“Is that okay?” I asked for probably the third time.
She’d been sitting beside me debating the menu, and I could only guess as to
what she was thinking. Her long sleeves hid her bare arms from me, and my own
hoodie kept mine hidden from her, but it wasn’t hard to imagine them running up
to the shoulder resting alongside her neck. I reached out my hand to take hers,
and she squeezed, and rubbed a finger along my knuckles.
It was the first time I’d ever eaten at The Bob. It
was a Monday evening, and thus no one was there. The empty halls seemed almost
haunted, larger than life, like a mansion made out of shiny homestead like wood
that you’d find out in the country. It had the essence of a barn but outside Grand
Rapids was gray and grayer, cloud cover had enveloped the sky, half eaten away
snow still lined the steps leading to the entrance.
As my hand searched hers, she responded, “Yes, that’s
fine.” I wasn’t sure if she meant it or if she was going along with my final
decision. The first choice had been to go with a half-pound of pork shoulder,
but I had said it wouldn’t be enough, and suggested a sampler of all the meats.
Looking at the menu and never having been before I couldn’t be certain that the
amount of meat, or its quality, but it seemed safer to go for a plate of
multiple choice, even if one was wrong, something had to eventually be right.
Our flight of beers had dwindled down to two, but more
like two that were both half-way full, before the waiter had returned with our
meat platter. He placed it down and the aroma trickled up like you’d see in
cartoons, as if scent was a hand that gestured with index finger for us to follow.
We followed. Leaning in to inspect our options. These cubes of steak sat closest,
six little squares, and a chicken breast, glazed and herbed to golden
beautification, and the shreds of pulled pork underneath. “They didn’t bring
the sauces,” she said to me, and gathered up her spoon to try the mac and
cheese.
We had also ordered street corn at my behest, as I had
never heard of it prepared that way, but looking back I’m sure I had, at a time
further back inaccessible in my immediate memory bank, until I had tasted it
sliding across my tongue. My initial reaction had been to go for my fork, but
she didn’t. I felt it proper to follow the leader and had gathered up my spoon first.
As she shoveled forth a mouth full of lava-like cheese and macaroni, I broke
soft yellow corn in my teeth. She seemed to barely even nod at herself as she
finished her last swallow of macaroni . An affirmation that it was good, but
maybe not delicious. My own spoon slid into faded yellow cream, and a few
pieces of macaroni gathered as well, and brought to my mouth. It was familiar
the flavor, but creamier than usual, and I audibly confirmed, “Mmm that’s
pretty good.” She nodded.
The waiter came around the corner with a round metal
caddy housing plastic bottles of sauces. About seven in total that I can’t
fully remember. He placed it in front of us, relinquishing the metal handle
that shot up from the middle, and excused himself. Then she went for her fork
and picked up a piece of the steak looking food. And though I had read what the
menu said would be on the plate, I asked, “What is that?”
“The pork shoulder,” she said, I hoped unassuming to
my own ignorance. Then she went for a bottle with a deliberate intention. A
confidence in her choice, and she sprayed the liquid like water onto her pork
shoulder. “This is a Georgia tradition,” she said, and of course she would know
better than me.
“Like everyone does it?” I say.
“Mmm-hmm,” she said as she often does. And she takes
her fork, and stabs it in, and brings it up, and consumes it whole. She bites,
and chews. I stare. Ears open. “The pork shoulder is really good.” So, I too,
go and gather up my fork, stab a piece of pork shoulder, I bite off a small
morsel, naked, no sauce to get the initial flavor first, unhindered, or
accented. And it is indeed good. Delicious. Perhaps it would have been better
to go for the lesser flavors first, the chicken, and pulled pork but we chose
to devour the best part first.
The bottle she’d used, and I too in turn used, wanting
to know what all the fuss was about was labeled spicy vinegar. It was not
typical of what I would have used, but tasted good nonetheless. We had been to
many places, to try food, little dates for my minimally tested palette and
typical of our trips her destinations had proven better than mine. I felt I had
chosen wisely in the destination this time but had failed to order correctly.
A half-pound of pork shoulder would have been best,
but she did not bring it up. It was a truth I said, “We should have just
ordered the pork shoulder.” She nodded, and I said, “Next time, that’s what we’ll
do.” To this she nodded too. Finishing off the corn and macaroni, giving me
most of the chicken, because chicken always tasted like chicken. We had a
moment to digest and consider. I laid my head on her shoulder, satisfied, and
elated.
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