Swoon
So there I was. Seated. Slice of pizza drooping flimsily from the grasp of my right hand. Table and cloth gripped manically in my left. And the world itself tilting at odd angles as my breath and heartrate quickened. I was passing out. And fighting it the whole way.
How did I arrive at this state? Let's turn back the clock.
Feeling the need to be filled, the desire to hunger and thirst no more, we decided a fat Chicago-style pizza and the associated tasty beverages would do the trick nicely. So we headed off to Selma's, a local eatery of pizzaed goodness. It's not the best pizza in the world, but they've got tasty hot wings and equally tasty beverages (actually the wings were better in the old days when Johnny T and I would visit, back when they made 'em really hot—"hot enough to burn your culo," we were told). And all-in-all, their pizza still tastes a lifetime better than something lo-ball like Pizza Hut or Papa John's (or good taste forefend, Domino's or Little Caesar's). So then, we arrived, took our seats, and placed an order.
"Small pizza, please. Andouille sausage. Mushrooms. Annnnnd, how 'bout some chopped bacon? Thanks. Oh! And no tomoato, please!"
These Chicago-style joints, you've really got to keep an eye out. They adore their tomatoes. If you don't specify "No tomato!" they'll drown your pizz in the fruit.
So, about thirty minutes pass. Friday nights are busy. At last our pizza comes. And it is slathered in tomatoes. I can barely see the pizza beneath the Red Menace. I'm actually exagerrating here, but due to the extreme distaste I harbour toward the fruit, I might as well be telling the deep, honest kind of truth that proves the foundations of the world and sets babies free. The thing was disgusting to look at. So I mentioned this. That I asked for no tomoatoes and that this pizza was clearly in breach of my original instructions (instructions that had been confidently rehearsed to me by our waitress after our initial encounter at which point she took my order).
So she took it back and we waited again. Though not for long. She came back in about seven-to-ten minutes with a new pizza. Or so we thought.
Now as an interjector here, those who haven't ever worked in a pizzaria might not be aware of the fact that a pizza only takes about seven minutes to cook if given priority and the right kind of oven. So it was entirely possible that this new pizza was truly a new pizza and not just a pizza that had been taken into the back where the cooks would pick out the tomato pieces by hand and try to pawn it off as a fresh pizza.
Alas, luck was not with us that night. As the waitress dished out slices for us to enjoy, I watched a fat, cubed chunk of tomato tumble back into the pan.
"Huh. How'd that get there?" she wondered fatalistically.
Hoping against hope that the errant tomato bit I had just witnessed was merely a fluke, I began eating my slice. My slice that was overwhelmed by tomato bits that had been overlooked by put-upon cooks. The taste crept into every crevace of my conscious state. I was overcome. And so we find my in the state with which we had begun.
It should be evident by now that I am no fan of the tomato. What may or may not have been conveyed is the fact that so dire is my reaction to the fruit that I either immediately begin to gag and retch or I show a remarkable propensity for feinting. Honestly, I'd never quite had this reaction before, but, evidently, feinting from tomato overdose (i.e., biting a tomato) is my thing.
After my tomato-filled bite, I began to feel at odds with the world around me. The evening sky became oppressive in its cloying warmth. My heart began to race like greyhounds chasing a beleaguered, facsimile rabbit. And so, the tilting began.
My eyes spun like orbiting planets in my head. I held on to the last piece of stability in this tomato-shredded world, the table at which I was seated, with a ferocity at which even Norse gods would marvel—only to watch it melt from between my fingers. There was no longer any sense to the world. Reality had collapsed upon itself and I was going down with the ship.
Yet still I fought.
In the end, I did not faint. I fought unconsciousness for long minutes before I was certain that I would remain upright and, quote-unquote, alert. Though grateful that I did not pass out, sprawling headfirst into the remaining pizza, The Monk admitted a certain sorrow that the story of me fainting from fear of a tomato could not be told. Happily, I think the tale of my near-swoon is nearly as remarkable.
The lesson is this: I'm like a princess confronting a pea when it comes to slipping tomatoes into my food.
as a post script to this tale:
Amusingly enough, when our waitress returned, I expressed through a sickened haze: "You guys just took the pizza into the back and picked out the tomatoes. There's still a ton of tomato bits in here and it totally tastes like tomatoes." Her response? "Well, sorry sir. I'm not sure what else we could do." And then she left. The end.
note: i am on vacation until 2 June 2007, so while there will be posting this week, commenting will be sporadic.
Labels: life
