September 27, 2001

My Night

or,
Dementia provoked by a plate of Crazy Beef

or,
Oh my god, I just got it: CRAZY Beef

by Nikol Lohr

So I was all excited about having dinner at Thai Kitchen. I've eaten there twice, both times sampling unfamiliar dishes, both times with delicious results. The crispy fish in curry sauce was particularly yummy. But before was always lunch, which means 2-page menu. For dinner they have one of those dizzying 12-pagers that makes your eyes glaze. I spent 10 minutes trying to pick something.

Finally, more out of frustration that anything else, I settled on Crazy Beef, described as something along the lines of "beef and green beans simmered with sliced bird chiles." I liked the name. It wasn't as good as "Never Again" or "Nuclear Fishin," but it sounded cute, like a name Malin might dream up. Plus, I enjoy both beef and green beans, and it was listed under 'special dishes,' so I figured it was a safe bet. I imagined sliced flank steak and green beans seared at high heat to get those kind of wrinkled skins, then simmered in a thin, spicy, slightly sweet sauce.

What I got was a mountain of browned hamburger meat and green beans chopped into 1/4" slices, looking like menacingly tiny pieces of okra. There must have been a pound and a half of hamburger, maybe two pounds, in front of me. I can't recall the other situation where I had green beans chopped up like that, but it must have been dreadful, because soon as I saw those little wheels of green bean taunting me like so much miniature okra, my stomach sank and I envisioned that plate of chopped-up green beans from long ago. I had to fight not to burst into tears.

Now, I've always been a baby about bad food. A good half of the times I've inappropriately burst into tears in my life--maybe more than half--definitely more than half--had to do with bad meals. But I'm really a food person. I guess there's an equivalent in any other passion. Like if you expected a pair of beautiful strappy Italian slingbacks and you ended up with molded rubber Okabashi sandals. Or if you thought you were getting the kind bud & it ended up being a schwag bag. Or like that Hitchcock episode where the lady pawns her breathtaking mink and her back-stabbing husband claims it, gives it to his secretary, and brings his wife this awful, mangy stole with creepy little paws and a ratty animal face with those dried-up raisin eyes and nose. You feel like you've been cheated.

I'm understandably embarrassed about my overly-emotional reaction to bad food. About the only person I actually could burst into tears in front of over a plate of hamburger would be Suzanne. Or Jason. Or maybe my mom. She's not into food, but she understands inexplicably exaggerated disappointment.

I could feel my face crumple and contort in my struggle to react normally, not like my whole life depended on this one meal. I weakly pretended everything was okay, choking down a couple forkfuls of my revolting taco meat, casually eating a few bites of plain rice (my appetite now was completely gone), chatting aimlessly, blinking back my tears, fake-coughing to explain the watery eyes and runny nose, and concentrating on my beer.

If it was an American restaurant, I'd've sent it back. But when you try a new dish anywhere ethnic, you know it's a risk & you have to take your lumps--or you brand yourself one of those whiny assholes who thinks they're the center of the universe. There was nothing technically wrong with the dish--it wasn't spoiled or burned or even different from what the menu said. If you order lutefisk, you can't complain just because lutefisk happens to be gross.

Normally, I'd've just ordered something else and paid for both dishes, or simply paid my bill and left the food on the table, cutting my losses. But I didn't have enough cash for something else & blowing eleven bucks on a heap of ground beef had killed my appetite. Besides, I wasn't alone. You can't just walk out when everyone else's food is good (which, invariably, it is; in these situations, the other food at the table is always excellent). It wasn't even the dish itself so much as that it was the exact opposite of what I expected. (Although, honestly, for chrissakes, who wants a huge plate of fucking cooked hamburger all in a pile with creepy little chunks of green bean? Certainly no one orders that on purpose.) Maybe I would have eaten it, even enjoyed it, if it had been prepared by some nice friend who was an admittedly bad cook. But I was in a restaurant; things are supposed to be good. And I was really, really hungry, the kind of hungry where I might've started crying anyway. Crabby hungry.

My first impulse when faced with The Disappointing Food is bursting into tears (sometimes I can't help it and I have to excuse myself, to my great shame, and bawl in the bathroom, then splash a lot of water on my face before I attempt to return nonchalantly to the table--but that's generally just before my period; right now, I'm nowhere near it).

My second impulse is to smash the offending dish onto the floor. And that impulse is almost more difficult to suppress.

That, of course, would be worse than crying. Crying would be a private shame; smashing things would be a scene. Even my friends would gawk at me in disgust or fear, knowing their suspicions about me were well-founded. Half the time people already look at me like I'm smashing plates. Everyone would assume that there was some other problem, that I was hysterical not because of the food (which they would think was perfectly acceptable) but because of some underlying instability or genetic defect. Worse, once I fled, whoever was with me would apologize on my behalf, although I certainly wouldn't be remorseful. If the waiter is at all haughty, it's nearly impossible not to smashy smashy. One day, I'll surely succumb.

But not tonight. Tonight, the waitress was very nice. (Although when she smiled at the uneaten dish and asked "too hot?" I wanted to punch her in the nose and hiss "It's not too hot; it's a pile of FUCKING HAMBURGER! Why would I possibly want to eat a GIANT PILE of HAMBURGER? If I wanted a bucket of cooked ground beef, I'd be eating with the families on TV who think Hamburger Helper is some delicious culinary feat! Only a balding, doughy TV dad who can't microwave a hot dog and whose wife's idea of a home-cooked meal is anything that involves an actual pan wants to sit down and eat two goddamn pounds of hamburger. NO! No, it's not too hot!" But I just said, sadly, "I didn't know it would be ground beef," which I'm sure didn't convey to her all the horror and disappointment I had suffered.)

I made it out the door without a breakdown; I even made it halfway home. But somewhere around the School for the Blind, I started bawling. Great big, wailing, choking sobs entirely inappropriate for a plate of hamburger. I considered stopping to get something to eat (as I said, I was really hungry; altogether, I'd gotten down maybe 4 tablespoons of food), but I'd spent all but four dollars, leaving me only enough for fast food. Understandably, I couldn't stomach the thought of eating a hamburger. The idea only made me cry harder. By the time I drove up to the house, I'd filled the passenger seat with soggy kleenex.

I cried for an hour, until my face was puffy and my nose was raw from blowing it. I called Suzanne, who said she understood, that maybe I was just due for a good cry, and then I hung up and cried some more. Then I went to the fridge, and, still wailing, took out the container of leftovers (I hate to waste food). I opened the front door and threw the styrofoam box as hard as I could. The box popped open almost as soon as it left my hand. The porch light is out, so I couldn't see anything, but I could hear the little pieces of ground beef and green beans raining down everywhere: very pleasing. Then I noticed the lightweight box had only cleared a few feet: very unsatisfying.

I went back inside and got a teacup out of the cupboard and hurled it out the front door as hard as I could. It landed in the grass, though, then bounced lightly onto the metal water meter cover and into the street. So I padded out to the curb, thankful for the darkened street, and retrieved it (only the handle had broken off), then smashed it with all my might against the sidewalk. It made a gratifying racket. I was improving. I scurried guiltily back into the house, grabbed a second cup, trotted back outside into my dark front yard and raised it up over my head, about to smash it, too--when I noticed an old lady out for a walk. I felt suddenly embarrassed to be smashing crockery, even if it was in my own yard, and I darted back inside. By then I was only sniffing.

For dinner I had Bugles piped with Easy Cheese, a disgusting childhood invention Rebecca Gonzales recently introduced to me, and Diet Coke.

09.23.01