Iron Chef America, in addition to being one of the greatest shows ever, is also one of the only shows that Nick and I can easily agree on (the other two are Scrubs and Law & Order: Criminal Intent. Anything else is a negotiation).
But Iron Chef America is the best. It is the perfect combination of tension, low stakes, exotic food, new ideas, and harmless fun. So just imagine my excited anticipation of my lunch today with Andrea: we were going to Mesa Grill. Not only does Mesa Grill have an excellent Restaurant Week menu, but it also has Iron Chef Bobby Flay, and while his incessant citrus-grilling grates on me a bit, he seems to be quite amazing. And I like amazing food.
Of course, things got off to a bad start when I was late. The worst part is that I was painfully conscious the whole time of the fact that Andrea would be on her lunch break. In retrospect, someone who leaves as little room for error as I do should never take the A or the L, much less plan to use both during the same trip. I darted out of the subway and pulled out my cell phone, which rang against my ear. I assured Andrea that I was only about a block away, which is just the kind of cockiness that I should have known that I would regret.
The restaurant wasn’t there.
I walked a couple more blocks while calling Andrea frantically, because now not only was I late, but I would have to confess that I had the cross streets wrong, and that’s pretty pathetic even for me. She curtly informed me that it was where I had originally thought, and after some backtracking, it did indeed magically appear (it had been across the street, and behind a truck, and looked like part of the store next to it, and I had been expecting something…bigger).
When I raced in more than 15 minutes late, Andrea was unimpressed, but the bread basket seemed to cheer her a bit (plus I gave her the formerly-liquor-filled ceramic houses that Nick got on a flight from Amsterdam, which she had grown quite attached to in the process of emptying them of said liquor).
And the food was indeed delicious–and my chicken came surrounded by swirling drips and drizzles of cool-looking sauces, just like on the show.
Trouble came, naturally, with dessert. Since Andrea’s nut allergy prevented her from trying the flan (which involved pecans), I had chosen that, while she had ordered a chocolate cake in pineapple-tequila sauce that just looked lovely. Which is why I was surprised when she stopped after just a bite or two–I mean, the girl’s got willpower, but, well, she doesn’t usually stare at me quite that way while exercising it.
I missed what she said to me, but apparently my confusion looked enough like shock and concern (the appropriate responses) that she felt that the message got across. It did a second later, when she rounded on the waitress and announced, “This is not nut-free.”
Oh, God.
Although I did not realize it until I stood to leave later, that was the moment when my lower back, ever sensitive to my stress level, decided to seize up. It wasn’t the annoyed sharp warning shot I have grown accustomed to, either; it was a wide, shimmering, creeping wrongness that licked its lips as it promised my eventual paralysis.
While the waitress insisted she had been told that there were no nuts (before ordering, I had heard Andrea tell her that she was allergic to nuts, including coconut, but apparently not peanut oil–who knew?), Andrea headed for the ladies’ room to stab herself with whatever it is that will keep her from dying.
The terrified waitress sidled up to me a few minutes later and asked if my friend might be allergic to anything else, because the kitchen really had told her it was nut-free (she had just gone and double-checked). “Pineapple?” she asked. No. She almost walked away, but then turned back. “There, um, is coconut in the sauce,” she admitted. “Could that be it?”
I figured that she was having such a bad day already that “Remember at the beginning when she clearly said ‘including coconuts’?” would be overkill. I settled for “That would absolutely be it.”
For the record, everyone was very nice and very apologetic (we got a lot of practice in the art of graciously acknowledging an apology without saying anything like “It’s okay,” because it isn’t). And Andrea came back after a bit mostly okay, although I am still waiting to hear that she really is well.
It was an ugly afternoon all around, but seriously? The 16-spice chicken is unbelievable. I’m just saying.