A Moveable Feast

Habitually, I monitor the trajectory of my life through meals, because days when dinner is potato chips and candy are markedly different from days when dinner is frozen lasagna; or midnight diner delivery; or half a loaf of Tuscan bread and a brick of Gruyere.

For example, yesterday started off with an ill-omened brunch at a Boston taco place. To be perfectly clear, Boston, aside from maybe some rut in Cowboy Spurs, North Dakota, is the worst possible US city for Mexican food. This is not some essentialist claim to "authenticity" for the cheese-logged concoctions of Texas or the lettuce-y salad bowls of California, but rather a sober statement of quantitative comparison. In Boston, "Mexican" means one of three things: a large burrito, a taco, or, if you're very lucky, a quesadilla. The end. In Texas, the menu of Mexican foodstuffs can stretch for pages and pages, ranging from traditional Tex-Mex to offbeat nouveau fusion to pure exercises in gluttony and death by cheese. Knowing all this, however, makes me no less desperate for some sort of meat in a cornmeal filling, and even though I'd actually be in Texas later in the day, I gave in and went to the cheap Taqueria down the street. Standing in line, I noticed a small sign that advertised lengua, and my hopes for a decent Boston Mexican experience began to grow. The guy behind the counter gave me a skeptical look when I blithely ordered my boiled beef tongue, and the cashiers whispered something to one another in Spanish, probably to the tune of "silly white people," but I got my tongue tacos and sailed out the door. Not surprisingly, Boston Mexican let me down once more, as the meat was pretty rubbery and bland. But it still had enough of that velvety tongue essence to do the trick. Tongue: the meat so good it tastes you back.

My second meal experience of the day was no less of a cultural collision. I was in the airport in Charlotte, North Carolina and had an hour layover before my flight to Dallas. Walking through the terminal, I mentally checked off one terrible airport dinner option after another ("NASCAR Cafe? Ex. Manchu Wok? Ex. Chili's Too? ...seriously?") before finally hitting gold. I skirted past the crowd of soccer moms clamoring around some bagel place and slid into the lengthy, all-black line at Bojangles Chicken and Biscuits. Alright, so it's no Popeyes, but I'll take what I can get. As I was waiting, middle-aged white woman saddled up to me and, with a desperate look in her eyes, said, "I'll pay for your meal if you'll let me cut in front of you." Being the pushover that I am, I just laughed and waved her through. Turns out she was also a Southern transplant living in Boston, and, even more heroically, had come from a totally different terminal, paying off one of those beeping motorized buggy drivers just to get some real Southern food.

Unfortunately, Airport Bojangles was experiencing a severe chicken shortage, meaning I had to wait twenty minutes for my damn breast-and-wing dinner. I was coming off a months-long fried chicken fast, so I waited stoically, ticket in hand, gritting my teeth. The others in line were not so patient. The poor manager ran around trying to placate the hungry masses and ended up handing out dozens of free drinks. Finally, I leaned over and politely asked the kid working the soda fountain if I could please get a cup of water. "Don't be shy, get more than that, honey!" murmured an attractive young black woman waiting next to me, who'd handled the situation far more adroitly and already pumped the manager for free sides and biscuits. But it looks like I've officially been spoiled by Northern self-sufficiency and accountability. I waited in silence, got my chicken just as my plane started boarding, and had to eat in the cramped middle seat between two people shooting me looks of rancorous envy for my styrofoam container of grease. Their biscuits are but a pale Popeye shadow, but I might have to seditiously admit that the chicken is about on par.

And, finally, to round out the day: a late evening second dinner of chips, salsa, mojitos, and flan, capped off with what's quickly becoming my preferred trashy redneck beverage of choice: the indomitable Bud Lite Lime. You know you've done a day right when you start off with tongue and end in a twist top. Success.