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subscribeScenes From a Moroccan Restaurant
posted: 06.02.09 at 11:00 PM
filed under: personal
Bottle of red, bottles of Lite…
Last week, boqueen and I met up with four of her friends for dinner at a Moroccan restaurant. I was delighted to find out about the restaurant’s “BYO” policy, which means that we would be allowed to bring our own booze of choice. As an ardent alcoholic, I realized that we’d potentially save hundreds of dollars on drinks.
The restaurant was located in the Lakeview neighborhood, an area rife with yuppies. I briefly considered trying to blend in by getting dressed up and bringing import beer. But I am a simple man, comfortable sipping cheap domestic beer while lounging in a black t-shirt and Chuck Taylors. I decided to keep it classy by eschewing my preference of cans of Miller Lite in favor of bottles of Miller Lite.
This only looks like food because it happens to be on a plate.
We arrived at the busy restaurant fashionable late, as boqueen prefers. As I climbed over other patrons to reach my seat, I noticed that fare consisted of foods that I did not recognize. The lively combinations of meat, vegetables and various other edible substances looked quite appetizing. Unfortunately, I had gorged myself on greasy pizza hours earlier when I awoke from my afternoon nap.
::
Our diverse party could have easily been cast in a Benetton commercial. The group consisted of three Indians, an Asian, Nubian princess boqueen and my pasty white ass.
The topic of conversation quickly turned to my minority status at the table. boqueen’s friend Sanjay was the first to note my standing as the lone Caucasian.
In many ways, Sanjay is my doppelganger: Bizarro bokeen, if you will. Like me, Sanjay is extremely intelligent and possesses excellent communication skills and sharp wit. However, Sanjay is a snappy dresser who appreciates the finer things in life, while I am content with cheap beer and greasy pizza.
After berating me for being born as a white male, Sanjay noted that I did not suffer from “WPS.” His girlfriend laughed but I missed the joke, so I asked him to explain.
White Person Syndrome is an acute psychological condition that claims the souls of trillions of Americans each year. Symptoms include an artificially cheerful disposition and feigned interest in the mundane lives of others. For example, a coworker with WPS will enthusiastically inquire on a Monday morning, “Hey buddy, how was your weekend?”
Victims of WPS are easily identified by their forced smiles and tucked-in collared shirts. In addition, individuals with WPS have a penchant for banal activities such as golfing and scrapbooking.
Medical professionals are tirelessly investigating the causes of WPS. It is believed that European bloodlines and exposure to suburban environments and fluorescent office lighting are factors that increase the incidence of WPS.
It was relieved to learn that I am not afflicted with such a wretched condition.
::
Sanjay’s comment about WPS was the ultimate ice-breaker. The table came alive with boisterous conversation about the predictable behavior of my fellow Caucasians.
“I hate white people!” boqueen loudly proclaimed in the restaurant full of fair-skinned yuppies.
The juxtaposition of a swarm of white people noshing on African food while being openly mocked seemed ironic. Yet not one person turned their head or shot us a dirty look, because white people are afraid of brown people.
As the conversation began to drift to another topic, I grabbed boqueen’s hand and gazed into her eyes.
“This is the first time that I’ve ever experienced racism,” I deadpanned, “and I don’t like this feeling.”
::
Aside from being a cracker, I felt somewhat out of place. As everyone sipped on wine, I gleefully chugged my bottles of Miller Lite, regretting that I did not buy cans.
“This is pretty good shit,” I boorishly remarked as I took a sip of boqueen’s Riesling.
Sanjay expressed his desire to become an elite wine connoisseur – a world-renowned expert known for his discerning tastes. Normally, I would find such a statement utterly contemptible, but Sanjay has gained a great deal of friendship capital due to his willingness to make crude sexual jokes, so I let it slide.
“I’d love to be a world-renowned connoisseur, too,” I remarked. “But not of wine.”
I paused to give the others a moment to respond.
“Of beer?” Sanjay asked as everyone else nodded in approval of the most obvious answer.
“No, of white trash food,” I replied.
I explained my dream of becoming the world’s premier shitty food expert. I described a blind taste-test where I was challenged to indentify different brand of hot dogs.
