I hadn’t even wanted to go, but the promise of everlasting chicken- somewhat more important than my boyfriend’s pleading eyes- had convinced me, and thus it had been decided. I was dragged with a slight amount of resistance to the doorstep of the Brazilian restaurant where the overwhelming scent of limes and chicken hearts had sent me slightly dizzy. In the haze of the scent of chicken death I had suddenly found myself at a table inside, a cocktail with a cheery umbrella sat in my hand. The red of the walls inspired feelings of passion and fire, and the wilted lettuce at the salad bar inspired thoughts of unhappy farmers and rotund snails.
We ambled over to inspect the salad bar more closely; my boyfriend piled his plate with exotic things we had trouble pronouncing and I gathered as much bread and rice as it would have been possible to balance. I leaned to the person stood to my left and informed them that my lack of cultural culinary experience did not stem in any way from an innate form of racism, rather I had just eaten so many Greggs corned beef pasties that I had built up some kind of dependency on them, and as such didn’t eat other things very often. They hurriedly grabbed some green beans and moved back to their table, presumably to tell their friends about the benefits of corned beef pasties.
Back at the table the waiters began their meaty dances, the idea was to come round every few minutes with a different type of meat on a skewer, and they could either carve the meat onto your plate, or you could politely ask them to leave by turning the card on your table to red, or by stabbing them several times in the eyes- whichever felt the most comfortable, they were moderately accommodating with such things. We had the beef and chicken carved before us, mounds of succulent deliciousness provided by muscular, dancing Brazilian men, with sweaty upper lips. The Brazilian music in the background swathed around us as we enjoyed our lunch and our time together, little being more beautiful than a couple steadily engorging themselves on dead animal carcasses, whilst groping each other’s balls under the table. Or something.
There was however something that was missing.
‘Pork. Salty, salty pork’.
It had been hovering at the other side of the restaurant for a few minutes whilst the corpulent children on the table inhaled the fumes for a bit and then rubbed the meat on their faces. My boyfriend made an unusual noise and declared the need to urinate before disappearing for a few minutes. I spent my time peeling off the wallpaper next to my chair before another waiter appeared at my elbow.
‘Fresh pork?’, he didn’t say it, but his eyes told me that the fat children had done unspeakable things to the previous skewer.
‘Yes please, that sounds fantastic’.
He placed the skewer on my plate and dug his carving knife into the beautiful flesh of the deceased pig. I salivated slightly and the salt glands on my tongue erupted in celebration. But before he had finished his first stroke, something was incredibly wrong- the knife dug deeper into the sizzling pig, and with that came an ejaculation of hot pig fluid right into my face, and down my dress.
‘Oh! I am so sorry! Let me cut you some more to make up for it…’
Pig juice splattered onto my throat and seared into several layers of skin.
‘Oh God, look, do you want more meat? Free meat? I can give you free meat!’
He stabbed into the pig once more, and again the pig juice exploded into my face.
‘Stop cutting the fucking pig!’, I shrieked, trying to rise from my chair, but being so horribly burned from the salty torture I was enduring, fell instead into the table behind me, crashing dramatically onto the floor. Blinded and frantically unconscious, the waiter’s last words rang in my head, ‘I can probably give you 10% off your bill… bill… bill… bill?’
I hadn’t died, but the waiter had decided the kindest thing was probably to cut me up and roast me, and serve me to the other customers whose meals I had ruined. It was the fairest thing to do, really, and had I not been dismembered, I likely would have agreed. He signalled for his friends to keep the other customers entertained by juggling chicken hearts and limes, as he dragged my body by the ankle into the kitchen. As I was already substantially covered in pig juice, I didn’t need to be marinated for very long. I roasted very nicely and I looked as good as any dead pig on a skewer as I was paraded around the restaurant.
My boyfriend had returned and the waiter carved some of me onto his plate.
‘Tastes a bit fatty‘, he commented, ‘my girlfriend is going to love this’.