Pork for Dinner

IN CASE YOU HAVE FORGOTTEN WHAT HE LOOKS LIKE....

This was taken the day he fell.  Poor little guy!

(Rob writing): In our little village, there are exactly two restaurants, or “cafeterias,” as our translator calls them. Only one of them is within a reasonable walking distance, so on any evening we decide to go out to eat, we don’t have to argue over where we’re going. Back home, Dad and the kids want Mexican or McDonald’s, Mom wants Chinese (which she never, ever gets). Over here, we don’t have to worry about any of that.

Despite the tiny number of restaurants, they are both nearly always empty. We have seen other customers order drinks, but we have never yet seen another customer order food. And we think we know why, beyond the more obvious economic reasons: The menus are, shall we say, limited.



For meat, there are two choices, pork and pork. One is a pork shish kabob, a succulent, marinated kabob of choicest pork. The other is a fat-fried, breaded chop from the shallower end of the pork pool. It is thin, greasy and gristly. One step lower, and Alpo would be interested. The price, however, is half. When we order shish kabob, $20 feeds two. When we order chops, it’s only $10.



Next option, potatoes or pasta. I always order potatoes, and I always order them the same way, but each time they’re a bit different. One night “fried potatoes” means hash browns, the next night sliced, the next night French fries. They’re always good, though, so no complaints. They even come with a dab of ketchup, though nowhere near enough to keep our son Elijah happy.



Finally, there is a salad. Julia loves it, but I can’t eat it. It consists entirely of tomatoes, cucumbers and onions, with a bit of oil dashed over it all. I eat plenty of salad at home, but on my own terms. To me, salad has more to do with the dressing than all of the green stuff. If I must swallow a cucumber, a tomato or, heaven forbid, an onion, I must at least have some lettuce and dressing to dilute and mask the taste. I like to quote the Texas cattlemen on this subject: “Vegetables ain’t food, vegetables is what food eats.”



The lack of variety is pushing my wife to the breaking point. In this I have the advantage, because I could happily eat the same thing every night. Quantity is the issue for me, not quality. I feel a sense of smug justification as I remind her of what I tell her constantly at home: Good food doesn’t get old. I never get tired of my favorite foods. She, on the other hand, has started to fantasize about foods that are half a world beyond her reach. I’m going to have a job keeping her out of the nut house if she doesn’t get a grip on herself.