Oh, please! Don’t give them any ideas!
They serve animal parts I cannot identify. I fear they are going to serve chitlins some day.
In actual fact, I believe they already do, but they keep them in the kitchen. Only the cognoscenti get to have them. I think they scarf them up out back, hiding behind packing crates on the loading dock.
A few weeks ago, they had a thing that appeared to be a pasty. Looked promising. I inquired as to what was in it, my inquiry being met with scorn. “What does it look like?!” “Umm, something in a pastry wrapper.” “Pastry wrapper! <loud, exasperated noise and eye-rolling> It’s a Jamaican meat patty.” She turns aside and mutters “Where do they get these people?” Then, back to me again, “They’re good. I had one just now. Do you want one?”
“It’s still breakfast. Don’t you have any breakfast?” (I had an unexpected meeting at lunch, so I had to eat early.) “NO! It’s 10 a.m. Y’all ate all the breakfast. This is lunch. You want this or not? I gotta go get the ham hocks. You want ham hocks instead?” “Uhh, no, thanks. What’s that round thing there?” It was the size and shape of a tennis ball, crunchy and fried brown. More eye rolling. “That’s a potato ball.” “What’s a potato ball?” “Where have you been??? You don’t know what a potato ball is?” “No. Sorry. A potato carved into a ball? Looks crunchy on the outside. A breaded, fried potato?” “NO! It’s some kind of meat ground up inside ground potatoes and fried. You want one of those?” “What kind of meat?” "I don’t know. Maybe chicken. Maybe beef . . . " Uh oh.
The Jamaican thing sounded like a pasty to me, so, visions of a festively colorful sort of Caribbean English pub in my mind, I girded my loins and tried it. I am not making this up . . . I like spicy food . . . I mean, I really like spicy food . . . but this thing was so danged hot . . . the thing was infused with unadulterated essence of Scotch bonnets and who-knows-what-else. . . my entire body burst out in sweat . . . explosively . . . and it melted my hairspray.
I woozily made my way back to my office, my clothing clinging damply, nose and eyes running, and my bangs drooping limply into my eyes, fearing that I’d die before I got there and had time to make out my will.
A few days later, I was balefully observing the luncheon offerings when the cafeteria manager came by with a large tray of stuffed peppers. Unusual-looking stuffed peppers. “Whoa,” I said, sticking an arm out, “that looks good. What is it? And where is it going?” Where ever it was going, I was going to follow. “Ah,” he gloated, “it’s peppers stuffed with salmon and crab meat in a delicate herb sauce.” I looked down the food line. “I don’t see it here.” “No, that’s because it’s special. It’s going to a meeting over in building ____.” (Drat! No way to crash it.) “Why don’t we ever get to have that? That looks good!” “It IS good. It’s wonderful! Took me all morning to do them. And you should see what goes with them! Steamed baby vegetables and salad of arugula with vine tomatoes and mozzarella. Look, you got a choice here of Jamaican meat patties or potato balls . . . have you tried those yet? They’re good, too. Everybody loves them! MMMMMM!”
