What an Ad for a Restaurant: Another Worst-Date Story
Ah, Detroit in the late 2000s! It was one of those magical confluences of place and time that ineffably captured the Zeitgeist and delighted the imagination - like Paris in the Gay Nineties, it was the stuff that time-machine fantasies are made of.
Oh. No, it wasn't! I'm sorry - I must have been thinking of something else entirely.
Detroit in the late ‘00s was hot, stinky, and crime-ridden, absolutely teeming with the displaced, the disenfranchised, and the disaffected, whom the fractured economy and dubious city leadership had left to fight viciously for any foothold they could wrest away from the other guy.
But it was also my home away from home. In 2009, I was 24 years old and happily engaged to my fiancé, Ali, who had lived in metro Detroit for two years. About every third weekend, for a period of two or three years, I drove the four hours north from Muncie, Indiana and stayed for four or five days.
Ali and I had met at Ball State, in Muncie, where he was diligently completing a second master's degree as a recipient of the ultra-prestigious Fulbright scholarship - and where I was still limping through my undergrad. Ali had come from Iraq, where he'd lived until age 27. He'd been working as a professor, then as an English translator and journalist for various NGOs and visiting luminaries before winning the Fulbright.
All of this was Serious Stuff, especially for a very privileged, white American girl of just 22 to his 30. But Ali had a delightfully silly side, a voracious interest in all things American, and a truly virtuosic grasp of English, which I, now a double-major in German and Spanish, admired tremendously. The differences between us mostly melted away.
As he progressed through his degree, the political situation in Baghdad changed. Soon he was getting word of colleagues - friends - being assassinated upon returning from their own educations in the West. Fulbright stipulates that its fellows return to their home countries upon completion of their programs, in order to apply their new expertise, but Ali knew his background meant these stakes were life and death. He had to apply for asylum. Much to our relief, he received it.
Eager to begin building stability, we determined that his best bet for steady employment would be up north, in Detroit. Metro Detroit is home to the largest Arab population outside the Middle East, and many of the people there are Iraqi. Ali was quickly taken on as a professor of English and Arabic at three area colleges and universities, so he moved to Motown while I finished school back in Indiana.
Perhaps I fell for him in part due to my fascination with other cultures. And - not to put too fine a point on it - Ali showed me, well, a whole new world. By that point in my life, I'd sped through Spanish, German, and French, and I was feeling pretty cocky about my linguistic ability. So, of course, I found myself utterly confounded by Arabic - and embarrassed about it. But Ali preferred I didn't learn his native language: “This way, I get to work on my English. I'm being selfish,” he'd say, with real modesty.
So, the language requirement thus dispensed with, I felt I had permission to be dazzled as showed me around Oak Park, Dearborn, Dearborn Heights, and other neighborhoods around town where not one sign was in English. I learned about all the hot Iraqi and Arabic-language songs. I became intimately acquainted with the food, which featured a surprising array of vegetarian delicacies.
I visited mosques: landmark ones, fancy ones, ones that met in empty movie theatres or storefronts. Then there was the Islamic Center of America - the largest, grandest mosque in all of North America, with its stunning golden domes and minarets. The sheer size and grandeur reminded me of my visits to Vatican City. Hot take: Whatever your religion, if you don't feel God in such magnificent places of worship as either of these, you don't actually want to feel Him.
St. Peter's Basilica and the Islamic Center also share some rules about covering up! For our mosque visits, I followed the latest trends in hijabs, or head scarves, and built my own collection, although Ali did not expect it. I didn't intend to convert to Islam, but I certainly intended to be respectful. I even learned a handful of disembodied Iraqi slang terms.
I was so immersed, in fact, that going back began to feel weird.
One weekend, though, it was being there that seemed weird. I felt a strange malaise come over me and couldn't shake it. I was out of sorts all of Friday and into Saturday.
That evening, we lay parallel on his bed, Ali propped against the headboard, grading papers, and me lying on my stomach, ostensibly slogging my way through The Kite Runner. But I kept fidgeting, grunting, and sighing loudly. I'd read the same paragraph about seven times. What was wrong? I didn't know.
