I have been waiting for what seems like the entire five minutes I have been waiting. I only notice because The Suit in front of me is speaking fluent Suit with another Suit and I find the talk of Suits reminds me that I used to be a Suit too. In a default Suit reaction I make a list in my head. I’m hungry. That’s the list.
I should have paid more attention. By the time I meet my challenger I wish I had made a better list. Fifty odd salad ingredients. One set of tongs. One Salad Master (or a demi-teen dressed as a Salad Master) and me. Calm.
I instantly regret my lettuce choice (always crispy mixed, always crispy mixed) as I fumble between chicken and tuna (chicken), parmesan and feta (feta), always baby tomatoes, cucumber? Here is where it starts to go wrong. Breathe, just breathe. The lady behind me is tapping her manicured nails on the glass counter impatiently at the hold up my decisional impasse is causing to the execution of her salad list. I should have made a list. I freeze and then point and nod at every ingredient that was never meant to meet the rest of my salad. Focus. Crème fraiche dressing (no, before you ask, it’s not good, it means nothing to nobody). Pay. Seat. Breathe.
As my pulse slows I peer into the deep silver bowl, the product of my friends Salad Master battle and his scars are far fewer than mine. He’s done well, stuck to the classics. Avoided the comingling of sweet and savoury. Balanced cured and fresh, dairy and legume. Damn him. Avocado. I don’t have avocado. I wish I had avocado. I think perhaps my cucumber could be as tasty as avocado. It’s not. I have an impotent salad. Salad Envy.
I should have paid more attention. By the time I meet my challenger I wish I had made a better list. Fifty odd salad ingredients. One set of tongs. One Salad Master (or a demi-teen dressed as a Salad Master) and me. Calm.
I instantly regret my lettuce choice (always crispy mixed, always crispy mixed) as I fumble between chicken and tuna (chicken), parmesan and feta (feta), always baby tomatoes, cucumber? Here is where it starts to go wrong. Breathe, just breathe. The lady behind me is tapping her manicured nails on the glass counter impatiently at the hold up my decisional impasse is causing to the execution of her salad list. I should have made a list. I freeze and then point and nod at every ingredient that was never meant to meet the rest of my salad. Focus. Crème fraiche dressing (no, before you ask, it’s not good, it means nothing to nobody). Pay. Seat. Breathe.
As my pulse slows I peer into the deep silver bowl, the product of my friends Salad Master battle and his scars are far fewer than mine. He’s done well, stuck to the classics. Avoided the comingling of sweet and savoury. Balanced cured and fresh, dairy and legume. Damn him. Avocado. I don’t have avocado. I wish I had avocado. I think perhaps my cucumber could be as tasty as avocado. It’s not. I have an impotent salad. Salad Envy.
