My mom rolled her eyes and dragged the Pepsi over to her and gazed down into the brown liquid. Strange little black blobs floated on the surface. My mom made a gurgling sound. “I think they’re ants,” she finally said. Just then, I noticed an ant emerging from the liquid, crawling upwards desperately from the muck. It seemed to be gasping for air as it plummeted to the tabletop. It scurried about briefly, before it met my fist. Curious, yet, horrified, all of us leaned over to inspect the swamp. Dead ants swirled and tumbled throughout the drink, and live ants struggled to survive on the surface. My brother’s eyes widened as he realized what he’d been drinking for the last twelve minutes. He opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue, crossing his eyes to examine the muscle. A single black dot resided in the middle of the pink flesh. Colton jumped up, shook him spastically, and ran to the bathroom. I pushed my Pink Panther Platter away from me.
The waitress was summoned, and my mom carefully explained that dead insects had made a watery tomb in Colton’s drink. The waitress shook her head. My mom tried again. “There are ants. In his drink. ANTS.” The woman mimed things marching across her palm. My mom nodded. The waitress giggled nervously and explained to us in fractured English that ants were living in the soda dispenser. But she didn’t think they’d get in the actual drink! There was a collective head tilt. She then offered Colton, and all of us, a free refill. “Um, we’ll just have the check, thanks,” my mom said. Since no discount was offered, we paid the full bill. As soon as Colton reappeared, green-faced, from the bathroom, we bolted from “Damn Me.”
Friday, September 18, 2009
Sushi Horror Story, Part One
I’ve always been a fan of sushi. My parents adore the Japanese staple, and so I was introduced to it at a young age. My aunt recalls going out to eat with me when I was six, and I all but demanded some Californian rolls. I have no recollection of that but I do remember going to a restaurant that my family now refers to as “Damn Me,” the sushi bar from hell.
A couple of summers ago, my mom, dad, brother, sister, and I had spent a few hours at the State Fair when we decided go out to dinner. My mom had dragged me around to all the craft booths, which was an arduous task, believe me, and so I felt that a treat was in order. I suggested we go out for sushi. My parents had been to “I Love Sushi,” and, seeing as the place was nearby, it was decided. Thirty minutes later, we were still looking for the restaurant. Driving down a road for what was probably the third time, Colton, my brother, glimpsed a restaurant with Japanese characters on the side. Hungry, we retired our search for the elusive “I Love Sushi” and decided to try the place. “Dami” was small and appeared to be locally owned. Its sign advertised “Fresh sushi and Barbeque.” This should have been interpreted as a bad omen but at the time it gave the place character.
We walked in and were immediately greeted by a small, squat Japanese woman. She appeared to be the only person in the restaurant. You could almost see the tumbleweed blowing across the floor. We were seated, and drinks were ordered. The menus were laminated sheets of paper with large pictures on them detailing each dish available. At the time, pink was my greatest vice, and so I had to have the Pink Panther Platter, which consisted of crab-stuffed sushi and, looking back, God-knows-what-else. Since there was no one else in the restaurant, the service was speedy, and we got our meals quickly. We sat munching and talking, content and unawares. Colton, who had been nursing his Pepsi, suddenly gagged. “Colton, mind your manners,” my mom sighed.
“I’m pretty sure I just swallowed a chunk of something.”
“That’s why you chew,” I said helpfully.
“No, like, a chunk in my drink. Oh, my God. Mom, I think there’s something in my drink.”
A couple of summers ago, my mom, dad, brother, sister, and I had spent a few hours at the State Fair when we decided go out to dinner. My mom had dragged me around to all the craft booths, which was an arduous task, believe me, and so I felt that a treat was in order. I suggested we go out for sushi. My parents had been to “I Love Sushi,” and, seeing as the place was nearby, it was decided. Thirty minutes later, we were still looking for the restaurant. Driving down a road for what was probably the third time, Colton, my brother, glimpsed a restaurant with Japanese characters on the side. Hungry, we retired our search for the elusive “I Love Sushi” and decided to try the place. “Dami” was small and appeared to be locally owned. Its sign advertised “Fresh sushi and Barbeque.” This should have been interpreted as a bad omen but at the time it gave the place character.
We walked in and were immediately greeted by a small, squat Japanese woman. She appeared to be the only person in the restaurant. You could almost see the tumbleweed blowing across the floor. We were seated, and drinks were ordered. The menus were laminated sheets of paper with large pictures on them detailing each dish available. At the time, pink was my greatest vice, and so I had to have the Pink Panther Platter, which consisted of crab-stuffed sushi and, looking back, God-knows-what-else. Since there was no one else in the restaurant, the service was speedy, and we got our meals quickly. We sat munching and talking, content and unawares. Colton, who had been nursing his Pepsi, suddenly gagged. “Colton, mind your manners,” my mom sighed.
“I’m pretty sure I just swallowed a chunk of something.”
“That’s why you chew,” I said helpfully.
“No, like, a chunk in my drink. Oh, my God. Mom, I think there’s something in my drink.”
The Redhead Returns
This blog was started as a school project, but I've had so much fun with it, I've decided to continue my postings.
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