Ali ventured a guess. “Are you ready to go to dinner?” he asked, shutting the manila folder and tucking his red felt pen behind one ear.
I looked at the clock: 7 pm. That was what was wrong!
“Yes! Let's go to New Yasmeen,” I said. “I need some of their pastries.”
“OK. How late are they open?” he asked.
I whipped out my phone to call and ask, for in those dark times, listings for businesses were not displayed uniformly on Google, as they are today. I got an answering machine, and I held out the phone to Ali so he could translate.
“They say they're closed this weekend,” he said. “Shall we do Sahara? Beirut Palace?”
He wasn't bothered, but I felt like someone had just given away my puppy. I slumped down on the bed, sulking, until inspiration struck once more.
“Ooh! Let's not get Middle Eastern tonight, after all. I want pizza! Can we go to an Italian place? You can get something else … please?”
He didn't eat cheese. (I know!) And because Middle Eastern food featured so many vegetarian dishes - and since the best Arab cuisine in the US was here - we usually did that.
But this time, I was grumpy. I just wanted some pizza: hot, thick, greasy. And not a Detroit-style pie, either: one sliced into triangles, the way God intended. He could find a nice fettuccine Alfredo with chicken, or something else with no cheese. Plus, in Middle Eastern restaurants, Ali and I attracted a lot of unwanted attention as an interracial couple, and it could be very uncomfortable. I just wasn't up for that right now.
Ali was nothing if not patient. He cocked his head, considering. “Did you bring a nice dress you were hoping to wear?”
Well. Maybe that was also part of it. My sense of style often contributed to the looks Ali got when we were out together in majority-Muslim areas.
“Then change, and I'll take you over to La Perla,” he said, naming an old landmark Italian place to the north, in Royal Oak. We'd never been there, but it sounded perfect.
Ten minutes later, we were headed out the door, me relieved to be rocking my turquoise satin Pucci-print halter dress, which it was too cold for, and him in black square-toed loafers and a matching leather jacket, which it was too warm for. However, even in another part of town, Ali had Detroit's dress code for Arab men to think of, whereas only one thought lodged in my brain: pizza!
But as we pulled up to the restaurant, I felt a muscle cramp shiver through my lower abdomen. I hadn't been expecting it, but was this the reason I'd been so out of sorts?
“Urgh,” I said involuntarily, pressing my hand to my lower stomach.
From the driver's seat, Ali looked at me appraisingly. “You go on into the ladies' room,” he said, “and I'll get us a table.”
Inside, I confirmed the cause of my weekend-long funk - including the outsized disappointment I'd felt that those pastries were off the menu. I took care of things and popped a few Tums - it's a strange feeling, being both crampy and hungry. I gave it no more thought than I ever did, though, and closed my purse to head out and find Ali.
The parking lot hadn't looked too bad, but it was a very walkable part of town, and I saw that we'd been lucky to get a table. La Perla was packed, and Ali had been seated right in the middle of the bustling dining room.
I wove in and out between tuxedoed waiters carrying huge platters over their heads. Children yowled, adults chatted, silver- and glassware clinked. One dapper gentleman, hair slicked back, was roving from table to table with an accordion, while a friend walked the same route with roses. On top of all of this, Dean Martin warbled, “…tippy-tippy-tay, like a gay tarantella” eye-wateringly over the loudspeaker.
“Sorry,” I said as I wound my way through the maze of tables. “Oops! Ow. Oh, pardon me. Sorry!” I clocked a stately older woman over the head with my purse as I pulled out my chair. “Pardon me, I'm just going to squeeze in here …” I sat down and raised my eyebrows. “Pretty packed, huh?”
“What?” Ali asked.
“I said it's pretty packed in here!”
“I can't hear you,” he called, three feet across from me.
“PACKED!” I shouted.
“Why?” Ali yelled back. “You're not leaving until Monday!”
Sheesh. Eventually, the guy with the accordion took a break, and we were satisfied that the waiter understood our beverage orders. We perused the menu. When our server came back, I said, with great satisfaction, “I'll have a small four-cheese pizza, please.”
