April 11, 2011

  •      "Would you slow down? You can't swallow all of it at once!"
         I grinned before my throat decided that a gag reflex might be the most appropriate way of ensuring that I didn't slide the greasy noodles I was attempting to devour down into my trachea. I took a decisive bite and let the strands that had been hanging out of my mouth to drop back into the bowl. The greasy sauce ensured a pleasant plop-ing sound from bowl to noodle contact at 9.8m/s2; she watched the noodles slide down the sides of the metallic yellow bowl back to the agape bottom, still quite full to the bowl's very depths, though most likely so she could avoid looking at me.
         "Didn't I tell you this was a great place?" I asked, taking a swig of my root beer, ramming in another mouthful, and beating out with my index and middle finger on the table the rythm of the song they were currently playing on the loudspeaker as simultaneously as was possible.
         "It's crummy Thai food at best," she informed me. With a wary eye, she casted a glance around my glorious hang out retreat. The floor was as similarly distinctive a metallic as the bowl, in lively green and yellow octagon patterns with small orange triangles sparingly intermixed. I had demanded we take a booth seat, of course; we had immediately staked our claim on the one in the way back of the restaurant, as soon as you walk in. Of course, such directions could hardly be confusing – the restaurant was a simple rectangle, with the entrance and our booth on the two shorter sides and the counter for ordering on the left side once you enter (closer to the entrance than to the back).
         Along the walls was authentic Thailand art. Seriously. Possibly the only remotely authentic aspect of the restaurant was the paintings, photography, and hang-able sculptures that littered the mustard yellow wall (the obsession with yellow I couldn't begin to explain to you; however, that'd be like trying to explain the beauty of a sunrise, so I wouldn't desecrate the moment by trying). The entrance door was on the left side of it's wall with the rest of the empty space graciously taken up by a giant viewing window that presented the store's name in a neon sign.
         "Shitty Thai food," I corrected her, "and it's exactly what I needed at this moment." My leg was starting to get tired from bouncing it the ball of my foot. "Are you honestly going to let that go to waste?" I asked her incredulously, my own bowl still half full; the portion sizes are wonderful here. "Gimme, gimme here," I said delightedly, taking another sip of my root beer for washing some noodles down while rapidly waving my fingers in my direction.
         She laughed, threw up her hands, and handed me her bowl. "Have you held up any of this food? Literally, any of it. You could say that it was raining grease."
         I cocked my eyebrows as I took a deep bite into the meat. "I think that the point that you are missing here is that you ordered the relatively chicken-looking thing and then decided to give it up," I told her, watching some pieces fall off onto the flower-oriented plastic table clothe.
         "It's fatty and unhealthy for you," she said, apparently assuming that such well-known information would make a difference to me.
         "Well, we are the nation of the obese, are we not?" I asked her, raising my glass. "I say we toast, to my patriotism and American exceptionalism!" I exclaimed to the empty restaurant. Jeremy, the guy who works the cash register, knowingly ignored me. "Besides," I started, picking out a piece of meat stuck between some back teeth with my tongue, "it's a stupid argument anyway. Honestly, why you gonna crucify a guy for wanting a girl with a little meat on her. Don't you roll your eyes at me, missy – this is the philosophical debate of our generation. Let me ask you this – and answer me honestly – what sounds better to you? A skinny carrot or a plump, succulent chicken thigh with soft and tender flesh?" She eyed me questioningly. "Don't tell me you'd think twice about that one," I murmured, thoughtfully picking up the pieces of "chicken" that had fallen onto the table and dropping them into my mouth.
         She was clearly getting used to me. She'd've left the table and the restaurant by now when I had first met her.
         "So you're hedonistic?" Not interested in eating, she had picked up the napkin wrapped around the plasticware they had put on the table for us at the beginning, undoing the band that held the utensils hidden.
        Done with the meat, I had gone back to my noodles. I quickly tried to shovel the dangling bits into my mouth and swallowed audibly. "Naw, I'm a glutton." You'd expect the napkins for this place to be some shade of yellow, I'd think. Hell, a hazy purple would make just about as much sense as any other interior design decision. Instead, they were a coarse, plain white. There weren't even designs or patterns on the things of any sort. She was slowly shredding them as we talked.
         She laughed increduously: "There's a difference?"
         "Honey," I respired, channeling Jim the Slave, "you're generation Y, and you don't even know the difference between gluttony and hedonism?" She motioned toward her chin, suddenly, murmuring, "You have some...in your beard." I softly waved her away, letting her know that I knew; "Saving it for latter," I equally murmured.

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    Damn it, I'm so close, and I can't figure out how to finish this off right. I'll mull it over dinner and homework.