General Order

In the interest of full disclosure, as I write this post, I am eating Chinese food. And I am fully clothed. I do, however, think I need a shower. This post, however, is going to relate more to the Chinese food and less about my state of dress/cleanliness.

Being an American Jew, I am hardwired to love Chinese food. I didn't ask to be born this way, and it isn't necessarily fair, but it's the truth of the matter. I like all kinds of Chinese food. I like Cantonese and Havanese and Szechuan and Youbetchuan. I'm just as happy getting take-out from some shitty hole-in-the-wall with actual holes-in-the-wall as I am sitting at some fancyballs Asian fusion joint with orange cloth napkins and sleek, raven-haired waitresses sprinting around the place dressed in black from their headbands to their toenails. I'll try pretty much anything, and I'm just as likely to order mussels and pork in Hong Kong garlic sauce as I am to order Lo Mein.

Last night was a Lo Mein night (and eight fried, fan-tail shrimp dumplings). My wife is away visiting her family and I needed Asian comfort food. That's Lo Mein, baby. House Lo Mein, to be precise: chicken, pork, beef, shrimp, all kinda mixed together, having a fucking crazy surf-and-turf orgy amongst the bed of noodles.

Oh, yeah. I broke Passover. D'oh.

Anyway, just to humor me-- take out the takeout menu from you favorite Chinese restaurant. If it's a traditional menu, with the red, green, and black colored type, there's probably dozens and dozens and dozens of things to choose from. Variety is, after all, the spice of life-- especially when lovingly doused with Kikkoman.

When I went to pick up my dinner last night, there were four people ahead of me in line. And, do you know what?

("What?")

All four of these motherfuckers were picking up General Tso's Chicken. How do I know that? Because the Asian schoolgirl behind the counter did everyone the kindness of reciting their order to them off the receipt, so the one douchebag in the orange sneakers could whine, "What about my General Tso's Chicken?" when that was not amongst the list of items she rattled off.

"Oh, sollie!" she said (I'm not making fun, that's actually what she said. I don't know who "Sollie" is-- "Solly" is my mechanic, though.) She darted into the kitchen and instantly reappeared holding a container that she shoved unceremoniously into his bag, probably crushing all of those oily little fried noodles that real Chinese people have probably only ever seen in movies. I was amazed at how fast she entered and came out of the kitchen with this schlock-o's General Tso's. It leads me to believe that Chinese food restaurants probably keep at least a hundred tubs of that shit in the kitchen at the ready every night starting at around 5:30pm.

Why?

Because everyfuckingbody in this stupid country orders that shit. I mean, really? Four out of four fuckers in front of me in line at the restaurant last night? That's all the statistical significance this amateur researcher needs.

Now-- this is America-- land of the free, home of the brave, alleged birthplace of General Tso's Chicken (which is kind of funny, if you think about it, and even if you don't think about it) and I acknowledge that people can eat whatever the hell they want as long as it isn't, like, someone else's pet or a cop's nose or something, but I just wish people would branch the hell out a little bit, you know. However, since American's cannot be trusted to venture out of their comfort zones, we need stricter action:

Here, on My Masonic Apron, I am calling for a NATIONAL MORATORIUM ON AND ABSTENTION FROM GENERAL TSO'S CHICKEN FOR ONE YEAR.

Fuckin' Mao would be proud. Especially since no one named fried chicken McNuggets after his dead ass.

An Open Letter to Lo Mein

Dear Lo Mein,

I love you.

They may call me an uncultured lout, a base jackass, a proto-Aspergian frog-child, but, when the hankering for Asian fare sends my innards a'quake, as I stare listlessly at the red and green menu, with various animalia slathered in various garlicky brown sauces vying unctuously for attention, I invariably come back to you, Lo Mein.

You are everything I want and need. You are better than life itself, and while some may say the aforementioned statement is nothing but the hyperbole of a Lo Mein Extremist, while others may say that the aforementioned statement says more about my particular life than your inherent worth, don't listen to them.

They don't know what we have together. They can never know. They're jealous of your delicate, almost autoerotic asphyxiation-like hold on the neck of my desires.

They're petty and cruel and most of them, statistically speaking at least, have some form of herpes.

I won't let them hurt your feelings anymore, Lo Mein. You are my little Asian flower and, if I could kiss on you without getting carrot-shards stuck to my moustache, I would.

You are the perfect meal. I cannot stress this enough, this is not an opinion, this is a fact. Deal with it. Especially when ordered in "House" or "Sub-gum" variety, you are a veritable animal party-- a vast, delectable cornucopia of animals, all looking forward to the final destination: Mouth Partysville, My Mouth, USA.

Noodles-- just the right length and girth. Beef, pork, chicken, shrimp-- oh, who can pick just three? Veggie shards-- sure, why not? You add flavor and crispness, I'll have you! And the sauce-- just kill me and pour Lo Mein lovingly on my corpse. I'll be okay. Don't forget to put a kitsch little takeout container on my grave once a year when you come to visit.

Lo Mein, I have a question for you: why are you so good the next day?

There is nothing that can compare with how you taste in leftover format-- even cold, you are approaching the very zenith of tastetacular foodfection. One day, I will order you on a Thursday, and eat absolutely none of you until Friday, so I might consume you in your blissful, day-old form. I will do it.

Oh-- no! It's not true. NO! No, how could I? How could I live in a house where I knew resided freshly-prepared, untouched Lo Mein and be expected to contain and restrain myself for a full 24 hours? Surely they would be the most painful hours of my petty existence.

I do not throw praise around lightly, Lo Mein, and most open letters I write begin with the words "Will you please shut the fuck up?" but I would never be so base as to write these words to you; these tacky, puerile words could never roll off my tongue in your direction. I would sooner coat myself in peanut oil and light myself on fire before I offended thee. I hope you know that my adulation has been constant and fierce and I will defend your comestible superiority to the last. To the last, Lo Mein, to the last. Last what? Last shrimp? Last bamboo shoot? To the last-- that is all you need know. I will be your most ardent warrior, your most passionate son.

Your Lo Meinness. Your Meinjesty. I bow humbly to thee, and I am your most obedient servant,

Mr. Apron

P.S. I love you.