Complaining is an art. I know. I have been practicing for years. So have a lot of other people. We complain about politics, our jobs, the weather, our marriages, money, food, health, traffic, the economy – we even complain about sex (too much, not enough or the wrong kind).
I listened to a group of people at a restaurant this weekend complaining about their Congressman. I finally asked if any of them had ever written the bums they were complaining about. They all looked at their plates. No.
All of that complaining, and yet, not once had any of them complained to the person whose job it is to listen to their pissing and moaning.
Then, as if on an uncomfortable cue, one of them shifted the conversation to complaining about the food. It was deft and not an illegitimate complaint.
“This is not the best Thai food I have ever eaten,” she said. “It has no heat. This is worth complaining about.”
She had a point. Perhaps the Thai restaurant had fired the real Thai chef and replaced him/her with a high school cafeteria cook.
“Yeah, it sucks actually,” he said, stuffing his mouth with more bland Pad Thai and chewing sadly with a look of forlorn acceptance.
I waved the waitress over and asked for some heat. She looked at me quizzically. “Hot sauce,” I said. “You know, peppers, stuff like that.” I stuck out my tongue and motioned with my hands like my mouth was on fire. “Needs some temperature, you know seasoning.”
“It’s too hot?” she said, frowning. “I am so sorry!” Her confusion feigned compassion.
“No, no. Not hot enough,” I said. I felt I was making some communication headway. “Can you bring some pepper sauce? Something spicy. Hot, you know, hot.” I emphasized the last word with a grimace. She got it.
“Ah, spicy! Yes,” she smiled. “Hot! You got it!” She turned efficiently and deposited three ceramic cups of sauce that would singe the hair off of Satan’s ass if he had the desire to possess a polar bear.
“Thank you,” I said.
Each ascended from hot to hotter. The smell alone could cook most food. I drizzled a bit of the lethal stuff on my dish. Chunks of oily, red danger settled into my noodles. Everyone else did the same. I dipped a little more on just to be manly. So did they. Soon my head was sweating like Michael Jordan in a championship game and my gut was clinching the buckle of my belt. People were coughing and wiping perspiration from their faces. When they were finally able to talk, it sounded like Bob Seger singing “Night Moves.”
“Damn, this shit is hot,” said the guy who had been complaining earlier as he downed half a glass of ice water.
“My lips are on fire,” said the woman who had started the food conversation to begin with. “I think they are swelling.” She was beginning to look like Angela Jolie (well, at least her upper lip).
“You just have to ask sometimes,” I said, trying to breathe through the humidity of my pouring nose. When I wiped it, the napkin looked like Texas Pete had gotten a nosebleed. “The food is certainly not bland anymore.”
It was a perfect social studies lesson on how to deal with Congress:
Ask until something warm happens.
Tags: Food, Government, Personal Stories