May 18, 2020

Being Zen

Last year, after attending a Toronto Film Festival movie, I took my Israeli cousin Hila and my friend Ellen to the Queen Mother for dinner. It is an eclectic restaurant in the downtown core and has been around for years. It is famous for its pad thai. There were no tables so we sat at the bar. There was a youngish man sitting alone next to us and we engaged him in conversation. He was from somewhere in northern Ontario and had moved to the big city in order to start a job in a restaurant. As an oyster shucker. That was pretty interesting, although neither of us had shucked, much less eaten an oyster before. It wasn’t really the time or place to explain Jewish dietary restrictions so we did our best to give the impression that our hereto oyster-eating virginity was mostly due to lack of sophistication.

We stopped talking when the bartender brought him his dinner so he could eat in peace. She lay down a plate of what appeared to be fried chicken on the placemat in front of him. When doing so, she said, “I picked the chicken.”

This intrigued me, so I did decide to interrupt his dinner to ask him what she had meant.

He said, “I told her to surprise me. I like to try new foods and so when I go to restaurants, especially when I am in a new city, I will tell the waiter to surprise me.”

Hila thought that was really cool.

I motioned the bartender over and asked her why she chose the chicken.  She said, “I don’t know, just seemed like a fried chicken kind of night.”

I said, “Cool. I’m going to do that next time I come here on a date.”

She said, “Okay. Deal.”

Ellen said, “I didn’t think you were so zen.”

I said, “Are you kidding! I do that all the time.”

She said, “Yeah. Right.”

I am not zen.

But I spend a lot of time pretending and telling people that I am.

At Tov-Li, my local falafel place, I tell the woman behind the counter to “go ahead and make it like you would make it for yourself.” I’m trying not to be like the person in front of me in line, who spends five minutes picking out exactly which eggplant she wants. Sometimes my offer is met with what I believe to be the requisite amount of humor and gratitude, “Be careful, I like it spicy,” and sometimes with an exasperated, “Just tell me what you want in it.”

For a while, when ordering beer at a restaurant, I would tell the waitress to bring me whatever she wanted. That would sometimes work but I drank a lot more Miller Lites than I cared to.

Now I specify the beer.

I have a lot of trouble ordering an ice cream cone. My favourite part is the blend of the cone and the ice cream. I really don’t want to have to go through a lot of ice cream in order to get to my favourite part. It results in some uncomfortable exchanges.

“Can I get a kid-size cone but then take a little bit off the top?”

Which is okay.

But I am horrified at the prospect that the server might think I am ordering the kids cone because I am cheap. So I invariably say, “Charge me for the regular.”

So I usually end up getting a regular and have to use one of those plastic knives in order to lop off most of the top. Most of the time I get ice cream on my shirt.

I spend the winter in Florida. This year, while I was gone, I renovated my kitchen. I took great pride in telling my contractor to just do whatever he wanted. One day, he said he wanted to send me images of backsplashes. I told him if he ever used the term ‘backsplash’ with me again I would fire him. I tell that story a lot. Like I am going to waste time picking out appliances.

The kitchen looks great.

The new fridge makes a beeping sound when I don't close the door properly. The first time, it took me two hours to figure out where the beeping was coming from. I have been back for two weeks now, and a day has not gone by when the fridge door has not beeped. The entire fridge is a piece of shit. Also, the backsplash looks like a coffee stain.

The Queen Mother does not disappoint. The pad thai is as good as I remember and we also share some appetizers. Both Ellen and Hila are vegetarians and I am happy to go with the flow. Because, you know, I am zen. We have a great meal and I am pleased I have given Hila a memorable Toronto Film Festival experience. We are standing outside and I am thinking a small dipped cone wouldn’t kill anyone, but Ellen and Hila have spotted a shoe store right next to the Queen Mother and they want to take a look.

I really don’t want to go shoe-shopping. I say, “I’ll wait in the restaurant. Come get me when you are done.” I go back into the restaurant. The oyster shucker is gone. I sit back down at the bar. I catch the bartender’s eye.

She says, “Hi, can I get you something?”

“I am zen,” I say. “Bring me anything you like.”

She smiles and says, “Coming right up.”

I am nursing my Miller Lite when Ellen’s text comes in. They are ready to go. I tell the bartender I want to settle up. I take a $20, leave it on the bar and tell her to keep the change.

She says, “Thanks.”

I say, “You know before, I said I was going to come back on a date and say, ‘Surprise me?’”

She says, “Yeah, I remember.”

So I say, “Just to be clear, when I say, ‘Surprise me,’ I mean, ‘Get me the fried chicken.’”

And then I leave.

The end.