The Dinner Where Ismet Caught Fire

As an anthropologist, gentle reader, I tell you that food is a very important part of social relationships and interior adventure. With that introduction, I want to tell you about dinner where Ismet caught fire. Mimsy, Beth, Brian, Ismet, and I went to a Thai restaurant for dinner last night. Mimsy took charge, made the reservations and charged out of the hotel in the lead of our dining party. Mimsy and Beth set a brisk pace to Pasara Thai. We hit a minor snag on the street where the restaurant was supposed to be located since the street was busy and the doors were confusing. Mimsy did not break stride and briskly approach a large man dressed in black standing at a door with a neon sign and red ropes leading up to the door. For context of this interaction, there’s Mimsy, Yoga teacher and Academic Advisor, confidently approaching this Bouncer, with four humanities professors clustering confusedly behind her. None of us were wearing strappy sandals, nor cute little tops, nor short flirty skirts of any kind. The Bouncer ran his eyes over our academic huddle, looked down a Mimsy (petite in any context, but tiny next to Big Bouncer Dude), and haughtily indicated the restaurant next door. We obediently got out of the way of the chicks in strappy sandals, cute tops, and flirty skirts and entered the restaurant. Undaunted by the Haughty Bouncer, Mimsy briskly marched into the restaurant and got the tables rearranged for our group. No Fear: Mimsy’s Here!

The menus arrived and positively clunked when they hit the table because the plastic pages were enclosed in ½inch plywood binders. They could have been used as weapons had the occasion presented itself. In any restaurant where spice is involved, one has to deal with the amorphous scale of heat. I ordered a Pad Thai and said to the waiter, “High Medium, please”, and he repeated to me, “Medium?” and so I figured I should follow his lead and merely said, “Yes.” Ismet was less compliant. The waiter said to him also, “Medium?” and poor Ismet, trying to order some spicy food said, “Could you kick it up a notch?” and the die was cast. Was it a battle of testosterone? Was a merely a misunderstanding? Whatever it was, when our food arrived mine was predictably mild. Ismet began eating and became suddenly very quiet. He was eating very deliberately and fairly slowly. Neither of these behaviors was normal. Mimsy offered him a tissue as it looked like he really needed one at that point. “Are you okay?” I asked as he appeared to burst into flames. In a strained voice, he answered, “This is beyond hot. I am melting,” and he regarded his plate with a certain amount of distress. I offered him some of my mild Pad Thai, but he resolutely refused, claiming, “I can do this. I used to eat half a kilo of ornamental peppers for lunch. I can do this, “ but he did seem to waiver, and it did seem that he was trying to convince himself more than convince us. He doggedly made it though the volcanic Drunken Noodles, but he did seem a bit singed by the end.

And so we strolled back to the hotel, quite full of food, and Ismet slightly smoking.