Despite declaring that I do not imbibe by myself last week, tragic times call for pathetic measures; I spent the greater part of my Sunday afternoon intoxicating at Tryst, alone. I was all dressed up in black (though sadly, I did not resemble an erotic vulture), like some flashback to 1989, right down to the eyeliner-as-eyeshadow-tactic for that extra corpse-y effect.
My favorite way to waste a lazy Sunday is with one fat newspaper and several cups of milky coffee. After a phonecall from home bearing bad news, those props were replaced by this iBook and several pint glasses of milky coffee + alcohol, on the rocks. That was one slightly bright spot on an otherwise bleak day; what I was chugging was delicious and that’s because it was by my design. Sort of. Okay fine, the drink that I want to take credit for right now is but a slight variation on the powerhouse “Martin Blanco” cocktail I’ve been fond of forever at Tryst (iced vanilla vodka + espresso + kahlua + amaretto + milk…shaken violently). Amaretto di Saronno was my Father’s favorite liqueur and I didn’t want to taste it on a day when I was already glum. I improvised.
“Would it be possible to get Bailey’s instead of the Amaretto?”
My waiter paused and then smiled, as if he suddenly approved of such a manoeuver. “SURE.”
Later, when one of his co-workers asked me what I would call this elixir I was re-ordering for the third time, I tipsily blurted out “Martin O’blanco!” and she loved it. So there you have it. Since one of my goals in life is to get something on a menu either named after or otherwise attached to me (I’d totally settle for getting a mention in a menu “description”, which is something I think Tryst does), I take my barely-witty nomenclating of half-creative cocktails seriously enough to torture you with it.
As satisfying (and veg-happy) as Tryst’s menu is, I craved something different. I had devoured Amsterdam Falafel earlier in the day for lunch; I was suddenly consumed with memories of the fantastic gobi I had enjoyed there and I wanted more. I’m like that; if I dig something I will eat it over and over and over (PB + J, every day, grade 1-12) again. I do that with movies, too. And books. Especially suitable ones. Amsterdam it would be. I told the purveyor of O’blanco that I’d be back in 30 minutes and I left.
Though I have learned my lesson and no longer wear anything remotely cute while on 18th street, lest I encourage the invasive jerks who plague my new ‘hood with their assault attempts, all my modest, flesh-concealing layers were barely adequate for the autumn chill. I keep forgetting that it’s October and that I should expect to shiver accordingly. Or, you know, wear a jacket.
“Ay, Mami…where you going? Come on in.” Three confused desi promoters speak Latin to me half-heartedly. It’s Sunday night and the strip is dead. I think they’re more bored than serious. I smile as I pass them, right before one of them asks the other, “Was she Indian?” That’s the question of the day, apparently.
At Tryst, I had been approached at different times by two Ethiopian men who inquired about my ethnicity with exquisite politeness, even as I coldly attempted to block them (well, everyone) out via noise-cancelling ‘phones which were blaring my favorite Pixies album of all time. I separately disappointed each of them with my answer that I was all brownz, but the second one was more desperate to make a connection with this potential Sheba.
“We look…same!”
I smiled faintly. I had spent the afternoon trying not to cry; regrettably, I was in no mood to be my usual bubbly, hyper, Cornholio-lite self.
“Really! People ask me…I am Indian!”
I nodded at him. He looked a little desi, but I would’ve been able to tell that his Orthodox church didn’t feature a portrait of Parumala Thirumeni. Maybe I’m more attuned to all of this, though.
I tried to be gentle. “I’m…in the middle of something. It was so nice talking to you. Have a good evening.”
“I thought you were Ethiopian!”
“I know.”
I hated disengaging from the conversation so abruptly, but I did anyway, because I had to. As I approached Amsterdam, I replayed the entire convo one more time. Had I been mean? Ive been somewhat paranoid about this lately, ever since some craven moron lied about me on a comment thread here. It annoyed me, in part because no one had called him out on his obviously BS assertion that I am a snob who would diss and dismiss someone for being a paralegal. Maybe it was so pathetic and ridiculous it wasn’t worth addressing? I don’t know. I do know that I try to be kind to everyone, not that such a thing is easy to do or something I’m flawless at…whatevs. I began to wonder if all this second-guessing and mental rewinding were indicators of low blood sugar and hunger-induced insanity, just as I jogged up the metal stairs.
No line. Sweeeet. The kid behind the counter resembles Puffys unfortunate new album cover, right down to the mirror-covered eyes. I ignore him and lovingly give the counter a visual caress, taking in the perfect condiments, the tzatziki, the hummus, the Turkish and Israeli salads and then I see it: an empty stainless steel container. No. Come ON. Slightly panicked, I look up and ask, No Cauliflower??? just as Puffy announces, were all out of that just ran out, actually.
Im forlorn. Gobi is the only reason I came BACK. This is the exact moment he chooses to ask me, Where you from?
California, I reply somewhat pointedly. Im in no mood. How could he be fully stocked with everything BUT gobi?
No. I mean
One of my eyebrows climbs skyward in anticipation.
Hes careful. Where is your family originally from?
India.
Yeah, I thought so though I also thought you were Ethiopian.
Are you guys temporarily out? Like if I come back later tonight ?
Hes apologetic. Nothin til tomorrow.
Drat. Damn. Sigh.
Thanks anyway Ill-
We have eggplant!
I see that. I loathe eggplant, but I appreciate the attempt at substitution.
Oh well if you hate eggplant
Right. I nod at him and walk out, slightly worried about where Im going to snatch dinner, before more Trysting.
Ive lived in DC on and off since 1999, the year I commenced grad school at GW. Ive gone out in Adams Morgan for almost as many years. I have never, however, had a Jumbo Slice and for this transgression the Washington Post among other authorities would have you believe that Im not authentically chocolate. Im not pressed. Those slices are terrifying, easily double the size of the already-generous pieces of pie I used to drive all the way to Berkeley to get from Blondies. And each of those purveyors of jumbo-sity is, well, somewhat filthy. But then, so is the Morg.
Im now starving. So famished, I briefly consider life as an omnivore before disgusting myself with such blasphemous thoughts. Ive passed one pizza joint and Im coming up on the second; there are a total of three on 18th street, each of which claims to be the original.
Send me a sign, I whimper to the universe. Should I try this noxious culinary offering? Do I dare? Will I find an unwelcome present among the toppings? Eeeeeew.
Im walking past the middle original Jumbo slice and then the air shifts slightly; the heavens part and while this cliché requires singing angels, lets replace them with yodeling, jagged Carnatic trilling, just to be down with the brown.
The man behind the counter is desi.
My browndar is going off like Naomi Campbell at a new assistant. That does it. I am so going in, especially now that hes smiling at me so happily. Is it the dorky braided hair? The lack of visible skin? The Merrells instead of stripper shoes? The fact that I share some amount of culture with him? Im sure Im about to find out.
The three people who are already devouring fat-laden slabs of carbohydrates are trashed and this reminds me to mentally kill the last of my buzz. Hes looking at me and seeing good girl, and like I always am in such situations, Im full of a desire to go with it, no matter how inaccurate.
I smile widely as I approach the counter. Hes tickled.
Hello there.
Hi!
What would you like?
What kind do you have?
Cheese and pepperoni, only.
A slice of plain, please.
He nods with approval and hollers something unintelligible after turning away.
Vere you are from?
My parents are from India
I know. Vere?
South India hes looking at me expectantly so I continue. I long ago learned that not everyones heard of Kerala, though this fact shocks the fecal matter out of me, to this day.
They are from Kerala.
But you are from Amreeka.
I smile and nod. Yeggzactly.
You know where I am from? Punjab.
I had a feeling this was the case; something about this Unclejis face. Suddenly, its Martin OBlancos last stand and Im buzzing again. I know this, because two things happen when Im tipsy/faded: I talk like Im four and I speak multiple languages. Rather well. Or so we discovered at Davis after doing an experiment where I drank two zimas before every Spanish conversation class for a month. My grade jumped to an A-, as I grew way chatty and rolled my Rs like I was Manish Vij or something.
