Next Time I’ll Say Something

I’m not sure that I’ve ever been an assertive person. Oh, my mother, who listened to radio shows devoted to mental-health topics like boundaries, made sure I knew the difference between being assertive and being aggressive.  The best I’ve ever managed is passive-aggressive; I’ve not made it to assertive yet.

I certainly had plenty of examples from my father for how to express one’s self, especially to people to whom one is paying money. If Dad didn’t want the waiter to take his credit card to the machine in the back, where he could all too easily scrawl down its number, expiration date, and security code, all while we unknowingly finished the last of our steak fries, well he had no qualms about telling said waiter as much (leaving out the number-filching details, so as not to give any ideas). If Dad thought a price unreasonable, he would helpfully inform the merchant or service provider of such, and if Dad thought he ought to have a few extra features thrown in for free, he would suggest, firmly, what the seller should have seen as obvious.

So, how I found myself last night eating the absolute worst meal I’ve ever paid for, without saying a word to the waiter or the owner, I do not know. But I cannot blame my parents.

Here’s how it happened. I was going to pop a roast in the slow cooker early Sunday afternoon to have it ready when we got out of church that evening. Jesse suggested we eat out instead, since we’d been very good about eating in (or eating the free food offered at various Christmas parties) lately. I obliged, and we attempted to find some company for dinner. Everyone we tried had something going on, so it was just the two of us. I suggested Double Happiness, a Chinese restaurant I’d been wanting to try for over a year. We had heard good things about it, and I was in the mood for something exotic.

Even though Jesse would have preferred tacos, he agreed, and off we went. It was a chilly night, we were slightly dressed up, and the restaurant had soft lighting and Chinese lanterns everywhere. It seemed the start of a nice little date.

I ordered the Kalapur Chicken, described as “lightly battered chicken, crisply fried, served with a very light tangy-sweet sauce with a hint of ginger blossom.” Sounded good. Plus, it was on the “House Specialties” part of the menu, so that seemed a good bet.

The waiter asked me if I wanted white rice or brown rice.

“White rice,” I said, feeling like I should probably order brown but wanting white.

Our waiter took Jesse’s order, then turned toward the kitchen, stopping mid-pivot to ask, “Brown or white rice, did you say?”

I repeated “White,” and he was off. Jesse and I made small talk, I admired the paper lanterns, and we waited for our food. Eventually, Jesse’s order of dim sum came out. We waited for my order. Looked at the pale little dumplings on his plate. Kept waiting.

Eventually, I told him to go ahead and start his meal, fearing the dumplings would be ice cold before my entrée arrived. About a minute after he tucked into his dim sum, a plate arrived in front of me. With a side of brown rice.

No matter, I thought. Serves me right for going for the less healthy option.

Then, I began inspecting my dish. It appeared to be a clumpy mass of brown strips covered in some type of faded purple vegetable. The edges of the plate were dotted with sad-looking pale green broccoli, and I could see a few slices of what appeared to be uncooked zucchini under it all. But, not wanting to judge the dish based on its sad appearance, I stabbed a piece of chicken with my fork and took a bite.

I’m not sure how exactly to describe it. For the rest of the meal, I attempted to discern what it was I was actually eating, but the light was simply too low. The chicken was not battered all over, and it was fatty and may not have been fully cooked. I never was certain. The broccoli and zucchini were woefully undercooked. And the purple things on top? Cold. Not, this was once hot but sat around too long. Cold. It was some type of pickled vegetable. Everything appeared to have been dumped on the plate like macaroni and cheese served by a cafeteria lady in a hairnet.

I was so confused by my dish that for most of the meal I was just trying to figure out whether it was intentional. After a couple of the undercooked broccoli florets, though, I concluded it could not possibly be intentional.

But still, when the waiter came back to ask how everything was, I just looked at him with obvious pain in my eyes and a forced smile and nodded, my mouth full of food I didn’t want to swallow. I didn’t actually lie and say it was good. I never said it was good. But I neglected to state the most ridiculously obvious—that it was bad. Not just bad, but the chef quit and the busboy’s cooking bad.

The worst part was how expensive our meal ended up being. Jesse’s dim sum platter was mournfully insufficient, and while I had an enormous plate full of food, I couldn’t bear to finish even half of it. I declined the offers for a to-go box. And for all this misery, we paid nearly thirty dollars. I could have cried. Except I was too worried that I might have eaten raw chicken and that my stomach might be preparing to forcefully reject the meal, brown rice included.

If this had happened to Dad, I doubt he would have eaten the food, and I can’t imagine he would actually pay for it. I tried to think about Yana, who I’m sure would have sent the plate back to the kitchen so fast the waiter’s head would have been spinning. I tried to channel my inner Yana, but she simply wasn’t strong enough. Besides, I wouldn’t have eaten anything else from the kitchen after that plate. But, I could have refused to pay for it. Or something.

None of which I did. We paid our bill and left. And as we stopped by Islands to pick up a taco for Jesse, I resolved to never again eat and then pay for such a terrible meal. Next time, I promised myself, I would be assertive. It was my right, after all. I was paying for the meal. I should have been served something edible. Next time.

The fortune cookie, thankfully, was decent. I cracked mine open and just about died laughing.

It read: May you have a good appetite.