On: Eating.

April 11, 2012


When I was a young girl married to a young Macedonian boy, I was a lot skinnier. Sure, when I was in Macedonia I ate little besides cabbage and cucumbers (what a treat the Burek and Jogurt were!), and when I was home I ate little besides spinach and ground flax seeds (ew.). But today in a little French Bistro in Chicago, I’ll say that “Steak Frites Clasique” sounded a lot healthier than the American English translation “Meat and a lot of French fries on a plate”, and a lot prettier than the British English translation of “Thin beef steak cooked properly with an abundance of French fries that were machine cut but fashioned to fool you into thinking they were lovingly sliced by hand”.

What I’m trying to say here is: I eat like a man. Only about 8 French fries survived. Someday my metabolism will slow down and I’ll have to resort to ordering half-sandwiches at lunchtime (sorry,G). But happily that day is still looming ominously in my future. I think.

After the Steak Frites Clasique, I order the warm chocolate pudding cake (which sounds just as bad in any translation) with salted caramel, and another glass of the dry, minerally, yummy, red-fruity Morgon. Once it opens up, this thing makes your brain work through the whole glass. It forced me to order dessert. I never do that! (Unless I’m being held at gunpoint.)


The guy sitting next to me on the plane was eating a sandwich. It was a smelly sandwich, full of fried chicken and onions and stuff. It was wrapped in foil and served in a paper bag for transportation purposes. Once we got in the air, the man took the sandwich from the bag, unwrapped the foil, and took a bite. Then he wrapped it back up and put it back in the bag. When he swallowed his bite, he took the sandwich back out of the bag, unwrapped the foil, took another bite, and then wrapped it back up again and put it away. This continued until the sandwich was gone. It was a really big sandwich.


Sometimes I fast for week-long periods of time to make up for all the times I was held at gunpoint. Don’t judge.


Actually, I’ve only done that twice, and for semi-spiritual purposes. But the skinny man at the French Bistro with the almost-but-not-quite skinny wife who was talking about going to restaurants and ordering only ONE drink and ONE appetizer is the one who should have been shot. That judgy bastard.

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