I came in on a second hand jet with a lady friend (my new jet was in for repairs, the onboard Jacuzzi was kaput). I wanted a challenge, some danger with my meal. I wanted people to think of me not only as the greatest food critic since Gilbert Steinbeck but also a man of the people and liberation. I wanted to confront a racist restaurant and tackle their bigoted perceptions as well review their food as I was born to do.
So I arrive in Arizona on the clock of time, chalked three, a State so racist that it banned Martin Luther King Day and more recently created unconstitutional laws against Mexicans, anti-immigration laws of which Obama sued them for creating such a monstrosity on human rights.
I chose the restaurant at random; little would they know who I am anyway, with their cultural poles stagnating in bile and puss.
Driving down a dirt track, I arrive at a series of buildings that could account for township. I see a faded red sign blinkering that says ‘restaurant’ yes the restaurant is called restaurant.
The waiter, or owner possibly, greets me with a sigh of relief ‘I taugh you were a foreigner or something but you got that undeniable god’s skin on yee...’ when I replied with ‘I am a foreigner’ he let out a guffaw drenched in diarrhoea, I imagined the particles of gooey brown shit coming together to form the noise of his chortle. He patted my arm in as strange way as almost to accoutre my skin with his testimony and then ordered me to a table at the very back of the restaurant under an insufferable lack of light, I felt like a flower wilting, photosynthesis failing, limbs derailed in all directions.
I rested my arms on the table trying not to keel over. He served me up a steak without even giving me a choice of what to eat, ‘the best in Arizona, you’ll like it, gives a nice glow to god’s skin’.
I am glad I left my lady friend at the hotel, this was no place for her prettiness, only nastiness can lie here, I see some mosquitoes chilling near the kitchen door, which is a blanket hammered in with some nails. I wonder why they don’t have an actual wooden, practical door, maybe a blanket door is more practical in this climate, and anyway my concern is the food and fighting racism not to get distracted by blanket door origins. The steak is mild, not bad, as the steak goes into the dark of my mouth and down without any pretty arbitrary. For I feel that knowing the man is racist that I cannot enjoy it.
Next comes desert, ‘some negro cake’ he offers smiling, this reminded me of the infamous ‘drunk negro cookies’.
I jump up snap his arm back, I feel like Malcolm X rising up from the ashes of racism, except if Malcolm X was white, and was brought up in aristocratic family rather than a slum in Omaha.
Nevertheless I was impassioned, ‘Do you hear that?’ I looked into his trembling eyes ‘Wha-what?’ That’s Michael-fucking Jackson playing in your restaurant, a black man’s music is flowing through the air’, his rebuttal was met by my firm arms thrusting him against the wall ‘So you serve this filthy dessert in the name of bigoted racism yet you play the music of a black soul, so you’re a hypocrite. ‘Now look here mista, I ain’t no hippo-christ, or whatever word you be using, Michael is white, you sir are a mad man...why are you attacking one of your own?’ I knocked him out in a rage. After that vindication of a knockout blow: Food Critic who fights racism ONE racist ZERO. I went back to my lady friend and we got funky with some Michael Jackson songs. We celebrated with a proper dessert some forest gateau, yummmmmm!
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