My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [114]
The service is surprisingly slow considering we’re the only ones here. Our dinner takes forever to arrive, and when it does, it’s only adequate. The idea of the components appeals—the kebab format, the way the vegetables are grilled, the spice blends—but I’m unimpressed with the execution. It’s still palatable, though, so I imagine if I were tasting well-made Turkish food in a restaurant that wasn’t completely deserted, I’d go crazy for it.
The accommodations, however, are less than . . . accommodating.
“Is anyone else’s ass sweating?” I ask.
“Those etiquette lessons are really paying off, eh, Jen?” Stacey teases me.
“Seriously, is anyone else getting boiling hot sitting on all these damn rugs?” I wonder.
“They’re a little warm,” Tracey agrees.
Gina chimes in, “I thought I was having a hot flash, too.”
“I’m more concerned about how musty they are,” Stacey counters. “Remember, Febreeze can be your friend.”
“My knees are killing me,” Gina admits. “I’m going to get up for a while.” She extricates herself from our table and stands next to us in the archway.
“And I’ve lost all feeling in my back,” Tracey adds.
Shaking herself to stop the pins and needles in her limbs, Gina observes, “This is probably why most restaurants opt for full-sized tables and chairs, rather than ottomans.”
“Did you eat on the floor in Turkey?” I ask Stacey.
Stacey frowns a bit. “Not so much. We stayed at the Four Seasons. Mostly they just had regular tables.”
“Listen, I’m sorry, guys, I picked a lousy place. And we’re probably all too old to be sitting around cross-legged on the floor anyway,” I apologize.
Tracey says, “Hey, it’s nice to get together anyway. We’ll just go somewhere different next time. Maybe we can do . . . what else is on your list?”
“Tons of stuff,” I reply. “I have so much more world to eat. What are you thinking?”
Everyone starts talking at once. Tracey suggests, “How about Costa Rican?”
“Done it,” I reply. “Dinner was great and the lizano salsa was surprisingly delicious. Totally didn’t mind the spice. The thing is, when I called to order delivery, I realized I didn’t have cash, so I asked if I could use my credit card. And they’re all ‘Oh, no, we don’t take plastic. But you can write a check as long as you have your driver’s license and social security number on it.’ And I’m like, ‘You’re kidding. I haven’t seen a restaurant that’s accepted checks since college.’ ”
“They’d take a check?” Gina is shocked. “I haven’t written a check for dinner since the eighties.”
I bang my hand down on our metal table and the water in my glass sloshes over the side. “That’s what I’m saying! Weird, right? Then I got all suspicious and thought, ‘Those bastards are going to take my social and try to sell my identity down in Costa Rica.’ So I went to the closet and fished through all my coat pockets and found enough cash to cover delivery and tip.”
Stacey sighs. As the person who spends more time with me than anyone but my husband, she’s well acquainted with my penchant for conspiracy theories. In Jennsylvania, every helicopter is black. “Jen, Costa Rica has a population that’s ninty-six percent literate, their unemployment rate is half of ours, and they have some of the most gorgeous terrain in the world. I doubt anyone at the burrito joint wants to steal your identity.”
Smugly, I reply, “I guess we’ll never have to find out.”
“Have you tried Indian?” Tracy asks.
“We had Indian together,” Gina says. “Hey, lemme take a good look at you.” She peers down at me. “Have your eyebrows grown back in yet?”
“They’re getting there.”
Stacey says, “What about Japanese?”
“Stacey, I’ve had Japanese with you.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“We’re all going to have to start taking that Geritol with memory boosters soon, aren’t we?” I moan.
Stacey then proposes Lebanese, but given how underwhelmed everyone is with tonight’s offerings, no one