and sucking and making humming noises, and he swallowed it with a loud gulp, choked and coughed for a moment, laughed at himself, and then reached across and slapped me so hard on the top of my right thigh that the car sped up.
“Kees! Kees!” he sang, and when I glanced over at him, my sister’s holy man was giving an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
THIRTEEN
Our driving schedule was dictated, in large measure, by our need for food. Or my need for food, I should say, since Rinpoche ate very little. He even managed the impressive feat of keeping the bag of Kisses open on his lap for more than an hour without ever reaching in for a second helping. It was now midafternoon and, despite three big chunks of dark chocolate, I was in need of that international tradition known as lunch. The prospect both excited and worried me. According to the map, the closest city of any size was Altoona, not exactly famous as a culinary capital, but even that was too far off the interstate to warrant a side trip. We wouldn’t starve, I knew that. Every so often we saw billboards advertising food options at the upcoming exit, but these options were a murderous fare of salt, fat, sugar, and chemicals. It is true that I am particular about food. It is my profession, after all, and in my years at Stanley and Byrnes I’ve been lucky enough to have been exposed to some of the world’s greatest chefs and a small library of fascinatingbooks on growing, preparing, and consuming food. I guess it’s as natural for me to be particular about what I eat as it is for a clothing store salesperson to be picky about neckties or dresses, or a mechanic to be fussy about the make of car he drives. Another part of my pickiness comes from the fact that I grew up on boiled potatoes and beef, sauerkraut and overcooked pork, in an environment where, if your mom put an ounce of lemon rind into the apple pie, she risked being shunned for the next decade of Volunteer Fire Department Auxiliary lunches. On our one visit to a Chinese restaurant in Bismarck, my parents ordered . . . hamburgers. And so, leaving North Dakota meant, for me, opening a door onto a seemingly limitless world of culinary experience.
To balance my love of eating, I exercise a few times a week, walking a three-mile loop with Jeannie on Sunday mornings, killing half hours on the elliptical trainer at the health club a few blocks from where I work. On the road, though, there wasn’t much opportunity for exercise. Nor was there the distraction of professional and domestic chores to keep the mind away from the table. You opened the car window for a second and hunger poured in, or, if not hunger, then at least the notion of eating.
But I worried about the options there, south of Altoona and north of nowhere. Cheap, fried-to-death burgers and carbonated sugar water, a slice of wilted lettuce in the name of fiber. No, no. Not for me. And not the American cuisine I wanted for the Rinpoche, either.
At the toll booth I asked about good restaurant options thereabouts—no chains or fast food, please. The woman squinted at me as if I were a communist, then, with some reluctance, directed us to a nearby steakhouse. But I wassuspicious from the first. I sensed that the place belonged to a friend of hers, or her husband’s cousin, that there might be kickbacks involved. We found the steakhouse without trouble and went in. The menu posted on the bulletin board in the foyer was as unimaginative as a bad watercolor in a dentist’s waiting room. I ushered Rinpoche out before the hostess made her approach. He was, understandably enough, perplexed. “Can’t do it,” I said to him in the parking lot. “I’ll explain later. We’ll just shoot down into the nearest town and see if we can’t scare up something a little more interesting.”
According to my map, the nearest town was Bedford, Pennsylvania. We followed a two-lane highway south and soon found it. On the left as we entered the town there stood a large Armed
“Kees! Kees!” he sang, and when I glanced over at him, my sister’s holy man was giving an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
THIRTEEN
Our driving schedule was dictated, in large measure, by our need for food. Or my need for food, I should say, since Rinpoche ate very little. He even managed the impressive feat of keeping the bag of Kisses open on his lap for more than an hour without ever reaching in for a second helping. It was now midafternoon and, despite three big chunks of dark chocolate, I was in need of that international tradition known as lunch. The prospect both excited and worried me. According to the map, the closest city of any size was Altoona, not exactly famous as a culinary capital, but even that was too far off the interstate to warrant a side trip. We wouldn’t starve, I knew that. Every so often we saw billboards advertising food options at the upcoming exit, but these options were a murderous fare of salt, fat, sugar, and chemicals. It is true that I am particular about food. It is my profession, after all, and in my years at Stanley and Byrnes I’ve been lucky enough to have been exposed to some of the world’s greatest chefs and a small library of fascinatingbooks on growing, preparing, and consuming food. I guess it’s as natural for me to be particular about what I eat as it is for a clothing store salesperson to be picky about neckties or dresses, or a mechanic to be fussy about the make of car he drives. Another part of my pickiness comes from the fact that I grew up on boiled potatoes and beef, sauerkraut and overcooked pork, in an environment where, if your mom put an ounce of lemon rind into the apple pie, she risked being shunned for the next decade of Volunteer Fire Department Auxiliary lunches. On our one visit to a Chinese restaurant in Bismarck, my parents ordered . . . hamburgers. And so, leaving North Dakota meant, for me, opening a door onto a seemingly limitless world of culinary experience.
To balance my love of eating, I exercise a few times a week, walking a three-mile loop with Jeannie on Sunday mornings, killing half hours on the elliptical trainer at the health club a few blocks from where I work. On the road, though, there wasn’t much opportunity for exercise. Nor was there the distraction of professional and domestic chores to keep the mind away from the table. You opened the car window for a second and hunger poured in, or, if not hunger, then at least the notion of eating.
But I worried about the options there, south of Altoona and north of nowhere. Cheap, fried-to-death burgers and carbonated sugar water, a slice of wilted lettuce in the name of fiber. No, no. Not for me. And not the American cuisine I wanted for the Rinpoche, either.
At the toll booth I asked about good restaurant options thereabouts—no chains or fast food, please. The woman squinted at me as if I were a communist, then, with some reluctance, directed us to a nearby steakhouse. But I wassuspicious from the first. I sensed that the place belonged to a friend of hers, or her husband’s cousin, that there might be kickbacks involved. We found the steakhouse without trouble and went in. The menu posted on the bulletin board in the foyer was as unimaginative as a bad watercolor in a dentist’s waiting room. I ushered Rinpoche out before the hostess made her approach. He was, understandably enough, perplexed. “Can’t do it,” I said to him in the parking lot. “I’ll explain later. We’ll just shoot down into the nearest town and see if we can’t scare up something a little more interesting.”
According to my map, the nearest town was Bedford, Pennsylvania. We followed a two-lane highway south and soon found it. On the left as we entered the town there stood a large Armed
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