IRant part 2

Not much of a rant because there's some beautiful people involved. But I needed a part 2, and my life isn't that exciting. Names have been changed to respect the innocent.


The Jihad in my mouth

I'm not a picky eater. No, really, I'm not. I'll try most anything once. I regularly eat sushi at several of the local restaurants. I once tried puffer fish at a sushi bar in NY and faked a heart attack just to see if the chef would be prepared to fall on his own fillet knife. He didn't, and failed to see the humor in my attempt. Also in NY, it would not be surprising to find me trying such cuisines as Ethiopian, a delicious plate of vegetable side dishes and stew served with no utensils. Instead, one uses the flat bread provided, called injera, as an instrument for eating. Basically, it's like making a taco. The flavors are quite unfamiliar, but not unwelcome and often taste vaguely like barbecue. So from Argentian empanadas and Filipino style tilapia (served with head on) to Jamacian braised ox tail and Senegalese Mafe (peanut butter stew), I may not have tried it all, but certainly quite a bit.

While Raleigh can potentially be diverse, it's not the cultural bastion that NYC or LA might be. With that probably not needing to be said, options can be limited and thus I'm always poised to check out new restaurants. Also, it's nice to test some place before you take a potential date there. And I like to know where the exits are. So it was with diverse palate, slight hunger, and a spring in my step that I found myself pulling into a small Middle Eastern themed strip mall in one of the suburbs of Raleigh. The strip mall contained a Middle Eastern grocery, toy store, and restaurant. It was a pure blend of capitalism meeting culture. I also believe there was some sort of place of worship as a crowd seemed to be exiting en mass. To be clear, this place probably doesn't get much traffic in the form of the average white guy in blue jeans and a bright blue shirt. I received a couple of sideways looks, not really out of anger, but more just confusion. The fact that I pulled up in white cargo van probably didn't allay any hesitation towards me. For all they know, I could be some angry redneck who doesn't support their right not to eat pork. Luckily, for me at least, there was a pregnant lady struggling to load boxes into her SUV. I walked over and asked if I could help. She happily agreed, and any tension in the parking lot, wither perceived or real, was long gone.

As I strode into the restaurant, a modest number of tables with a counter and a buffet....wait buffet?!!? Hell yeah, I am all about the buffet. And man, was it beautiful in all it's brown-ness. Some kind of greenish brown stew here, a darker brown stew her, and a toasted butternut sort of brown here. And of course, the red chicken. More on that in a minute. I joke about the colors, but I was actually pretty excited. It all smelled pretty good, and honestly, most "authentic" food looks ugly anyway. Or I just like to rationalize, take your pick. I walk up and ask if I can take a plate to go. I wasn't quite ready for his response. You'd think he was marrying me off to his firstborn daughter or something. He treated me like a visiting dignitary, beckoning me to try the "Haleem" and other dishes I wasn't able to recognize through his thick accent. I had such high hopes. Especially for the red chicken with peppers and onions.

At this point, I should say that I've had Middle Eastern as well as different styles of Mediterranean food before. So I dove into this expecting some spice. The average American palate is probably pretty bland, or at least that's what pollsters say when they run out of political topics, so I understand that I might need to eat this mixture of dishes with some bread and a glass of water. And personally, I'm not the greatest with spicy food. But I'm willing to try. Nothing could prepare me for what came next. As I was driving home, I leisurely popped a piece of the red chicken in my mouth. It was like a bomb went off. I had no water, only the bread that was offered with the meal. As I mow through that, I try to clear the spots from my eyes, ignore the sensation of my nose bleeding, and desperately cling to the road.

What the hell is in this I think? This is literally the stuff of nightmares and chemical weapons. A bunch of thoughts race through my clouded mind as I try to make it home. If some Islamo-facist (or whatever buzzword we're using) terrorist cell really wanted to fuck us up, this seemed like a viable way. A new weapon of mass destruction, perhaps? Then I wonder if it's something far more localized. Did the restaurant owner suggest dishes knowing that the weak constitution of my American stomach would be adversely affected? Only to laugh with his employees as I made my exit? I clearly saw other families enjoying the buffet. I saw what looked to be a 6 year old boy plating up some red chicken. Maybe it was just me, or maybe it was just that dish.

I reconsider as I arrive home and try the rest of the meal. The "browns" as I'll affectionately call them, offer no reprieve. It's like Spice-a-palooza, with a mash pit wrecking havok in my mouth. The chick pea stew is like kindling, the lamb like a blaze. Ok, now I'm fucking irritated and confused. What the hell do these people put in their food? I mean, honestly, do you have to spice a lamb up that much for it to taste good? If so, maybe sheep should be left for grandma's sweaters and lonely farmers. It was fucking relentless. And I didn't stop. I ate the whole fucking meal. It was challenging me, sharply calling out finish it, as if I were to then execute some sort of Mortal Kombat fatality. I even went back to the red chicken. I knew I shouldn't have. C'mon, red chicken? Red means stop everywhere. It's like the brightly colored defense mechanism of an African tree frog, which predators find appetizing until they realize it's poisonous. So I ate it, and cried, partially emasculated by a plate of food, partially due to the food's effects. Thankfully, the only permanent damage is to my ego and kitchen floor, where I accidentally spilled one of the "browns" and it melted through the linoleum.

I'm headed back next week.