d be all over it, considering how much I adore the meatballs and lingonberry sauce in the IKEA food court. But when we ate at a Swedish joint, they served us a dish that was scary enough to change my opinion of the entire country. Fletch ordered potato sausages, which sound great, right? We imagined thick country pork sausage, nicely seasoned with sage, blended into a chunky patty, studded with red potatoes, and browned to perfection. Maybe they’d even come with gravy!

What we got was a bowl of two-inch-long glistening pink tubes. They were so phallic that we had to cover them with a napkin. Gina remarked that we’d been served a side of castration. Fletch spent the rest of the meal with his legs crossed, and I was so nauseated that I couldn’t eat at all. Do me a favor, Sweden—please just stick to affordable flat-pack furniture and food court meatballs.

(Sidebar: Okay, I ate my cinnamon roll, but that still doesn’t make this an International Donut Taste-Off.)

Between meals, I’ve been watching edifying opera DVDs. Surprisingly, opera appeals to me. I didn’t expect it to be so engrossing! I thought it was going to be a few single people slowly trolling across stage wearing bustiers with Viking horns over their long blond braids. And then I realized my expectations were based on Bugs Bunny’s
What’s Opera, Doc?
and I had a Shame Rattle reoccurrence.

I really enjoy how many folks can be onstage singing at some points, in all kinds of costumes.
¹⁴⁹
I really connect with the storytelling element, too, so I’m glad some of the DVDs have subtitles. Because I’ve been able to follow along, I’ve learned that operas are
dark
, dude. Honest to God, every single one of them’s filled with betrayal and lust, and people are always getting stabbed and dying in one another’s arms. Reality television—or soap operas, for that matter—have nothing on
this
.