As I sit here typing this, I am considering a quick little fall to the knees to pray to The Ecuadorian Lunch Lady so that she may not deny me the fruits de mer of her labor as punishment for my recent ceviche indiscretion.
It all kicked off two months ago, with my arrival at the new job. I soon became a member of the noontime group congregated outside, piled behind a hulking minivan and waving dollars in the air, beseeching "por favor" in hopes that there was enough of the good stuff to go around for lunch.
Fridays are the Golden Day, when you double-check to make sure your wallet carries the six bucks that guarantees you a one-way ticket to a culinary Ecuadorian Eden - ceviche. A bowl of the warmest, softest, fluffiest rice ever to puff up on this earth; a salty, greasy bag of homemade corn nuts; and the crowning jewel - a large, full container brimming with lime juice, red onions, cilantro, tomatoes, and gorgeous shrimp.
You take your stash and steal off to the nearest office, picnic table, corner...anywhere you can be alone to slowly blend the rice in, dipping your spoon deep in the mix and soaking in the goddamn glorious flavor.
(Oh, god...I need a moment...)
The other day, I had ceviche on the brain. I had just finished telling a friend the day before about The Ecuadorian Lunch Lady's magical powers, when I passed by a Mexican restaurant. An enchilada? Maybe. A taco? Quite possibly...
But wait...was that...ceviche on the menu? Did I dare? Oh! And it came on a tostada! "The Ecuadorian Lunch Lady will never know," I rationalized. (Although, it can be said that having an internal monologue about stepping outside of one's ceviche paradigm is probably not rationalizable at all.)
I slowly worked my way through a mediocre basket of chips, waiting... hoping. And then it happened. The promised dish arrived on a hard, burnt corn disc, surrounded by wilty lettuce leaves and a pile of something greenish-brownish. It came devoid of shrimp, afraid of flavor, and instead was sprinkled with a generous helping of what appeared to be the cancerous bits of a dead eel.
It also came along with a bout of 10-hour gut rot that made me believe that The Ecuadorian Lunch Lady will most definitely put a hex on you for daring to betray her prized ceviche.
Lesson learned: You don't fuck around with ceviche, and copious amounts of Immodium AD will not cure ceviche hexes
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
M'am - Step Away From The Sudafed
Jeeeeeeeeeeeesus Chriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiist, people.
I woke up in what can only be called a foul mood, furthered by the fact that my body is enjoying a nice vacation from health. On my way to work, I stopped by the crappy CVS and decided to get some Sudafed.
Coughing and sniffling my way to the counter, I had my hand on my credit card when the Most Surly CVS Worker In The World held up my dual pack of generic CVS-brand Daytime and Nighttime Cold Medicine and said,
"M'am, this is a RESTRICTED ITEM [emphasis totally hers], I CANNOT let you buy this until you show me PROOF that you are a NEW YORK RESIDENT with your NEW YORK STATE DRIVER'S LICENSE."
I looked at her dumbfounded, coughed a little phlegm up for good measure, and said, "But I live around the corner. And I'm sick. And I have proof of address."
A self-satisfied smile spread across her face, pleased that she caught another pseudoephedrine druggie red-handed. "M'am, you CANNOT buy this medicine if you DO NOT HAVE a NY STATE DRIVER'S LICENSE."
And then, just to further prove her might, she pointed at the bottles of generic CVS brand Nighttime and Daytime Cold Medicine and smugly placed them on the shelf behind her.
Bitch.
I woke up in what can only be called a foul mood, furthered by the fact that my body is enjoying a nice vacation from health. On my way to work, I stopped by the crappy CVS and decided to get some Sudafed.
Coughing and sniffling my way to the counter, I had my hand on my credit card when the Most Surly CVS Worker In The World held up my dual pack of generic CVS-brand Daytime and Nighttime Cold Medicine and said,
"M'am, this is a RESTRICTED ITEM [emphasis totally hers], I CANNOT let you buy this until you show me PROOF that you are a NEW YORK RESIDENT with your NEW YORK STATE DRIVER'S LICENSE."
I looked at her dumbfounded, coughed a little phlegm up for good measure, and said, "But I live around the corner. And I'm sick. And I have proof of address."
A self-satisfied smile spread across her face, pleased that she caught another pseudoephedrine druggie red-handed. "M'am, you CANNOT buy this medicine if you DO NOT HAVE a NY STATE DRIVER'S LICENSE."
And then, just to further prove her might, she pointed at the bottles of generic CVS brand Nighttime and Daytime Cold Medicine and smugly placed them on the shelf behind her.
Bitch.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Everybody Fung Wah Tonight
There are a few things a person generally does before boarding a crowded bus for a 4-hour ride, and those things almost often involve personal hygiene.
But perhaps I generalize, perhaps not everyone thinks this way. No, perhaps there is one dirty M.I.T. nerd out there who would be so bold as to reek of B.O. while poring over his fucking Astronomical Geophysics From Mars Advanced Algorithms book during said 4-hour ride back to NY. And not only would this man - so bold - reek of B.O., but he would also have the goddamned worst breath ever breathed on the planet, and he would exhale through is mouth every time he turned a corner on an astronomical geophysics from Mars advanced algorithm. It would sound like this: "huuuuuuuuuuuffffffff" and smell like this: uuuuuuuuuugh.
And that said, when it seemed as if he could assault the olfactories no more, stinky M.I.T. genius gently ruffles a small red bag and produces a bagel. With peanut butter on it. The most goddamned potent peanut butter to ever exist. And now the peanut butter is mingling with the B.O. and the uuuuuuuuuuugh and there is no room to breathe. None.
And to cap it all off, dear friends? To cap it all off?
He slowly turns his head to the window after polishing off the putrid peanut butter bagel and lets out the slowest, squeakiest, motherfucking smelliest fart to ever emerge from a person's sphincter.
This is when I literally sat with my head in the aisle, my finger cradled under my nose, praying for Conneticut to speed by a little faster.
But perhaps I generalize, perhaps not everyone thinks this way. No, perhaps there is one dirty M.I.T. nerd out there who would be so bold as to reek of B.O. while poring over his fucking Astronomical Geophysics From Mars Advanced Algorithms book during said 4-hour ride back to NY. And not only would this man - so bold - reek of B.O., but he would also have the goddamned worst breath ever breathed on the planet, and he would exhale through is mouth every time he turned a corner on an astronomical geophysics from Mars advanced algorithm. It would sound like this: "huuuuuuuuuuuffffffff" and smell like this: uuuuuuuuuugh.
And that said, when it seemed as if he could assault the olfactories no more, stinky M.I.T. genius gently ruffles a small red bag and produces a bagel. With peanut butter on it. The most goddamned potent peanut butter to ever exist. And now the peanut butter is mingling with the B.O. and the uuuuuuuuuuugh and there is no room to breathe. None.
And to cap it all off, dear friends? To cap it all off?
He slowly turns his head to the window after polishing off the putrid peanut butter bagel and lets out the slowest, squeakiest, motherfucking smelliest fart to ever emerge from a person's sphincter.
This is when I literally sat with my head in the aisle, my finger cradled under my nose, praying for Conneticut to speed by a little faster.
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