“Those are Ball Park franks,” I jubilantly proclaimed, “and those are the generic brand from Aldi!”
::
One cannot simply decide to become a white trash food connoisseur. Inevitablly, I would need to start from relatively humble beginnings. My rise to stardom would begin with an overheard conversation in a dirty diner.
“I like the new menu items,” I’d casually say to the owner of the diner, “but you should really try out Beefaroni salad. I think it would be a hit.”
“I don’t know,” the skeptical businessman would reply, “I don’t think the mix of hot and cold would go over that well.”
“The beauty is in its simplicity,” I’d explain. “Cold Beefaroni and iceberg lettuce: your customers will love it.”
Another diner – a local newspaper editor – would casually eavesdrop as I offered several other unconventional and inexpensive menu suggestions. Impressed, he would approach me outside of the diner.
“I overheard your conversation; you are a true visionary,” the editor would breathlessly say as he offered me a job writing in the paper’s dining section.
I would toil away at the newspaper for a few months, cursing the limited reach of the small-town daily. Thankful reader letters would lift my spirits as I worked in an otherwise thankless job:
“I loved last week’s column. I never thought about mixing Spam and barbeque sauce into ramen noodles, but the kids love it!”
“Great review of that new buffet restaurant. The green bean casserole was great and the whole family ate for less than 12 bucks.”
Within months, I’d get my big break when an editor at the Chicago Tribune would offer me a job. Again, readers would enthusiastically respond to my work, which would be syndicated across the country. Legions of bokeen fans would breathlessly await my next column, blog post or tweet. My culinary inventions would be served at trailer park cookouts across the country.
My meteoric rise to stardom would continue when the Food Network would offer me my own show. Soon, Grubbin’ with bokeen would become the highest rated show on cable.
The topics of the show would be free-flowing, in order to maintain audience interest. One week I might review the newest flavors of Skoal chewing tobacco, the next week might be titled “100 things to do with pork rinds.” I’d continue writing my syndicated column and consider the idea of writing a book.
Food companies would scramble to purchase my recipes, which would be runaway hits at grocery stores. The incredible success of “ketchup and potato chip” Hot Pockets would only be rivaled the “macaroni and cheese with hot dog bits” variety.
I would become the envy of the industry. Rachel Ray would repeatedly offer to bear my children, and I would repeatedly decline. Her interest would gradually escalate to obsession as she transitioned from mailing me her panties to creeping outside my bedroom window in full-blown stalker mode. The obligatory restraining order would receive a great deal of attention in the tabloids, permanently damaging her career.
Once I had reached my status as a bona fide multimedia superstar, the media would fawn over me. I would make perplexing decisions about who I would grant interviews to. I’d gladly appear on The Adam Carolla Podcast, but I would politely decline Oprah’s interview requests. You know, just to show her who’s boss.
Then, at the peak of my career, I’d suddenly retire and vanish into obscurity. I’d break my contract with the Food Network and quit writing columns without any warning whatsoever. For months, devoted fans would clamor for my return.
I would use my vast fortune to enjoy the finer things in life. I envision being seated around the table at a posh restaurant with the same five friends from the Moroccan restaurant. As we snack on exotic cheeses, I’d stand up, motioning for a toast with my glass of expensive wine.
“To friends,” I’d say as only a victim of White Person Syndrome could.
I aspire to sell out. It is the American dream.
4 responses to 'Scenes From a Moroccan Restaurant'
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“Rachel Ray would repeatedly offer to bear my children, and I would repeatedly decline.” BRILLIANT POST.
anna
06.02.09 11:26 PM
omg this is hilarious!. And lol my dad puts hot dog pieces in his mac n cheese! And eggs! And well pretty much anything cheap you can put hot dog pieces in!
Rachel
06.02.09 11:48 PM
THAT WAS A REALLY FUN NIGHT.
Hilarious one, again! I was laughing the whole time.
boqueen
06.03.09 08:50 PM
boqueen actually said “I hate white people?” Geeeeeeeeeez, she’s as crazy as you!!!! I just love her name. Really hilarious.
Ma
06.04.09 09:10 PM