In my last post, I played the role of idiot American living abroad. I gave the impression that I spent two years in Spain, a country renowned for the quality of its cuisine, surviving only on the Domino’s all-you-can-eat deal. Obviously, I exaggerated.
I’m not some hayseed who skips elegant meals in favor of all-you-can-eat specials at chain restaurants. My favorite restaurant was actually a steakhouse. It was easy to get to, because there were several locations throughout Madrid. Whenever I went there, I would eat cuts of filet, sirloin, lamb chops, pork belly, blood sausages, and other meats offered as part of the all-you-can-eat special.
I first ate there as a replacement for missing out on Thanksgiving. For my international readers, Thanksgiving is an American holiday where you compete to see how much food you can eat before your uncle compares Obama to Hitler.
My first fall in Spain was my first ever Thanksgiving away from home. I was feeling homesick.
I was working four days a week as an English Teaching Assistant at an elementary school in the Madrid suburbs. I went to my supervisor to ask if I could have Thanksgiving day off to feast, and work a different day in exchange. She was a really nice lady. I viewed it as a sign of camaraderie and affection that she spoke to me in Spanish, even though we were supposed to speak English at all times. I answered her questions about Thanksgiving, and she didn’t hesitate to answer. I still remember her response, in the original Spanish: “No.”
So I went on the Saturday after Thanksgiving instead. My roommate Eddie, from Canada, joined me. Eddie was a simple man. He enjoyed working out, eating meat, and having sex, not always at the same time. That Saturday, Eddie had already worked out and had sex, so there was only one thing left for him to do.
It was a Brazilian-style steakhouse, 25 euros per person for a never-ending waterfall of meat. We showed up at 11 a.m., because the only way you can eat meat all day is if you start in the morning. At no extra charge, the manager kept a close watch on us as we enjoyed our meal, and for the duration of our lengthy stay, did everything in his power to stop us.
He was used to the Spanish approach to all-you-can-eat. Eddie and I were surrounded by his preferred clientele, people who asked for the check after only one or two rounds of steak. They reminded me of a parrot sitting in an open cage, unaware that they were free to fly away, to reach their potential. Eddie and I were like the parrot who realized the cage was open, and flew out to attack my cousin Harold. In our case, the steak was the equivalent of my cousin Harold in his crib. For the record, he was fine (the parrot).
The manager saw in our North American faces two men who could turn the restaurant’s balance sheet as red as the center of their perfectly cooked filet. He kept us under constant surveillance, as a form of psychological intimidation. Every time I looked his way, I found his eyes staring back at me, unblinking. It was like being watched by the Eye of Sauron, if Sauron had two eyes and wanted you to stop eating his steak.
Midway through our visit, I went to the bathroom, for two reasons. One was to escape the tension of his iron gaze. The second was because I needed something to drink. We had asked for tap water with our meal. The manager filled our cups as we first sat down, and then, like any good military strategist, denied us further access to any water supply. An hour had passed since I had any hint of moisture in my throat. I charged through the bathroom door and ran to the sink like a man in the desert seeing an oasis. I chugged from the faucet, the water coursing through my body and exiting my eyes as tears of joy.
Fully quenched, I stood up straight and started to wash my hands. Just as I put my hands under the water, the door opened a crack, and a head peaked around the corner: the manager’s. I looked up in the mirror to see his eyes locked with mine. He wanted me to know: there was no escaping him. Visiting his restaurant was like living under the Spanish Inquisition, but without the laughs.
I returned to my seat, and resumed eating under the spotlight cast by his piercing glare. At last, he took his eyes off of us and disappeared into the kitchen. He was gone for long enough that I felt a sense of false hope. Perhaps we could now enjoy our meal in peace. Just as I finally started to relax, I sensed something sinister, looked up from my plate, and found his beady eyes looming over us.
He reached out and offered us a poisoned chalice: a giant tray bearing several pounds of fries. The human appetite is finite. Every handful of fries meant one less bite of steak. He was handing us a shovel and asking us to dig our own graves.
Canadians are renowned for their kindness. But if you threaten what they care about, their response is as swift as it is fierce. Eddie looked our tormentor dead in the eye, and quoted the famous saying of Rosa Parks: “No.”
The manager slinked back to the kitchen, utterly defeated.
Reader, at this moment, I pitied him. Watching this Spanish man try to survive in the world of all-you-can-eat was like watching a Jamaican bobsled team. It’s just not a natural fit. Though I’ve always thought that would be a great premise for a movie.
I am not still at this restaurant. As the sun set blood red in the West, we paid our bill, and the manager escorted us to the exit. He opened the door, and offered his parting words: “If I ever see you here again, I won’t let you inside.”
The last resort of every tyrant: banishment.
I felt a swirl of emotions: shock, contempt, rage. I knew exactly what I wanted to tell him: “You think all-you-can-eat is your ally. But you merely adopted it. I was born in it. Molded by it. I didn’t see a la carte until I was already a man. By then it was nothing to me but LACKING! All-you-can-eat betrays you, because it belongs to ME!”
(When I tell people my reaction, a fair number of them ask me my opinion of The Dark Knight Rises. I’ll put my answer here so I can stop repeating myself: never heard of it.)
Though I wasn’t fluent enough to do a perfect translation of my thoughts, I managed the best I could with my level of Spanish, and told him, to his face: “Gracias.”
I went on to eat there whenever I pleased, not because the manager appreciated my gracious response, but because I happen to be a master of disguise:
