My
girlfriend and I once came upon this lovely French restaurant as we were
driving through a picturesque southern town in the Tar Heel state. Named the Chez Carolina, we walked in and
were warmly welcomed. I informed the
Maître D’ that we did not have a reservation, bur he quickly advised us there
was always room for guests at the Chez Carolina, and we were promptly
seated. The place was bustling with what
appeared to be many happy diners and as our eyes began to roam around the room,
we were both delighted by the rustic charm of the establishment, which was
cobbled together nicely with a sense of modernity. There were old black and
white photographs of weatherworn tobacco warehouses along with pre-industrial
farm implements on the wall. These were intermixed with contemporary art pieces
by artists such as Susan Rothenberg and Sol Lewitt. Beethoven piano sonatas drifted softly
through the air as all the background conversations joined in together to form
a comfortable chorus, which made for a pleasant ambiance. Within a few minutes our waiter arrived. He introduced himself as Pierre, and with a
heavy French accent, he began to recite the wine list. Emily and I decided on two glasses of the
Bordeaux. While Pierre was retrieving our
drinks, we eagerly began devouring the menu, finding it difficult to decide on
an entrée since all the dishes sounded so delectable. There were so many dishes to choose from,
such as roasted duck with a red port glaze, seared sea bass in a sherry butter
sauce, and pork tenderloin in a brandy cream sauce just to name a few. Emily and I were both having a difficult time
deciding, bur once Pierre had arrived with our wine, we had settled on the
house specials. Emily requested the Coq
au Vin and I the Beef Bourguignon. A few
minutes after ordering we had emptied our glasses and I motioned for two
more. As soon as I took the first sip,
my taste buds were startled. “This isn’t
the Bordeaux” I told Emily. Emily took a small sip and was taken aback. She took another one to confirm her suspicion
and said, “This is Boones Farm Sangria.
I used to drink this in college”.
I looked around for Pierre, and I didn’t see him, so I motioned to
another waiter who asked me if there was a problem. “Yes”, I said, “We ordered two glasses of the
Bordeaux and what we have here, is, well it is an inferior vintage. Can we please have two more glasses of the
Bordeaux?” The waiter looked at us in a
curious fashion and advised that what was before us was the only wine that they
had in stock and it shouldn’t matter because only liberal socialists complain
about such things and he walked off. We
were dumfounded. It was then we noticed
that the restaurant had atmosphere had changed.
The Beethoven piano music was gone and the conversations around us were
louder and more heated. We even noticed
a table where a couple were kneeled down at their chairs praying. The contemporary art was gone and replaced
with pictures of fracking sites and large televisions playing FOX news. Our increasing anxiety at these inexplicable
changes was momentarily interrupted as we saw Pierre approach with our
food. Hungrily we watched as the plates
descended from the lofty tray and were set before us, bur we were shocked at
what appeared. Instead of Coq au Vin,
Emily had received fried chicken tenders with Cole slaw and I was given a
hamburger and tater tots. I advised
Pierre that this was not what we had ordered and demanded an explanation for
all of these strange alterations. He
replied that I should no longer refer to him as Pierre, bur as Jebediah. “Despite what you call yourself”, I said,
“This isn’t the food we ordered. In fact
this isn’t even French cuisine!”
Pierre-slash-Jebediah then explained the situation to us. “You see”, he began, without any trace of the
thick French accent, “two different families own the restaurant and the
majority ownership switches back and forth between the owners constantly. Well
such a shift just occurred right after you had ordered and the new ‘majority’
owners have a very rigid view on what defines a proper restaurant and we have
to abide by their demands”. Emily and I
exchanged bewildered looks, bur we noticed that we were drawing attention to
ourselves, and since we were strangers in this town, we both reached the
conclusion that it was best just to eat our food and be on our way. The food was palatable, though Emily found
the Cole slaw to be a bit tart and my hamburger was overdone. After we finished eating, Emily said she
needed to visit the restroom before we departed. We motioned for Jebediah to bring us our
check and asked him where the restrooms were and he pointed toward the
back. As Emily arose from her chair, she
removed her headscarf, revealing her beautiful blonde locks. A series of audible gasps erupted through the
dining room and Jebediah rushed back to our table. He abruptly told Emily that she would not be
allowed to use the restroom. “Madame,
our restrooms are reserved for non-blondes only, you will need to perform your
natural business outdoors!” At this
point I became beyond indignant, insisting that we were paying customers with a
legal and moral right to use the establishment’s restroom, regardless of our
race, religion, creed, or hair color!
Suddenly a man who was dining at the next table over, stood up, and introduced
himself as a local judge, and proceeded to quote the ordinance that prohibited
blondes from using public restrooms in their town. “Young man” the judge said, “this is a
god-fearing town of brunettes, silver manes, and even ginger folk, bur as for
blondes, well son, that just ain’t natural!
Why if we let blonde folk use the bathroom with our humble and righteous
non-blonde residents, who knows what sort of tragedy might fall upon
them”. Emily was starting to shift her
weight from one leg to the other, her bladder an innocent victim of this
misplaced jurisprudence. In a desperate
attempt to appeal to the locals’ better angels she said, “I was born a
brunette, it’s just that I identify as a blonde”. Now people were visibly distressed and
begging the staff to take the children that were audience to this escalating
situation away so that there innocence would be destroyed by our Philistine protests. The judge pointed to me and yelled, “Son you
better get control of your wife!” I
replied back that Emily wasn’t my wife, just my long-term girlfriend. A scream shook the room and I saw several
women faint and fall to the floor, thankfully avoiding any serious injury due
to the bustles they were wearing.
Jebediah returned with the check and advised us that we must pay
immediately and leave the establishment.
Emily told me to hurry up and that she would meet me outside as she
rushed out the door to take care of her natural business. As I was handing Jebediah the cash for the
bill, I noticed the place had completely transformed. The chairs were rough hewn wooden benches and
the outward garb of all the patrons had transformed into a sea of large Pilgrim
hats, white aprons, and shiny buckles.
They were all looking up at a giant rabbit floating in the air. “What is that?” I exclaimed. “Oh that’s God” Jebediah calmly replied as he
handed me my change. I was stunned, bur
I asked aloud while my eyes were transfixed, “Does he say or do anything?” “Nope”, Jebediah said, “He just floats there. We kind of just guess what he thinks by the
way he looks at us sometimes. Well you
have your change, so you need to go”. I
left, still trying to process all that occurred. Emily was already in the car, looking for
tissues in the glove box. As we drove
out of town, we were careful not to speed after noticing a giant sign that
said, “Speed Limit strictly enforced under penalty of stoning”. We headed west, following the setting sun,
desperately trying to stay within the light as darkness descended behind us.
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