Mmm, Polopian food!

I realized today that I’ve really neglected the blog lately. The thing is that not much has been going on. At least nothing noteworthy. I spent last week laying on my back and occasionally getting up to eat some food. Essentially, I resembled a beached whale although I was nowhere close to the beach, occasionally you could find me near a pool. So, I guess a pooled whale…

Last night, I went out to meet a good friend whom I hadn’t seen yet since my return. It was a hot and humid night, the kind that makes your skin all sticky and nothing that you do, besides taking a shower which are generally not readily available on the streets of New York, relieves the hotness and the stickiness. We decided to go to my favorite Moroccan restaurant for my favorite chicken kebob with French fries and beer meal. The beauty of New York City - you can always find food from any corner of the world, not to mention that confusing trend of food fusion. It’s some sort of illness that plagues local chefs – they combine the most random combinations of food and call it “fusion.” I may as well start selling Polish pierogies with Ethiopian dish of raw meat. Ooh, look, it’s Polopian food!

So anyways, once we got to the restaurant, my salivating thoughts of chicken kebob sandwich were completely crushed as I learned that they eliminated a sandwich section of the menu. Not to say that there were many sandwiches, really just the chicken kebob sandwich and a falafel sandwich. Of course, they decided to keep the falafel platter which essentially was the ingredients of the falafel sandwich on a platter. When I asked if I could get chicken kebab as a substitution, the waiter, who was super nice, said that they don’t do substitutions. I cried, I pouted, I pleaded, nothing worked. So I got something else.

The real reason topic of this blog – and you thought I’d be writing about Polopian food and chicken kebob sandwiches – is the difference between Georgian men and American men. Briefly after sitting down, we started chatting with two men who were sitting next to our table. It turned it was a father and son dinner and the father was a really chatty fire spark! He proceeded to chat with me for the whole duration of the meal and got up to leave right as my friend and I finished our meals and the waiter brought dessert menu. Now, mind you, I hadn’t seen my friend and she had great news to talk about and I had to tell her all about my trip to Georgia so it’s not like the two of us were sitting there really bored, looking around the restaurant to see what other patrons were doing. Of course, truth be told, the son was quite attractive so partially I was hoping somehow we would start chatting as well. The father was so chatty that the son had little to say, not to mention that he kept looking at his cell phone and occasionally texting someone while his father talked to us from dumpster diving for books, German Balts, and some covert job he was doing for the government. Or something like that, I couldn’t hear him about half the time.

Now, if a similar situation occurred in Georgia, the men would have paid for my friend and my dinners. And offered to get dessert and coffee. I realized this as I walked home, how disappointing it was that we never got contact info from the handsome son and the father didn’t realize that talking to us for an hour didn’t warrant a free meal. I’ve been spoiled by the Georgian men, I should reacquaint myself with the monotonous NYC gender relations where people play eye ping pong but are too afraid to approach each other.