Dear diary,
Then there was a blackout because the sarcophagi that supply electricity to our country got unplugged by a careless custodian — he just tripped over all the cords; it was nothing nefarious — so I used the “torch” function on my mobile phone as a flashlight and went to the salad bar.
“Ms. Desmond!” I shout very happily, as I see my good friend Norma Desmond reclining in a lawn chair before a small indoor pool at the luxurious end of the room. [NOTE: Norma Desmond is the character played by Gloria Swanson in the movie Sunset Boulevard (1950).]
“Tyger Bryan, have a seat,” she motions elegantly to the other lawn chair.
“I’m actually the King of Ancient Egypt, for this story,” I say; “but let me go get a plate and visit the salad bar, and I’ll return. May we call this a date?”
“Go get your plate — don’t be late for our date,” Ms. Desmond smiles and holds up her ornately-filtered cigarette without smoking it.
I hasten over to the stack of porcelain plates that are large and flat. I then browse the ingredients at the salad bar and decide upon a nice round slice of fresh cucumber.
“How have you been? What are you working on nowadays?” I say, placing my plate on the table and sitting in the lawn chair across from Ms. Desmond.
Norma stares at my dish: “Just one cucumber slice? That is all? Don’t you at least want a cucumber sandwich!?” she exclaims, caressing her vowels and enunciating all of her consonants grandly.
“I’ll return for more, after I finish this,” I say. Then I use my two knives to cut a slice from the slice.
“You’re not going to put me through another fourteen-course ordeal, are you?” Ms. Desmond rolls her eyes.
“Oh, I plan on returning for FAR more than fourteenths, this time,” I say; then close my lips upon the knife and moan with abandon: “Mmm! that’s good!”
We enjoy a civilized conversation. Ms. Desmond and I go way back; we get along splendidly.
When I finish my fragment of cucumber, I return to the salad bar and take another large, flat, white plate from the stack. I look over the ingredients and, after a moment of hesitation between the tomatoes and the celery, I decide upon an eensy cube of diced tomato.
“What do you have this time?” Norma eyes my plate as I take my seat again. “Just one little tomato cube?”
“I salted it — would you like a bite?” I say, holding out a mini-sliver that I nabbed with my knife.
“I prefer mine sugared,” Ms. Desmond waves her cigarette at my offering dismissively.
“Suit yourself,” I say, bringing the tomato snippet to my mouth. “Ooh, this is heavenly!”
“Why do you eat like that, with two sharp knives, slicing even further every small serving?” she sez. “It’s obnoxious. Why not just seize each meal within your fists and wolf it down like an Heroic Gladiator?”
“Don’t question my manhood,” I say; “I’m very sensitive about that.” Then I slide another bright red tomato slice between my rows of milk-white teeth. “I learned this cutting technique from an old animated cartoon. I don’t remember the name, but the scene was of an impoverished individual. He or she was eating his or her dinner; and there was nothing on the plate but one lone pea. So this person used his or her knife to slice the pea very assiduously; and he or she savored it slice-by-slice, as if it were a delicacy. All I did was just copy that.”
Then, having finished my tomato cube, I rise from my lawn chair and dab my mouth with an elegantly patterned cloth napkin. “Excuse me,” I say; “I need to visit the bar again; I’ll be right back.”
Ms. Desmond sighs while suppressing a laugh.
Again I grab a fresh, new, large, white plate from the tall stack at the end of the salad bar and begin to browse the vegetables. “I just love this glamorous concept!” I can’t help remarking aloud to myself while gazing upon the toppings.
There is a woman standing next to me at the bar, and she overhears my speech and replies: “So do I!” Then she winks and passes me a card with her telephone number. She is wearing a strapless red dress.
I accept the card graciously with a bow; then I continue browsing. I look at the peas, which of course recall the anecdote that I just relayed to Norma about my preferred method of consuming salads. Then I eye the hard-boiled eggs, the cottage cheese, the little chopped pieces of celery… Again, I almost commit to spooning up a piece of celery; but, at the last minute, I grab the tongs and instead pinch up one of the bacon bits.
Before leaving, I look over and meet eyes with the woman in red who gave me her number a moment ago, and I announce to her proudly: “I decided to go with a bacon bit.” Then I hold up my large white plate to prove it.
She smiles and replies: “Would you care for any dressing to drizzle upon that? There’s plenty over here...” and she makes a sweeping gesture with her arm to indicate the bowls of salad dressing that are displayed, at pelvis-level, directly before her; each one boasting its own curvaceous ladle.
“No, no — later,” I say; “I like to savor all items singly.”
The woman smiles brighter: “Then, how shall you enjoy it, when it comes time for dressing? Will you lick it from a cup?”
We both laugh, and I quip back: “You ask about dressing, but I far prefer UN-dressing.” (There’s no way to express in human language how pleased I am with myself for having thought up this pun on-the-spot and in-the-moment.)
As I begin to pace back to the table, I reason to myself: “That gorgeous dame probably thinks I’m witty now.” — Apparently I spoke this private thought a little too loudly, for, just as I’m sitting down, I hear a voice from the salad bar cry out: “It’s true—I do!” And, when I look over there, I see the woman giving a fluttery finger-wave with her hand. Then she makes the universal pantomime for “Call me on the telephone later this evening.”
I nod and wave back to this most recent acquaintance; then I turn to my date Norma Desmond, who takes this opportunity to show off her skills in mock-jealousy: “I see you met another street-strolling trollop over there,” she sez. “Why don’t you two just go at it raw, right here and now, in the sight of all of us customers at this diner: Give us a show — c’mon: perform for vaudeville, young lovers! We’ll eat while we watch you.”
“Norma, please, lower your voice,” I say, feigning shame as I cut a wisp of my bacon bit and quickly jaw it.
Ms. Desmond points at my plate, then at the knife that’s in my mouth: “You’re seriously nibbling that bacon bit one atom at a time?” Then she holds her hand over her forehead with the palm facing outward and exclaims: “Ay me.”
About thirty minutes later, after finishing my bacon, I return to the salad bar for a shred of cheese, and then I go back several times for various mixed greens.
My favorite course of the entire night is the hard-boiled egg. There are pre-sliced, thin, oval sections at the bar; so I grab the one that has the smallest amount of both yolk and white — tho I avoid selecting a slice from one of the ends of the egg, which have only white with no yolk, for they remind me of the earth’s ice caps, which always melt before humankind fulfills its rendezvous with extinction.
Then I return to the salad bar for a single black bean. And, after consuming that, I go back and select a white bean. Then I return a third time to the legume section for a pinto bean. I did not regret any of these actions. All the beans are cooked and seasoned.
Then I place a quarter of a baby carrot on my clean plate.
Then, for the next course, I feel that it is time to eat a pea; so I do — and, in the process, I am able to demonstrate to my dinner date Norma what I was talking about earlier, when I referenced that animated cartoon scene where the impoverished character eats his or her pea by cutting it meticulously with a pair of sharp knives.
Then I go back to the bar and pick a floret of broccoli.
Then I extract a single curd of cauliflower and set it on yet another fresh, new plate. I snap a picture of this with my phone-cam. (This cuisine, when photographed, appears white-on-white, so we almost cannot see it!)
After that, I select a strip of onion chopped so thin that it is translucent — it seems on the verge of being melted.
Finally, I end my multi-course meal with a particle of parmesan.
§
Oops, I lied about being finished: For the grand, official climax, I also pop one cherry.
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