The journey to the office is a relatively short walk. The distance from the Mildewed Orchid to the office is quite short as the winged bug-like death-flies outside my window fly, but for us vulnerable humans one must walk a bit of a circuitous route to get there. Even so, it’s no more than a 5 minute walk. I was fortunate to have the office manager drop by and escort me. While walking and talking I was trying to get a good feel for the route so that in the evening I would be able to find my way home without ending up lost and living in an old shack with a slimy bolt.
As I was led to expect, it was a bit toasty there. However, all worked out fine and they appeased my mean spiritedness with free water and diet cokes. (Bottled water – I’m no fool!) Mid-day I was taken out to lunch at some café (ish) place where we walked another twisty route. Before arriving there I realized that this all looked like my route to the office but was clearly nowhere near the hotel. I was quite certain this effectively erased any chance of remembering how to get back to the hotel – a rickety bridge I’d cross once I got there.
Lunch was a buffet. I was told in my extensive reading on staying Montezuma’s Revenge-free that buffets are to be avoided along with mayonnaise, water, ice, washed fruits, salads, and the canine gang. Yet here I was brought all this way by someone obviously anxious to please, and there were no options other than claiming that I was paying tribute to Ghandi and deciding to fast for an indefinite period of time or until England finally released its iron grip on this proud nation.
One of the waiter-like people (they didn’t really wait, except around in the kitchen area mostly) opened one of the buffet trays to reveal what looked like kung pao chicken. SAVED says I.
Fool.
I grabbed a plate and began a hasty advance toward familiarity.
“You’re not getting soup?” my colleague asks?
“Oh, of course, why wouldn’t I get soup?” I respond in kind. “Um… what kind is it?”
I felt it a legitimate question given that my alternative was to dip my nose into the container and begin to apply olfactory forensic science. My colleague walks off and enters the kitchen to ask. Leaving me to stand there with an empty plate and a soup bowl looking lost and unsure of what to do. At least if I were to break down and start crying it would provide the onlookers (and there were a few) some satisfaction that I had a purpose.
He comes back out and say “tomato.” I feel trapped. I could say “I don’t like those” but that’d be a lie. Not that the Ghandi ploy would have been much closer to the side of truth.
So I take some. Like enough to provide a reddish tinge to the otherwise white bottom of my soup bowl. Then I smartly two-step it over to the kung pao. There are weeds and detritus scattered throughout but this is no stranger in the kung pao domain, and I figure I’ll just sift those bad boys out when I get down to hoarking back some pao.
I sit at a table, and my colleague (let’s call him Bob to protect his identity, although he is completely innocent in this adventure) sits down across from me handing me a class of reddish-pink frothy stuff. “You’ll like this” he says. “Is there water in it?” I asks? Again another trip for Bob into the kitchen. Yep. No pink for me!
We start chowing down on the soup and he gets a bowl/plate set down next to him with what looks like hard boiled eggs in a mysterious sauce. “You’ll like this” says he. This time I relent with the “I can’t drink the water” ploy and just say “nah, what I have is enough, thanks.”
A friendly argument ensues as to whether I’d like the spiced egg thing. I finally win through sheer attrition and he gives up, then yells off to the kitchen dudes “cancel the other egg order.”
I feel like a turd. But I hold strong.
My soup finally gone – it was pretty good – I start in on the kung pao. It looks really good. I stab it with my fork, pull it up to my mouth, bite down expecting a nice kung pao familiarity and find that I’ve bitten through bone and cartilage. Fortunately Bob is looking at something else so I can dig my fingers into my mouth and remove all the shrapnel before he notices.
It is most definitely not kung pao. I don’t know what it is. I think it is chicken. What is not bony or overly tough to chew is pretty good, but clearly a new approach is needed.
Enter the knife. Now somehow these chicken parts are like from pygmy chickens or something, because I could swear there was a lot more structure inside these pao-sized chunks than their size warranted. One could barely find a tender spot of flesh to stab a fork through to hold the critters steady enough to slice off a chewable treat.
I ate light this day. What I had was good, and it was enough. Bob thought I was not eating enough.
