This thread gave me flashbacks to when I was stationed in Korea during the War on Drugs. My mind and body was over-stressed and fatigued from the hellish fog of war and so I decided to use my 2-day R&R leave blowing off steam in Pyongyang. I hailed a rickshaw boy to peddle me quickly into town before Happy Hour was over, which was no small feat, what with the boy having a lame leg and all. But, luckily I had my riding crop, so we made it on time. For his ambitious peddling, shining my shoes and recommending a good local restaurant, I tossed the lad a few pesos and a shiny button (I figured he could save up and buy his parents driving lessons, or something).
Entering the restaurant, I noticed I was the only round-eye in the joint. Sneaky, slant-eyed glances in my direction from a number customers and staff put me ill at ease and really put my racist-ometer into the red zone, let me tell you. But, the waiter handed me a menu, which appeared to be the same menu given to the yellow customers, so I relaxed a bit. There was a bit of a language barrier between us; I didn’t speak Korean, he didn’t speak American, neither of us spoke Ebonics. However, through a combination of hand gestures and interpretive dancing, we broke the communication barrier. I let the waiter know, in no uncertain terms, that I wanted to be treated just like the local customers with free reign of the menu. He rolled his eyes and shook his head, which in Korea means, “yes, I understand.”
One menu item popped out at me, and I knew that was the one I had to have: “Raw Balut on a Bed of Charred Cuttlefish Tentacles with Saffron Emulsion and Caramelized Parsnips” (did I mention this was a pretentious Philippino /Los Angeles fusion restaurant?). I never heard of “balut” before and I’m sure you aren’t cosmopolitan enough to have heard of it either. But, through a combination of hand gestures, pirouette fouetté and a pair of Micky Mouse ears that I happened to have in my pocket, I accurately deduced that balut is, “skinned mouse carcass marinated in phlem.” I was in the mood for something mucilaginous and rodenty, so I ordered it. To my delight, the waiter gave no hassle about my order, he just gave me that affirmative eye roll/head shake Korean thing again. If he continues to serve me this well through the end of my meal, I’m considering a nice 5% tip for this guy (I figured he’d want to add it to his life savings, move to the U.S. and open a laundromat, or something).
Well, long story longer, after a few minutes, the waiter placed my order in front of me…and it looked and smelled absolutely HORRIBLE. But, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. I’ve been to exotic, foreign places before and ordered things that looked really bad, like when I traveled to Alaska and ordered Peanut Butter & Jellied Moose Nose sandwiches (yes, you non-Americans are probably grimacing at the thought of eating peanuts ground into a paste). Looked bad; tasted great! I’ve also eaten things that smelled really bad, like Sardinian Maggot Cheese (hint: you can make a virtually identical tasting domestic variety of this by leaving a tub of Philadelphia Cream Cheese out in the sun for a couple weeks). Smelled bad; tasted great. So, I was willing to give this horrible looking and horrible smelling balut dish the benefit of the doubt. I closed my eyes, held my nose, chewed and gulped it down.
It tasted even worse than it looked and smelled, and the nauseousness hit me immediately. But, I was so grateful to my waiter for not treating me like some type of foreign bumpkin, pompously protecting me from my own ignorance. No racist was he! He treated me just like he would any other South Korean.
I was digging about in my pocket for that 5% tip when a sudden urge to vomit overcame me and I asked the waiter where the bathroom was. He pointed to a door with a graphic of a man on it. I waited a few moments for him to also point to the door with the graphic of a women on it, which I could now see across from the other door—but he didn’t do it! He did not give me a choice of bathrooms. He just ASSUMED that I wanted the men’s bathroom, based solely on my masculine appearance. Consequently, I left no tip and departed in a self-righteous huff.
Lesson learned: those biscuit-heads may not be racist, but they sure are fricken’ sexist.
Disclaimer: Some parts of this story have been embellished for the sake of humor and locations have been changed for the sake of national security. This actually took place when I was stationed in Holland during the War on Crime.