“Bellisima. And for the gentleman?”
“I'll have the lamb, I think,” Ali answered, handing out menus back to him.
“Bravo, signore. I will put this into the cucina right away,” he said, taking a step back, then returning.
“I almost forgot,” he said. “Shall I light your candela?” He gestured to the intricate red cut-glass dish in the center of the table, which held a short, white pillar candle.
“Sure!”
He produced a matchbook from his pocket, flicked it, and held it against the wick before disappearing back into the throng. The glass lit up beautifully. I was about to say, “Oh, that's gorgeous,” when a dull roar rose up from one corner. We both turned to see that a veritable battalion of sweaty, middle-aged male servers had taken formation to sing “Happy Birthday” to a miserable-looking teen girl.
Once again having to scream to be heard, I suddenly felt dumb saying anything at all.
“So!” I yelled awkwardly at Ali. “You got the lamb?”
“What?”
“You ordered the lamb?”
“I can't quite hear you!” Ali bellowed. “It’s a little loud in here!”
This I'd understood. “There is quite a crowd in here!” I hollered back.
“What?”
Oh, it was no use. But suddenly, I knew what I wanted to say, and it was important. Mindful of the woman behind me, I reached for my handbag and pulled out my phone. I selected “Prince Ali” from my contacts and typed a text:
“Please don't slurp the marrow out of the bones, OK? You know I hate that. Thank you!”
This was one of our only points of contention. I was a vegetarian not out of any particular ethical consideration, but rather, because meat just repulsed me. It always had, and I was two years old when I announced to my parents that I wouldn't be eating it anymore. I thought it was disgusting, and the last 22 years had done little to convince me otherwise.
Today, vegetarianism is quotidian, almost boring. But in the Midwest of the 1980s, it was much less common! Thankfully, my parents had raised me to understand that my strange dietary choices were no one's responsibility but mine. Visiting others, I wasn't to expect a special meal; at a restaurant, I was to cobble together sides and appetizers, or just eat later on. And above all, I was never to make anyone feel uncomfortable eating meat around me.
I still co-sign almost all of that. There’s just one exception: the consumption of bone marrow. I just couldn't be around it. I still can't.
Until I met Ali, I had not known that, in many places, for many people, the marrow of a bone is a delicacy. Honestly, I hadn't even realized it was edible. But it is, evidently, and I learned that fact with astonishment when Ali ordered lamb with me for the first time. He'd finished his meal by picking up some bone that had been inside the meat and sucked right from it, as if it were a huge, disgusting Crazy Straw.
He couldn't figure out why I was shrieking. I couldn't figure out why he was slurping.
After tense negotiations, I'd successfully conveyed to him that watching him suck the marrow out of a bone was the closest I had ever come to fainting. I had also reminded him that he had entire weeks at a time during which I was in Muncie and, thus, not there to witness whatever his revolting eating habits might be. He'd agreed never to suck bone marrow around me again.
But that had been a year and a half ago. I needed to make sure he hadn't forgotten.
I waved my phone at him, pointing to it. He smiled and nodded.
“Check your phone,” I called.
“What?”
“Check your phone!”
“I can't really hear you!”
“You! Have! Text!” I roared desperately.
Ali's eyes flew open and he blushed, then flashed me a coy smile. “Only with you, baby!” he yelled.
Oh, my God.
Well, whatever, I thought. He'd see it eventually. And in the meantime, we'd just sit here at this table, in the middle of Times Square, staring a bit stupidly into space, all-purpose amiable expressions on our faces, as we waited for our food.
Evidently, the kitchen had been expecting the rush of customers, and it wasn't a long wait. My pizza emerged from the oven just as golden and fragrant as I'd imagined. I was starving, and I dug into it. Frankly, it wasn't long before I dispatched the whole thing, and, fourteen years later, I still remember how it hit the spot.
Ali's lamb was evidently quite good, too. He spread mint jelly on it with gusto, and before I remembered how difficult it was to make myself understood, I asked, “Is mint jelly Italian or French?”
“What?”
I felt stupid, but I tried again. “Didn't Julia Child make mint jelly with lamb? I think it's actually French!”
