My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [107]
I decide on the rindsroulade, which is a strip of marinated sirloin wrapped around bacon and onions and served with a side of spaetzle, a homemade German noodle. Stacey, of course, gets the wiener schnitzel, an innocuous breaded meat cutlet.
Our dinners are served and there’s nothing green anywhere near our plates. Or red or yellow or orange, for that matter. Stacey’s dinner consists of a big beige patty with a scoop of something less beige, and mine entails a giant brown lump and some soft noodles, all swimming in a deep pool of gravy. If you eat with your eyes first, this is in no way appetizing. Suddenly I wish we hadn’t refused our waitress’s offer of more bread.
I take a bite of the spaetzle, which has the flavor and consistency of noodles in canned chicken soup. I slice a bit of my meat roll and taste it. I have a few more bites and proclaim, “You could serve this to people who’ve had stomach surgery. The rindsroulade could replace the rice in the BRAT diet.”
“It’s that bland?”
“Yeah. I mean, not bad, per se, if you’re looking for comfort food. And I could see eating this and then having the energy to chop down the whole Black Forest. But it’s superplain. And heavy. This? This is the polar opposite of Chinese food. You know, you have some and an hour later you’re hungry? You eat this, and two or three days later, you’re hungry again.” I slice into the middle of my meat, splitting it up so I can take half home to Fletch. It’s not that I’m such a doting wife. I’m just hoping a couple of bites will scratch any itch he had to come here for big sausages. As I cut, I hit something rubbery. “Wait, what is that?” There’s a foreign object lodged in the middle of my meat roll.
“A pickle, I think.”
“Okay, now I’m grossed out. I like a nice, cold dill slice served with a sandwich or piled on a burger, but a big, hot pickle210 baked inside my meat? That’s messed up.”
Neither of our dinners hold our attention long, so we finish more quickly than we anticipated and we have time for dessert. Stacey gets more iced tea, and I order German chocolate cake.
Whatever the rest of the meal lacked is made up for by this dessert. The slice is multilayered and piled high with buttery, chocolate-y, nutty frosting, full of freshly shaved coconut. The cake itself is dense and dark and moist. I can’t believe this came from the same kitchen as my entrée.
I make Stacey take a bite before I inhale the whole thing. She retrieves a fork and takes a small taste. “That is good. But you know what I don’t get? If German chocolate cake comes from Germany, what’s up with the coconut? Since when does coconut have anything to do with Germany? You see any coconut trees near the Berlin Wall? No. It’s weird.”
“That is pretty random,” I agree. “Do you see that in a lot of German restaurants, I wonder?”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t ever go for German.”
“Oh, really? I guess I thought you did. I mean, you knew about this place and wiener schnitzel and all and maybe you grew up coming here.”
Stacey gives me an odd look and slowly replies, “Um, Jen? We Jews tend not to congregate in places filled with Germans. Particularly places filled with Germans AND big ovens.”
“Oh?” I think for a moment. “Oh, I get it.” I mentally scroll through my Rolodex of other cuisines I need to try. “Then how do your people feel about Lebanon?”
Stacey cocks her head even farther to the left and narrows her eyes. “Does the word ‘diaspora’ mean anything to you?”
“Do you avoid their restaurants, too?”
She laughs. “Actually, no, Lebanese food is delectable! Wanna do lunch at Semiramas next week?”
“That depends. Has their dining room been updated since the Betamax was invented?”
“It has.”
“Do they use any spices other than salt?”
“They do.”
“Will their meat dishes make me titter like a twelve-year-old?”
“Depends. Do you find sheep funny?”
“Hell,