Skusting.

“Skusting.”

Belloq, who was formerly known as “Indiana Jones”  in these pages, says “skusting”  when what she means is “disgusting.”  I find this to be an endearing quality, even though by now she has used the phrase roughly half a dozen times tonight.

In Belloq’s defense, it is completely appropriate given the circumstances of our date. The food in this restaurant we’re in? It’s disgusting!

It is not as though we were not given fair warning, either. We have eaten here on four of our five dates so far, and each time, found the food even worse than the time before. By now, it has sort of become “our place”  by default, which is unfortunate and does not bode well for the relationship. Meanwhile, defying all odds, the food just keeps on getting worse and worse.

Tonight, we are here later than we normally are. What this means is that the dinner hour chef has already gone home for the night and some third rate apprentice is minding the stove top. Much to the surprise of Belloq and me, the apprentice’s cooking is somehow even worse than the chef’s.

This cooking is not merely awful; it’s an endurance test. It’s the kind of bad that cannot possibly be by accident. I am telling you: This kind of bad has gotta be intentional. 

Knowing what we’re in for, Belloq and me, we go for the gold. We breeze right on past the top of the menu, skipping the rancid cheeseburgers and bacteria-ridden chicken sandwiches, the kerosene-soaked French fries and sour Caesar salads. We’re ordering for each other. You know, seeing what the other person can stomach.

I’m first up, and I say, “Yes, she’d like the raw squid with feta cheese and grape leaves. Heavy on the celery. Now, does that come with tomato sauce poured over it? No? Can you do that for me?”

The way I figure it, if this place cannot even manage a decent enchilada, what in the blazes is their squid going to be like?

Now it is Belloq’s turn to order for me. She fumbles it. Goes for the overtly nonsensical. Forgets that finding bad food in this place is like shooting squid in a barrel. “She would like menudo – and could you explain in detail for her exactly what that is? – with olives and cucumbers in the soup itself. Oh, and goat cheese. And on the side… Do you have anything with peanut butter?”

So now we sit here, each woman trying to control her gag reflex, mentally mapping out the route to the ladies room.

This food is the most god-awful crap I have ever tasted. My body is sending out desperate warnings for me to cease eating immediately. I am sweating profusely for no apparent reason and I think my left arm has just gone numb.

I try another sip of iced tea to wash the taste of the third-rate goat cheese and fourth-rate peanut butter from my mouth, but I wind up swallowing something… hairy… I think it might have been moving… and the situation is made considerably worse.

Even the utensils are suspect around here. I wonder to myself when the last time this spoon has been washed.

And I can hear a very green Belloq mutter, “Oh God… Skusting!”  under her breath as she leans over her bowl. She’s holding her stomach and trying to take one final bite of a squid that probably went bad two or three days back.

Then her eyes tear up and she flaps her hands, and I know I’ve won even before she makes her break for the ladies room. I hold up my arms in victory, but I do so slowly… tenderly… because I am feeling a little queasy myself.

While she’s gone, I am left to play with the remains of my raw cow intestine stew. Then I am back to people-watching, which is sort of a default mode for a person like me.

“A person like me”… I guess that phrase assumes there are people like me…

Anyway, I take a bite of my ethnic tripe and make up back stories for my fellow diners.

And Belloq, after a few more minutes have gone by, well, she gets within a couple feet of our table and turns around and rushes back to the ladies room. By the time she actually makes it all the way to her seat, I am so wrapped up in my people-watching that it’s as though she has snuck up on me.

“So…”  she says. I jump at the sound of her voice, first, because I have not seen her walk up and second, because she looks as though she has been hit by a car. “What’s the plan for the rest of the evening?”

I lean in conspiratorially, pushing my plate away so as not to risk smelling it. “See that woman back there? The one with the huge orange envelope?”

“Uh huh.”

I look back over at the woman in question. This is a woman who has risked the baked chicken soufflé and somehow survived intact. “I cannot seem to imagine what is in that envelope. My creative mind has failed me. I need to find out!”

Belloq shrugs. Jesus… Even with her current sickly green hue, she looks fucking fantasticshrugging. This might be the sexiest shrug I have ever witnessed.  She asks, “You want me to go ask her what’s in the envelope?”

“God no!” I snap. “Where is the fun in that?”  Then I look around the restaurant. This restaurant that is OUR place. Belloq’s and mine. “I want to follow her. See where she goes!”

Belloq considers this for a moment. She looks fantastic considering this.

“I’m in!”  she finally announces.  “Waiter, check please!”

This could end up being my best date ever...
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EDIT:

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