“Who?” he roared back at me.
“Julia Child! Julia Child!”
“Who's truly a child?” he hollered, mystified.
I waved my hand and shook my head to signal, “never mind.” There was no rule that dinner companions had to talk. I would just sit there, sipping my Sprite and trying not to watch Ali eat his disgusting lamb.
Then I felt that twinge in my stomach again. Maybe I'd eaten too fast; maybe I needed some Midol.
“I'll be right back,” I mouthed silently as I stood up and squeezed myself out of my chair. Ali nodded, having understood that immediately.
Unbelievable, I thought, picking my way through the crowd, toward the ladies'room.
Inside, I wasn't quite sure what was going on, but I fiddled with a tiny zipped pocket in my bag and fished out some Midol. I waited five minutes, then ten, trying to be sure that was all I needed.
But I wasn't sure at all. I felt vaguely as if I were on a cruise ship, and I still had the cramps. I didn't want to get up and move, but I figured that, if I needed a restroom, it would be better to simply head home, rather than hanging out in here. Ali must be worried sick, I told myself, gathering my things and lurching out the door and back through the crowd, to our table.
Nearly twenty minutes had passed since I'd gone to the ladies' room. I arranged an apologetic look on my face as I shoved myself a bit less politely through the overcrowded dining room. But as I reached to pull out my chair, I caught a good look at Ali, and my benign expression turned to a rictus of horror.
I'd thought he might be worried about me? I'd actually been concerned that he'd be concerned about me? Not even close.
There he sat, happy as a … lamb in jelly, just vacuuming up the inner contents of each bone on his plate, as if they were his trusty Pall Mall Blues.
He'd taken advantage of my absence to slurp bone marrow.
Ali looked up abruptly, a bone still dangling from the corner of his lip, like a cigarette. His eyes widened.
“Oh, shit,” he said.
I couldn't even answer him. My stomach roiled in protest, and, my eyes immovably fixed on his meaty goatee, I violently returned my pizza to its plate.
“Oh, shit!” he said again, flinching.
Helplessly I stood there over the table as the tide burbled up inside me anew. All I could do was bend over as Ali watched, horrified. I retched. And I retched again.
Heads turned and quiet descended in the dining room of this busy restaurant. I felt like I was floating outside of my body. I heaved again. We promptly heard a soft “pssst" sound, as a blob of vomit extinguished the pretty candle our server had lit and dripped down the side of the glass holder.
You could've heard a pin drop.
After a moment, Ali was mobilized to action. “Go, go, go!” he yelled, jumping up out of the splash zone. “Go on! Sally, MOVE!” I had been staring at the revolting scene I'd created, mesmerized, but Ali's words crashed into my hypnosis. I now understood that I had to take my barfing body away from here. I locked eyes with Ali briefly, then ran.
It would occur to me perhaps only an hour later that Ali must have meant I should go back to the ladies' room. But I was so flustered and frustrated that I ran not to the restroom, but straight out the door and into the parking lot. I kept my head down and barrelled through the throng of disgusted diners - this time, they gave me a wide berth.
Summoning Herculean strength, I managed to hold the raging storm inside me until I saw my black platform slingbacks standing on black asphalt and yellow paint. Then I released it into nature, where it belonged.
I hurled and hurked; I spewed. I blew chunks and threw up and plain old puked until my coffee and lunch lay there in the parking lot alongside my poor pizza. Finally, I was delivered - I knew the vomiting was done. And then, in the fugue state of my sickness, I decided, with un-arguable logic, that I deserved to lie down. Here. Now.
Dopily I plopped down on a clean patch of parking lot, leaned my head against my purse, and arranged my beautiful blue satin skirt primly around my legs. I closed my eyes.
It was fine. Ali would find me - he couldn't miss me. As the perfect peace of exhaustion descended, the last thing I heard was the sound of a car shutting off very near me. I heard a door open. Feet hit the ground.
Then came a long pause.
Finally, I heard an older woman's voice say, “You know what, Chuck? I don't really feel like Italian anymore.”
Delightfully hilarious piece again, Sally! Love you!