Is there anything in the world better than fresh-baked bread
dipped in spiced oil?
I'm just wondering because right now that's what I'm
eating. Not only is it ridiculously
inexpensive, but it's ridiculously delicious, too. Of course, it could be that I am simply
famished from another banner experience at Chili's that left my digestive
system completely flushed out. I'm not
going to blame Chili's entirely, but this does make four for four that I've
managed to end up with some kind of intestinal grippe from one end or the other
(or both) after eating, or even sipping, there.
I went with a friend to a nearby Chili's several months ago,
and I ordered something with chicken that I had eaten before (years ago,
though) with no ill effects that I could recall offhand. By the time I dropped my friend back at her
house about two miles away, I was ready to blow lunch (literally), and excused
myself citing some sudden errand to which I had to attend, barely made it the
four miles home from her house, and then did blow lunch.
The next time I went out with coworkers to a different
Chili's, closer to work but farther from home, and ate some appetizers along
with a draft lite beer. All was fine
until I was about one mile into my ten mile drive home. I considered pulling over and grabbing the
bucket I keep in the car (since the one time two of my three kids hurled after
leaving a Vermont BBQ that was capped off by some mad tire swinging before we
all piled into the Escort wagon) but instead willed my stomach to please,
please, please just hold off until I was in my own bathroom and out of sight of
commuter traffic.
A few weeks after that exciting ride, I decided to join my
work pals again at the same Chili's. I
ordered a mudslide. I skipped the
appetizers, but I did opt for the salsa and chips. I got about three miles into the drive home
before my stomach started squawking back at me, threatening to blow the
Scotchguard finish right of my car's upholstery. Again, I started chanting that mantra I was
learning to know so well, "Please, stomach, please let me make it
home. Please, stomach, please, please,
please let me make it home." Again,
it was a close call, but I made it with very little time to spare.
This time, though, I was far more cautious with my Chili's
fare. I skipped the beer and mixed
drinks entirely, figuring maybe, just maybe, my stomach couldn't take any ice
cold alcohol right after an exhausting work week. I opted for soda (isn't that supposed to keep
stomachs calm?). Again I went for the
chips and salsa but absolutely nothing else.
Before I even left the place, my stomach was ramping up for a major
revolt. The first skirmish hit me before
I even left the building, and I was forced to retreat to the ladies' room. I got a few miles into my commute home and
was feeling good, confident even, and considered stopping at Home Goods to do
some holiday perusing. "Haha,"
I thought gleefully to myself, "I conquered Chili's! I finally ---"
Uh oh. Major
intestinal cramp. Major MAJOR
cramp.
Suddenly I started sweating.
I opened all the car windows, even though it was barely 36 degrees out,
and started sucking in air. It didn't
help. I tried blowing air out of my
lungs in huge puffs to get my mind off of my roiling stomach. I realized that I was still a good five miles
from home, even cutting through some back neighborhoods, and accepted that I
was going to be Cloroxing my car, maybe even refinishing the entire dashboard,
if I didn't hurry it up. I started
chanting, "Please, dear God, just let me get home. I promise, I'll never eat at Chili's again if
you can just help me get home before all Hell breaks loose." (I know it seems trivial to some of my
religious pals to be wasting a prayer on my faulty digestive tract, but
honestly, there was nothing on this Earth I wanted more at that moment that to
reach my own bathroom and not puke, or worse, all over my car.)
I reached the train crossing at the Vale, and the gates were
down. No problem. I didn't have to cross the tracks to get home,
I just had to loop onto the main street from the side road that merged into it. Except the traffic that crossed the street I
needed to merge from had inched too far forward and was blocking my access.
No problem, no problem at all, because there was no way I
was stopping now. I drove literally
right along the gate, facing into the train as it blared past me mere feet
away, its headlight boring into mine.
There was no need to panic -- shitting my pants was already first and
foremost in my mind BEFORE I saw the commuter rail racing to smear me if I
miscalculated this daring and bold maneuver.
I raced along the main road … two miles from home … one mile
from home… one block from home. Damnit,
I could see the window where my bathroom was from my brief hesitation at the
yield sign. I didn't even bother to back
the car into the brick driveway -- I pulled that sucker in full tilt, left all
my stuff in the car, and ran head-long for my front door. Keys … shit, keys, come on … holy mother of …
The door swung open and I will be honest with you: It was
one of the happiest moments of my life when I saw that glorious porcelain
pedestal greet me. Chili's was expelled
in several fell-swoops over the next hour or so, and I was eventually able to
move my car to its rightful parking position (hood out) and gather my backpack
and coat from the back seat where I had happily put it hours before, believing
in my heart that today Chili's would be different.
Hours later when I started to feel well (and hungry), I went
for the bread I had just bought the day before.
I grabbed a hunk off and started nibbling like a hamster. Then I decided the bread needed to be dipped,
and, being too lazy to actually concoct something with oil and spices, I took
out a fancy pottery finger bowl and dumped in some Caesar dressing to use. As I ate, I sipped some tonic water with a
twist of lime, and I could feel my stomach muscles start to relax. I am not absolutely sure, but I could swear I
heard my intestines screaming, "BITCH, DON'T YOU EVER DO THAT TO US
AGAIN! WHAT THE HELL IS THE MATTER WITH
YOU?"
Truly I don't know what the matter with me is -- maybe it's
middle age, maybe it's an old food allergy I thought I outgrew that's coming
back to haunt me, maybe my stomach dislikes Chili's bottomless salsa and
chips. I honestly do not know. This much I do know -- The next time my
coworkers want to go out, I hope it's closer to my house. I think I'd have a much better time knowing
I'm only minutes rather than miles from home should I need the throne. For now, though, I'd prefer to abdicate.
