You Can't Take It With You

Last night my wife and I went with our friends Nicholas and Pascaline to a Lebanese restaurant. Nicholas is French but is Lebanese by birth and he recommended the place. Pascaline and Nicholas both kick ass.

A couple of weeks ago we went with them to Monaco and at one point took the kids to play at a playground overlooking the Mediterranean. While we were sitting there a young couple wandered into the playground and started making out right in front of us and our kids.

I laughed. "Can't they go do that somewhere else, or at least wait?" I asked.
"No way," said Nicholas. "Look at the girl, she's already moist."
It was then that I learned the word 'moist' in French.

On January 2nd, a new law took affect in France outlawing indoor smoking in all public establishments. Since the past few months I've nearly died several times from smoke inhalation at various restaurants, this was a law I welcomed. Last night it was like the difference between fresh air and walking into the bathroom right after my older brother has taken a huge dump.

But what I really wanted to talk about is how apparently when you eat out in France, the food you order isn't really yours. When we got to the restaurant I said to Nicholas, "Just order for us because I don't know Lebanese food very well." It's great food, but all the names are impossible to pronounce and don't make any sense. He speaks Lebanese so it all makes sense to him.

The names remind me of the time we went to dinner in the US at an Indian restaurant with some friends, a couple from Utah. They'd never eaten Indian food before so my wife and I did all the ordering. One of the dishes we ordered was chicken in a spinach curry sauce. On the menu they called it "Chicken Saag." Our friends thought the spinach chicken was the best part of the meal and the guy kept going on and on in a very loud voice about how much he loved the "Suck Chicken".

Anyway, back to last night. When the food arrived, the plate was enormous. The food was all really good, but I was a little disappointed because for 34 euros I'd expected a little more meat. No suck chicken on this plate. No matter, I ate almost everything, until I was so full I could barely handle it. Lebanese food isn't as good as Indian food, but it's a lot better than the god damn Cheesecake Factory, plus they have belly dancers at Lebanese restaurants. As long as she's not a fat ass, who doesn't love a belly dancer?

Then Nicholas said, "Now that you're finished with this one, they're going to bring each of us another plate, this time with all the meat." I was like, "Are you fucking kidding me? I just finished eating 10 pounds of Fava beans and now they bring the meat?" I'm sure that at some point earlier in the meal he'd mentioned that's how it works, but I hadn't understood him because this god damn language is so complicated. Stupid Lebanese, eating with their hands.

So they brought out the meat plates. Each one was enormous, filled with chischekebabs (or however you spell it) and other great stuff. I was totally full.

"I can't eat this food," I said to Nicholas. "I'm going to ask for a box."
"What does that mean?" he asked.
"You know, I'm going to get a box." He looked confused so I continued.
"In the US when you can't finish your meal they bring you a little box and you put everything in there and take it home to eat the next day. Usually I end up having it for breakfast." I thought he would laugh at that. Sort of like saying a girl is moist. No laugh.
"You can't do that here," he said.
"You're joking," I said.
"You can't do that here," he repeated. Totally serious.
"I don't believe you," I said.
"Ask," he triple-dog-dared me. A slight breach of etiquette, since you should first start with a dare, then a dog-dare, then a double-dog dare, but no matter.

Then the belly dancer came out, and after that we all danced for about 30 minutes. The dance floor was the space between the tables.

After that was over and we sat down again the busboy came over and asked if he could take my plate. I had barely touched it.

"I'm finished for tonight," I said.
"Can you please bring me a box so I can take it all home?" I asked in very polite French, using the respectful term for 'You'.
He looked at me like I'd just tried to lick his ass.
"c'est interdit," he responded. 'It's forbidden.' The most common expression in all of France, used by the French to explain almost everything. No further explanation needed. Sort of like my mom's expression "It's a tender mercy from the Lord."

Since I'd told the busboy I was finished, he basically just took away the plate and probably deposited it in the trash in the back, along with sixty trillion pounds of other delectable food from other people. What a waste. I looked at Nicholas.

"I told you," he said. "You can't do that here."
Then he offered me a swig of his 100-proof Lebanese licorice drink. It tasted like shit.