The Eating

Second in a series dedicated to proving that I am undatable.

I will eat just about anything.

Anything cooked, that is. Sushi aside, I enjoy every cuisine. Hunan, Tuscan, Martian, whatever. Put it in front of me and I'll eat it. But the period before it gets put in front of me is a problem, you see. I hate to wait for food. It drives me unreasonably mad. When told of a 30 minute wait at a so-so restaurant, I'd rather go next door to McDonald's and eat right away. And I certainly have no snobbish issues about eating at an Olive Garden or an Applebees, both of which I rather like.

When told of an hour wait at a 'good' restaurant, which more often than not is a manufactured or built-in period meant to steer customers to their expensive bar, I'd still rather get fast food right away. I don't mind the period between ordering the food and the food arriving, within reason. After all, I'm comfortably seated, I have a drink, I have my company. But waiting in the cow herd at the bar or worse, at the front door, that I cannot do.

Another thing I cannot do is cook. Never learned. I have successfully made spaghetti in the past, but friends have advised me that softening egg noodles and soaking them with Ragu does not qualify as "cooking". Therefore I have "made" spaghetti much like I have "made" bowls of cereal.

Cooking angries up my blood, seriously. Even the afore-mentioned spaghetti making enraged me quite irrationally, as during boiling the water all I could think of was how there were hundreds of things to eat, right downstairs, right on my block, and THEY were ready, right fucking now! I used to say that my cooking skills consisted of three words: "Vent With Fork", but even those days of happy microwaving are now behind me as my beloved Marie Callendar, whom I used to refer to as 'my personal chef', has gone all complicated on me. Remove sauce packet, set aside. Remove chicken bre---ARRGH! It's too much!

So there will be NO delicious, lovingly prepared home meals at my place. In my last apartment, the oven was filled with books, just as the oven in my new place will be, as soon as I can get the super to come up and shut off the gas. For the record, I do have plates and glasses, because sometimes you need to re-plate the take-out food. Don't ask me where my silverware is, I know I have some somewhere, but if the restaurant did its job, there's a spork in the bag! My fridge usually contains three items: Budweiser, soda, and condiments.

Now, to the delicate topic of "foodies". You know who you are. You, who wax eloquent over the rapture of "pan-seared salmon in a lightly buttered taragon reduction sau"ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ---sorry, were you SAYING something? Two of my dearest friends are self-admitted foodies, and I've been accused of "tyrannical" behavior because I wouldn't devote an extra two hours on a meal that I wasn't interested in having. Really, all that fuss. It's all just meat and vegetables.

Five days a week, I have breakfast and lunch at my office desk. I used to go out into the wilds of Manhattan to scavenge for my lunch, but I grew weary of the bedlam of the typical midtown restaurants, which are only open for lunch, and therefore must crank out umpteen thousands of meals in 2 hours or so, just to turn a profit. There is lots of waiting in lines and lots of shouting and once I realized that most of the time I was just trucking the meal back to my office to eat in peace anyway, I may as well have it delivered. And thanks to the internets, I can order most of my meals with a single click, without have to scream my order over the phone to someone who just arrived from former Soviet Republic of Frikzakistan. Once, I couldn't understand why the order taker kept asking me about my "kitty cat." Kitty cat? KITTY CAT?? Oh. Credit card.

To recap, eating with me mean this: lots of fast food, only take-out or delivery at home, nothing fresh in the fridge, and never ever anything that I've made myself. See why I'm alone?

(Previously: The Sleeping)
(Next: The Shopping)

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