Food Memory
"You don't have to be such a bitch, you know," he said quietly.
I just glared at him, my boyfriend of eight months, silently plotting the million ways I would get back at him for forcing me to navigate this trip through all these tiny cobblestone streets that led to nowhere.
I was hungry. And when I'm hungry, I'm cranky. I do not need to try to decipher a map in Portuguese. I need to eat. Where, oh where, are the fast food restaurants in Portugal? They're not in Sintra, I can tell you that.
It's amazing, the power of hunger. Suddenly it didn't matter that we were two lovebirds on our first vacation overseas, staying in five-star hotels and soaking in the culture. It didn't matter that he cared about me enough to invite me to his homeland, to show me his memories, to engage me in his past.
No. All that mattered was the gnawing in my stomach.
He drove up another hill, around a rotary and through to a little hamlet on the other side of the mountain.
We pulled into a quaint restaurant area and took a seat at one of the outside tables. A waiter casually handed us menus. I did my best not to snatch mine out of his hand. My boyfriend and I had spoken not a word in twenty minutes.
I looked down.
Oh, wonderful. Portuguese. And no pictures. I had to break the silence.
"What should I get?"
He met my eyes, still peevish.
"Why don't you at least try to read the menu first?"
Okay, I knew I was supposed to be making an effort, but was that really the time? I was so hungry. Couldn't he just help me for one second? I just wanted him to order me a damn sandwich.
"Fine!" I said. You all know how I said it.
I looked at the mishmash of words. There. Right there, second from the top on the right.
"I want that." I pointed to it.
He brought his eyes to the page, and they glittered. "No, you don't."
Seriously? Oh, it was on.
"Yes. Yes, I do."
The waiter came by, saying something not in English.
"I'll have this," I said again, pointing to the menu as the waiter scribbled on his pad.
We waited. We sipped our wine, throwing speared glances at one another now and again.
After too long, the food arrived. He got his first--a delicious-smelling shrimp dish brimming with tomato bisque.
Then my plate came. It was huge! I was so excited. I was finally going to eat, and I had apparently ordered all the food there was to be had in Portugal. What luck!
The waiter put the covered dish down. With relish, he whipped off the cap.
And I wasn't hungry anymore. Not in the slightest.
In front of me sat an enormous mound of twisted, charred black, snake-like things, easily two inches around each, their heads turned toward me, their cooked-out, empty eyes staring. Oh Jesus. I had entered into an Indiana Jones movie.
My boyfriend was laughing so hard that tears streamed down his face.
"An old Portuguese specialty," he said between gasps. "Fried eel. Whole."
Did I eat them?
You're damn right, I did. They were okay. Crunchy, and a bit too salty. I turned the heads away, so I didn't have to watch them watch me eat them.
Nobody tells me what I don't want to order.
I just glared at him, my boyfriend of eight months, silently plotting the million ways I would get back at him for forcing me to navigate this trip through all these tiny cobblestone streets that led to nowhere.
I was hungry. And when I'm hungry, I'm cranky. I do not need to try to decipher a map in Portuguese. I need to eat. Where, oh where, are the fast food restaurants in Portugal? They're not in Sintra, I can tell you that.
It's amazing, the power of hunger. Suddenly it didn't matter that we were two lovebirds on our first vacation overseas, staying in five-star hotels and soaking in the culture. It didn't matter that he cared about me enough to invite me to his homeland, to show me his memories, to engage me in his past.
No. All that mattered was the gnawing in my stomach.
He drove up another hill, around a rotary and through to a little hamlet on the other side of the mountain.
We pulled into a quaint restaurant area and took a seat at one of the outside tables. A waiter casually handed us menus. I did my best not to snatch mine out of his hand. My boyfriend and I had spoken not a word in twenty minutes.
I looked down.
Oh, wonderful. Portuguese. And no pictures. I had to break the silence.
"What should I get?"
He met my eyes, still peevish.
"Why don't you at least try to read the menu first?"
Okay, I knew I was supposed to be making an effort, but was that really the time? I was so hungry. Couldn't he just help me for one second? I just wanted him to order me a damn sandwich.
"Fine!" I said. You all know how I said it.
I looked at the mishmash of words. There. Right there, second from the top on the right.
"I want that." I pointed to it.
He brought his eyes to the page, and they glittered. "No, you don't."
Seriously? Oh, it was on.
"Yes. Yes, I do."
The waiter came by, saying something not in English.
"I'll have this," I said again, pointing to the menu as the waiter scribbled on his pad.
We waited. We sipped our wine, throwing speared glances at one another now and again.
After too long, the food arrived. He got his first--a delicious-smelling shrimp dish brimming with tomato bisque.
Then my plate came. It was huge! I was so excited. I was finally going to eat, and I had apparently ordered all the food there was to be had in Portugal. What luck!
The waiter put the covered dish down. With relish, he whipped off the cap.
And I wasn't hungry anymore. Not in the slightest.
In front of me sat an enormous mound of twisted, charred black, snake-like things, easily two inches around each, their heads turned toward me, their cooked-out, empty eyes staring. Oh Jesus. I had entered into an Indiana Jones movie.
My boyfriend was laughing so hard that tears streamed down his face.
"An old Portuguese specialty," he said between gasps. "Fried eel. Whole."
Did I eat them?
You're damn right, I did. They were okay. Crunchy, and a bit too salty. I turned the heads away, so I didn't have to watch them watch me eat them.
Nobody tells me what I don't want to order.