O l i v e r B e n j a m i n
about Hinduism. She just thought the name was pretty.”
“It is. Very pretty.”
“Well thank you. Why don’t you sit down now. I’ll be back to take
your order in a minute.” She placed two menus on the table and
crossed the floor to the kitchen.
As they sat down to survey the menu, Milo said, “What a fox,
man. I think she liked you.”
“That is a fine woman indeed. Fine woman,” agreed Harvey. He
watched her black hair sway like a sine wave on a radiometer as she
walked until finally disappearing behind the saloon doors of the
kitchen, then turned to puzzle over the overwhelming selection of
choices in front of him. He reviewed:
Fettucine Marco Polo
(with yogurt sauce and ginseng)
Nazi-ball soup
(made with bratwurst and matzoh balls)
The Rama-Lama-Ding-Dong
(Chocolate pastry with
Himalayan yak cheese)
Agent Orange juice
The White Man’s Burden Burger
The HeroShima
(torpedo sandwich with mushrooms
and chopped liver)
The Rice of Passage
(skinless sausages, communion wafers
and fried wedding rice, made with baptismal water)
The list went on mercilessly. The menu, unusual and creative as it
was, left Harvey with the tingling proclivity to retch—partially
because of the naked bluntness of some of the symbolic imagery, but
more because of the repulsive combinations of seemingly
incompatible ingredients.
“Hey man, don’t they got any burgers or anything here?”
complained Milo.
“I believe I noticed something about a “White Man’s Burden
Burger,” said Harvey.
“Yeah, right,” said Milo, “Listen to this: ‘Symbolically honoring
the white man’s contribution to the quality of life on the African
continent, this burger consists of a toasted black-bread bun, and
nothing else. To further enhance the image, we suggest splattering
your burger with a fair amount of ketchup.’ Sounds great, man. I’d
rather eat this fucking bowl of footballs.”
“Perhaps we should try this Frieda’s Road House after all,”
Harvey said.
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