Writers are professionals. Writers are people who write for a living. Writers make money for the product they sell, their writing. At this point, I suppose I could call myself “a writer,” though I feel sort of weird saying it, because GoogleAdSense pays me enough money each month to buy…nothing!
Let’s face it. You best believe that I will forever be thedeliciouslife.com and not just thedeliciouslife.com because 1) there is no way little ol' moi could wrestle the domain name away from yoo-ston, and 2) using Blogger is a free platform only when you whore yourself with a blogspot URL; and Google AdSense revenue is not enough to buy me hookers, blow, or my own hosted site.
Just kidding. I wouldn’t want the blow. Double up the male hookers!
Just kidding again. I’d rather have the blow.
Though I am technically a writer because I do spew rinds, peels, pits and other such nonsense from my mind onto the keyboard before they rot into pulchritude inside my head and non-technically a writer because I get paid with laundry money, I am a horrible writer because there are words and phrases in the English language that I do not know because technically they are not even English, but every other real writer knows them because they are just known and even though other people don't know them, the writers use them because they are good enough writers that they know how to set up understanding via context.
I ramble way too much to "do" context.
So Pee Wee’s Secret Word of the Day is “non-sequitur.”
For a long time, I didn’t know what "non sequitur" meant. In fact, not until just now, did I actually know what the dictionary definition of non-sequitur was.
non se•qui•tur - noun. [non sek-wi-ter, -too r; Lat. nohn se-kwi-toor]
1. Logic. an inference or a conclusion that does not follow from the premises.
2. a statement containing an illogical conclusion.
Of course, I still have no idea how to use that in a sentence, but I think this might work:
After eating lunch at Bombay Café, I very painfully puked my brains out, completely purging my entire digestive system from tip to tail of any trace of curry, cardamom, or naan. I kind of love Bombay Cafe and can’t wait to go back. (!)
Now if that is not an illogical conclusion, I don’t know what is. I have been to Bombay Café many times, so not only is it obvious that I do like it, but there is no need to re-hash my opinion of the restaurant, which is positive for ambiance, service, and food. The prices are slightly high for my taste, but hey, if it costs more than a dollar, I consider it high.
Let me give you a litte more detail on the “premises” though, as required by the definition for non sequitur.
We met at Bombay Café for lunch because it is located between the two of us. There is, though limited, parking and even if the limit is met, there is street parking. Bombay Cafe is “nice” enough that they serve beer and wine (important!), but neither “fancy” nor “expensive.” We could sit and linger if we needed/wanted. Most importantly, there was low risk of getting caught together. Ooooo. Top secret spy action. Delicious does double oh seven.
I had a glass of wine. Yes, it was lunch. Yes, it was something like a weekday. Yes, I was going back to the office afterward. So what?! People. Wine is a vita-oxidant. We should all be drinking a glass of Shiraz with breakfast. But since Shiraz doesn't go with my championship breakfast of coffee and Nicotine gum, I save it for lunch.
Naturally, we ordered naan. We also ordered my choice, chicken tikka masala, and lamb vindaloo, not my choice, because if I have the choice, I prefer not to eat darlingcute (one word), fuzzysweet (also one word) baby animals. Besides, lamb always tastes like sweaty feet to me.
With our chairs pulled in an inch closer than comfortable, heads bent forward a degree more than natural, the conversation was hushed rapid fire as we sat at our table in one of the front windows of the restaurant. They say that sometimes, the best place to "hide" is out in the open. I sipped my wine, listening. I played with my glass, talking.
About halfway through my glass, I felt a strange tighteni
ng. Maybe it was a pinch. I put my glass down and could feel myself slip down a little lower in my seat as I momentarily closed my eyes to re-find my balance. Found. We carried on.
The naan was gorgeous on the plate. The few rays of sunshine that had skulked through the restaurant's front windows highlighted the puffed, cracked beast of beauty. It was pre-cut in the kitchen, which is a minor disappointment for me, but I let it slide for Bombay Cafe. No one except The Delicious is perfect, you know, and the crisp, charred exterior and just-noticeable chewy interior certainly made up for it. Barely.
There it was again. Pinch. I ignored it by finishing my wine.
Chicken Tikka Masala was good, but I know I wasn’t enjoying it to its fullest for the little pinch that was rapidly exploding into a massive headache. In fact, I found it almost a little too strong for the state I was in. Medicating my head with a glass of wine wasn’t enough, and unfortunately, Bombay Café doesn’t do full-prescription-bar strength. I took a few bites of the chicken with the naan, acknowledged that is was good, and sunk even lower in my seat. *throbbing*
I forced myself to taste the Lamb Vindaloo. It was, quite surprisingly, not as horrible as I expected. The lamb was tender, though the entire dish was overwhelmed with black pepper, which is better than the alternative. Black pepper covers up the natural essence of sweaty feet.
We wanted to linger. We wanted to continue the rapid-fire conversation. We ordered a dessert, and thinking that I might be headed toward fever again, we chose a refreshing ice cream. Though kulfi is the traditional Indian ice cream made from milk that has been boiled, we opted for the Nilgiri Sundae because it was topped with coffee. The ice cream was nothing particularly special, and neither were the chopped pistachios, but it was a good way to, you know, linger.
Our meal was good. By the time I left Bombay Café, I was certain that my head was going to burst open and spill my genius out into the open. It freaked me out slightly because rarely, if ever, do I get headaches, and even on those rare occasions that I do, they are always the same – a dull ache all over that is remedied by drinking water. It’s always a hangover headache. This was not.
Back in the office, I withered into my desk chair, and for the life of me, could not figure out how to work. I’m sure I made attempts to answer emails. Perhaps I even updated a spreadsheet. What felt like several hours passing was really at most only a few minutes after I had returned from lunch that I shot up from my seat, bolted from the office, dashed down the hallway, slammed into the door of the ladies room with my doubled-over body because one arm was wrapped around my gut and one hand was covering my mouth. “Please,” I was thinking desperately, “please, God, let me make it to the bathroom.”
I barely made it into a stall before my entire half-digested Indian lunch, all of it, every single drop of wine mixed with melted ice cream, every last shred of lamb and chicken, every unidentifiable-by-sight but identifiable-by-smell bite of food came raining out of my body like spicy shrapnel. I made it to the bathroom. I even made it into the stall, but the velocity and force at which my lunch was shooting out of my head was too much for me to accurately aim for the toilet. It was everywhere – on the seat, on the floor, in my hair, and on my clothes.
It was, to say the least, gross.
I did my best to clean up, but do you know how hard it is to clean up half-digested Indian food? Very. Hard.
I left the office early.
Only once before have I ever experienced pukedom that was that violent. ">Rice Krispies treats, roast beef, and Children's cherry flavored Tylenol.
I don't eat Rice Krispies Treats, roast beef, or Children's cherry-flavored Tylenol, but I’ll definitely go back to Bombay Café.
12021 West Pico Boulevard
West Los Angeles, CA
** a year ago today, the first five RiFWoLs of 2006 were antica pizzeria, nizam indian, tuk tuk thai, wilshire, and tanino **
** two years ago today, i ordered mika sushi for a party and sang sweet child of mine at yuu yuu karaoke, but didn't blog about it **