Back at the office for more meetings, then off to dinner.
Oh, and because I told myself it was worth remembering: there is a potted plant in the office stairwell with a sign above it “Please do not spit here.” I was tempted to steal the sign. (But did not.)
As I was led to expect, it was a bit toasty there. However, all worked out fine and they appeased my mean spiritedness with free water and diet cokes. (Bottled water – I’m no fool!) Mid-day I was taken out to lunch at some café (ish) place where we walked another twisty route. Before arriving there I realized that this all looked like my route to the office but was clearly nowhere near the hotel. I was quite certain this effectively erased any chance of remembering how to get back to the hotel – a rickety bridge I’d cross once I got there.
Lunch was a buffet. I was told in my extensive reading on staying Montezuma’s Revenge-free that buffets are to be avoided along with mayonnaise, water, ice, washed fruits, salads, and the canine gang. Yet here I was brought all this way by someone obviously anxious to please, and there were no options other than claiming that I was paying tribute to Ghandi and deciding to fast for an indefinite period of time or until England finally released its iron grip on this proud nation.
One of the waiter-like people (they didn’t really wait, except around in the kitchen area mostly) opened one of the buffet trays to reveal what looked like kung pao chicken. SAVED says I.
Fool.
I grabbed a plate and began a hasty advance toward familiarity.
“You’re not getting soup?” my colleague asks?
“Oh, of course, why wouldn’t I get soup?” I respond in kind. “Um… what kind is it?”
I felt it a legitimate question given that my alternative was to dip my nose into the container and begin to apply olfactory forensic science. My colleague walks off and enters the kitchen to ask. Leaving me to stand there with an empty plate and a soup bowl looking lost and unsure of what to do. At least if I were to break down and start crying it would provide the onlookers (and there were a few) some satisfaction that I had a purpose.
He comes back out and say “tomato.” I feel trapped. I could say “I don’t like those” but that’d be a lie. Not that the Ghandi ploy would have been much closer to the side of truth.
So I take some. Like enough to provide a reddish tinge to the otherwise white bottom of my soup bowl. Then I smartly two-step it over to the kung pao. There are weeds and detritus scattered throughout but this is no stranger in the kung pao domain, and I figure I’ll just sift those bad boys out when I get down to hoarking back some pao.
I sit at a table, and my colleague (let’s call him Bob to protect his identity, although he is completely innocent in this adventure) sits down across from me handing me a class of reddish-pink frothy stuff. “You’ll like this” he says. “Is there water in it?” I asks? Again another trip for Bob into the kitchen. Yep. No pink for me!
We start chowing down on the soup and he gets a bowl/plate set down next to him with what looks like hard boiled eggs in a mysterious sauce. “You’ll like this” says he. This time I relent with the “I can’t drink the water” ploy and just say “nah, what I have is enough, thanks.”
A friendly argument ensues as to whether I’d like the spiced egg thing. I finally win through sheer attrition and he gives up, then yells off to the kitchen dudes “cancel the other egg order.”
I feel like a turd. But I hold strong.
My soup finally gone – it was pretty good – I start in on the kung pao. It looks really good. I stab it with my fork, pull it up to my mouth, bite down expecting a nice kung pao familiarity and find that I’ve bitten through bone and cartilage. Fortunately Bob is looking at something else so I can dig my fingers into my mouth and remove all the shrapnel before he notices.
It is most definitely not kung pao. I don’t know what it is. I think it is chicken. What is not bony or overly tough to chew is pretty good, but clearly a new approach is needed.
Enter the knife. Now somehow these chicken parts are like from pygmy chickens or something, because I could swear there was a lot more structure inside these pao-sized chunks than their size warranted. One could barely find a tender spot of flesh to stab a fork through to hold the critters steady enough to slice off a chewable treat.
I ate light this day. What I had was good, and it was enough. Bob thought I was not eating enough.
Back at the office for more meetings, then off to dinner.
Oh, and because I told myself it was worth remembering: there is a potted plant in the office stairwell with a sign above it “Please do not spit here.” I was tempted to steal the sign. (But did not.)
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