Monthly Archives: March 2013

Fat and Salt

“OMG, this salad is amazing!”

“I know, right?”

“It has bacon, apple slices, candied walnut, and arugula in it.”

I didn’t mention the cheese because I wasn’t sure between feta and blue, but made sure I said “arugula” loud and clear, and at the very end: actually I might have brought “arugula” up a few times more in our conversation that night. “Candied walnut” was something I had heard Dawa, the friend I was having the dinner with, speak of and had shamelessly incorporated into my supposed gastronomic vocabulary. I am not a salad person, and definitely do not consider myself a foodie, but when I am eating at a restaurant with a dimmed-out décor and people swanking over a glass of red wine, I try my best to sound intelligent and almost scream out that my life is as interesting as anybody else’s in that room—just loud enough to make the next table pause and listen to what I have to say.

Then the nice white lady comes over at our table with her transcending smile camouflaging with the house’s ambience and asks in a soft squeaky voice, “Are you finding everything okay?” To uphold the unspoken code of civility, we would go all smiles and gooey and exclaim at the excellence, in every aspect, of the experience, as if we were more cautious of not pissing her off than the other way round. We all revel in this moment of sweetness that would make me cringe otherwise and elsewhere—when I am not crunching on those candied walnuts or holding a wine glass by its stem.

As soon as she turns around to attend another table, we would arch our lips in approval and agree,

“Service here is amazing. They really know their stuff.”

“Totally agree.”

We would raise our eye brows and nod our heads in unison to consolidate our belief, and then move on with our conversation which, if spoken at home, would attract some weird stares.

“Sometimes I think I prefer the texture of the food over taste.”

“Mmmm, interesting, never thought of food that way. I always thought the     texture complemented the taste. It’s interesting that you think they are two separable qualities. But I do know that I am starting to like foods which offer variety of texture.”

You remember the part about cringing? So cringe I did, when I was brushing my teeth the next morning and thought through all the things we had talked about the previous night at the restaurant—winning a Pulitzer, the meaning of life, the self-immolations in Tibet, the indispensability of mystery in life for creativity, working for the NPR, how disappointed we were of Ira for that Retraction episode, the value of family and other crap that made up our night, slightly enhanced by our slightly inebriated consciousness.

Thinking Dawa must be feeling the same or at least she would realize that after my telling, I texted her:

I think people sitting around us must have thought of us two as two very pretentious people, going by the things we talked about last night.

And she responds almost immediately:

Why do you care so much about what people think? Most of the times people can’t hear us. Did you hear other people sitting next to us?

And my only response was, hahahahahahahahahahahaha—repetition exaggerated to avoid further confrontation, but Dawa marches on:

It is actually pretentious to think people care.

I had nothing to say but admit, True. I guess I am quite pretentious.

At the restaurant, Dawa remembers,

“I have always wondered why this place is called Fat and Salt.”

“Fat and salt is what you need for a good taste—perhaps the only ingredients.”

“That’s kind of true.”

cover letter 2

…………………………..I was a member of the latter group: a group which consisted of people who thought it was just a transitional gig before his big break; those who saw this profession as something beneath them; those who always changed the subject when obliged to respond to “what do you do for living?” in front of a bunch of successful former high-school acquaintances. I remember thinking once, “if not for those generous scholarships, my parents would have probably made their worst investment to date.”

 I remember using my order pads more for making personal notes than jotting down orders from the patrons. I remember eavesdropping at a couple’s table sensing infidelity, and listening with awe a meeting between a writer and an editor.  I was learning a lot, but all at the expense of my self-esteem, which found a new bottom every day. Every day as a server, I encountered tiny epiphanies that frustrated me more and liberated me far less.

I felt that there was a disjoint between these two paragraphs–originally written as just one. In the first paragraph I am talking about the serving business in general and what kind of a server I was: you will see a lot of generalizations. And the second paragraph–which originally continued as the first paragraph– has more unique and personal experiences. The first paragraph is more of an exposition and the second is more of an introspection, which is very evident in the excessive use of “I” pronouns.

I tried using the “rhythm and repetition effect” as Callahan did in his essay, “Chimera.” I think that actually did a great job of connecting the two paragraphs. I think the first “I remember” sentence signals the transition from general to peculiar, which is the second paragraph’s tone and voice.