As I waited the last few minutes for John to take me on our first date, I daydreamed of the ideal restaurant: a romantic cozy room lit with tall white candles, tables covered with white lace tablecloths, pleasant waiter in coat and tie, and a serenade by a live violinist. Of course, the food would be exotic and prepared by a French . . . my reverie was broken when John arrived and escorted me to his car.
I should have known tonight
would be far from my dream when we pulled up and a group of Nigerian children dressed in
old and tattered clothes surrounded our car. The sign above the small building said
"Finger Lickin'." John led me through the dirt yard, past a curtained doorway,
and into a small room. In it were three tables, each seating four. The paint was peeling
from the walls like the bark of a birch tree, and a small black and white t.v. with poor
reception was busy spewing political propaganda. On the far wall, I noticed what could
have been a beautiful mural: a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge in three different panels
of wallpaper. There was one problem with it, though. The panels were not in the correct
order. The bridge looked broken, as if someone driving on it would fly right off into the
bay.
The lighting where we sat was soft and dim, but candle lit? No. One green light bulb was fastened to the wall above our table. I could hardly see John's face, not more than two feet away from mine.
The Nigerian waiter appeared, wearing not a coat and tie but a T-shirt that said "Texas Native." Somehow I doubted that he'd picked it up on a pleasure trip to the Alamo. He handed us our menus and my mouth watered at the thought of food.
"So, Lisa. Would you like the Tornado Lady or the Chicken Brain?" I heard John ask me.
"Tornado Lady?! What on earth is a Tornado Lady?"
"I don't know, but I thought it might be interesting to try," he grinned as he replied. I decided to settle for something a little more normal and chose pounded yam and egusi soup, a traditional Nigerian dish. The waiter soon returned to take our order.
"I would like one pounded yam and egusi, with a Coke, please," I ordered.
"And I'll have a hamburger, an order of egg rolls, and a 7-Up, please," John took his turn.
Without writing down a single item we'd said, our waiter returned to the kitchen. I leaned back in my chair, anticipating the chance to gaze into John's eyes as we had some deep conversation about life and love (that we would forget by the next day), when I heard the sound of laughter. Turning my head toward the noise, I saw ten Nigerian children observing us, faces pressed against the window screen, as if we were goldfish on display in a fish tank. It was then that I realized this was not going to be the romantic, private date I'd been hoping for.
Our prime-time entertainment for the crowd of kids--John displaying his Canadian driver's license and I smiling with my retainers on--was interrupted when our waiter reappeared at our table.
"I'm sorry, but the pounded yam is finished," the waiter began.
No pounded yam. "That narrows my choices," I thought, looking at the menu of only six items. John's order of a hamburger sounded good, though, so I replied, "I'll have a hamburger then."
"The hamburgers are also finished."
"What do you have?"
"We have the fried rice, madam."
"Okay, I would like a fried rice with no meat, and a Coke."
"The Cokes are finished." Grrr...
"Fried rice with no meat and a Sprite, please," was my final offer.
"And for you, sir?"
The number of options was so overwhelming that it took John five seconds to say, "I'll also have a fried rice and a 7-Up."
Almost inaudibly we heard, "The 7-Up is finished."
"Guess I'll be drinking Sprite then!" I was never more thankful that John was not the type to be easily angered.
The waiter sauntered back to the kitchen, the children grew tired of us and left, and the hope in me rose. (What tender nonsense would John say to me during these few quiet moments?) Until I saw the chicken. A chicken was right there in the restaurant, strutting between chairs, pecking at bugs on the floor with her beak!
"There goes your chicken brain. Are you sure you don't want to change your order?" John kidded with me.
"I already have changed my order ... TWICE!"
"Oh yeah. Never mind. I'm sure the chicken likes it better that way."
What had I done to deserve this? A restaurant that looked as tattered as the children
outside, a chicken running through it, food on the menu that I wanted but couldn't have,
and conversation about chicken brain with the man of my dreams!!
Just as the waiter came in with our dinners, I noticed a couple lizards darting from side to side of the window screen in a stop-and-go motion, like a hummingbird flitting from flower to flower. Leaning across the table, I whispered to John, "If you're still hungry, how 'bout an order of lizard brain?"
Our food had finally arrived. We each had a serving of fried rice--with meat--mine on a bright red plastic plate and John's on a bright green one. I picked up my bottle of Sprite, glad that we could finally begin our meal. Taking my first sip of what was supposed to be refreshing, I realized that I shouldn't have been so optimistic.
"This isn't cold, or even cool!" I sputtered. Couldn't they get anything right?
"I'm sorry, madam, but we got it from the neighbors and their fridge gave up last week." Gave up? That sounded like a very good idea to me. John didn't even notice that my soda was far from perfection: his attention was on the darting window creatures. I would have to suffer my hot Sprite in silence.
And in silence, I started laughing. How could I not? The only other option would be to cry. After reordering twice, I still got the wrong meal, a warm soda, and my date was busy watching lizards. But I had to laugh. Maybe I should have ordered the Tornado Lady after all.