KIDDHAN! I chirp, as foggy, faraway memories of UC Davis engulf me: I’m surrounded by the past as I remember celebrating Baisakhi, being the only non-Sikh kudi in the fashion show, Safri Boys CDs ruined by loving abuse i.e. use, tasting rajmah for the first time, crying when my bf whispered a tragedy about two lovers named Heer and Ranjha in my quivering ear, wearing my first Indian outfit which wasnt a sari…
My college sweetheart, who was so nice I dated him twice, was Jat Sikh. My then best friend was also Punjabi. Between the two of them (and their family members), I had marinated in the language. I always feel a pure sense of comfort when I hear Punjabi, vs. my reaction to hearing Hindi, which makes me freeze at first, then feel wary.
Not that it needs to be stated, but Im a sentimental drunk, too.
I dont remember now what I babbled to Uncleji in my fourth-rate Punjabi, but he was smiling at me tenderly.
My dear, I am from the Punjab which is in Pakistan. I am a Muslim. We do not say Kiddhan, as such. But it is still sweet to hear you in this place. Hes looking warily at the belligerent, excessively loud drunkards behind me, the kindness leaving his face rapidly it rushes back when his eyes land on me. He leans over the counter, looks at me intently and then says, Ve are the same, beti. Neighbors. Now tell me what my neighbors daughter is studying.
Im done with school for now.
This receives instant approval.
Veddy good. Always put education first. You will get Masters?
Im digging him fiercely, not just because he has such a distinguished face, but also because he didnt mention professional degrees.
I have one, Uncle
Ha! Excellent. You will take your PhD.
I have relatives who dont believe in me or encourage me this much.
Here we go! You ever have this before?
I nod negatively.
You will not be hungry, I promise you. He triumphantly hands over a slice of cheese pizza so large, it doesnt fit on TWO paper plates laid side-by-side. Good lord.
Im scared to even carry this gooey behemoth, but I do, making my way over to a filthy counter which immediately makes me miss Blondies. I refer to the OLD Blondies, i.e. the one which existed c. 1990-1997. I dont go there anymore. Its not the same and neither is this. But at least Blondies bolts their grated parmesan cheese, red pepper, garlic powder et al to clean counters. Here and now, I see four random pepperoni dotting the space where I am loathe to lay even these paper products I know I am about to toss. Blech. What I would give to see rock and roll history as art, next to the jewel in the UC system right about now…
It truly is a massive amount of pizza to consume all at once and I try not to think of the bad reviews and articles Ive read online, regarding such establishments. To distract myself, I revisit conversations which Ive had this evening, each of which is more than happy to burst out of my memory to torment me. Each exchange involves a question about my ethnicity, specifically a curious query regarding whether or not I am Ethiopian.
I start to weird out slightly; Ive always thought (and been told) that I look very desi, so thats the first thing which springs to mind. Then I try and force context in to my brain Im running around little Ethiopia with an Orthodox cross its totally understandable that Id make people wonder. Still, if I don’t look South Asian…
Escuse me beta?
I turn, surprised, towards the voice at the counter.
Is okay?
He saw me and knew me immediately; realizing this makes me instantly happy and I am flooded with a sense of love for this stranger.
Yes, Uncleji. Im totally okay.
He beams at me.
You visit again?
Sure. I dont get nearly enough opportunities to practice my Punjabi.
He grins and says, Kiddhan! in response. We both know that I probably wont be back, because much to his relief and my elderly pragmatism, I dont go out in the Morg on Friday and Saturday nights, which are the traditional times for eating Jumbo-style. He looks at me with all the doting affection of a Father and I get it, as I wrinkle my nose. He wouldnt mind seeing me again, but hed prefer that he didnt. No worries. The pizza is okay but its no Rays. Or Blondies, c. 1990. I wrap up the detritus, toss it in a huge bin and take my apparently-Ethiopian kundi on home.
