Oscar Meyer v. Weiner

Claiming the risqué politician damages its brand by casting a pall over the serving of ground swine anus as food, Oscar Meyer is suing Anthony D. Weiner.  Or should I say Carlos Danger?  Doesn’t Weiner’s nom de Snapchat say it all?

Danger.  The need, the lusting for it.  Isn’t it more about danger than sex?  Yes, sex may be the rail it rides but danger is the train.  Weiner appears to have a compulsion to take risks that are assured of failure from the instant he sets them in motion.  They become a ticking time bomb and the excitement lies in never knowing when the compulsion will reveal its actor to the world.  This man needs attention on a scale that would make Louis XIV blush.

It isn’t the infidelity or the inability to tell the truth, perhaps even an inability to know what is true and what is a lie.  Those practically serve to qualify him as a politician.  No.  It is his need to place himself in danger, repeatedly and for the thrill of it.   Combine that with his utter disregard for whom he drags with him when he acts out and you have a man who needs help desperately. 

What troubles me most is his apparent need to humiliate his wife; to humiliate all women, in fact.  Whatever one may think of the women he targets with his photos and chat, they are selected, one suspects, for their complicity in the risk.  They are the kind of women who readily give in to men most likely to hurt them.  And that makes them attractive to Weiner.  The bonus is dragging his beautiful, intelligent, and powerful wife to the lectern and forcing her to endure humiliation at the hands of the rascal press that found him out as he knew they would.  Tee-hee and gotcha!

In short, this man has a sadistic desire to inflict hurt.  That is why he needs to put down politics and take up residence in some dank basement.  There he can snap photos of his penis all he wants and post them to the world of women who daily make poor choices—his kind of people.

On Friday I Take You to Egypt

He takes the cigarette from his mouth and smiles at me, more gums than teeth. “Hey, c’mere. I got something for you.” He motions for me to follow; his cupped hand scooping at the air to draw me along in the draft. I go. I like this guy for reasons I almost know but can't quite locate. His food truck, of indeterminate vintage but leaning toward 'Soviet,' occupies a corner at the east end of the Jack London District every weekday. Royal Cuisine is the grand name of his business. “From the Ancient Land of the Pharaohs, Egypt," the broad, blue side of the truck proclaims. New American flags snap from the front corners.
 

I’ve seen him often in the neighborhood around Webster and 3^rd, near where I live. In 2011, the Oakland City Council passed an initiative to help build small businesses by licensing food trucks to specific corners in selected Oakland neighborhoods. It gave a tremendous leg up to aspiring chefs and small family operations wanting to be in the restaurant business but unable to clear the hurdle of buying or renting retail space. It was also a boon for those who can’t pass up a food truck without stopping for a taste.

Elmy and I met in the early Spring of 2012. I was out for a walk, heading east on 3^rd. I noticed him in the distance. He stood with two or three other men; dark like my Greek father. Compared to his idle, cigarette smoking entourage, Elmy was animated; hardly able to stand still on his corner. When I got to within 30 feet of his truck, he ran up to ask whether I’d had lunch. It was 2:00 and the street eating scene was long over. Yes, I assured him. ‘Come tomorrow, then,’ he urged, clutching my hand and shaking it. No, I demurred, almost regretting my plans to eat elsewhere with a friend he was so eager to hit it big on his corner. I have plans already, I said. ‘Friday, then,’ he announced, undeterred. ‘On Friday I take you to Egypt.’ I said I’d try but never showed even though I could have.

We continued to see each other in the neighborhood through the summer and fall. He was always on his corner as I passed by walking the neighborhood to uncover its many treasures. We never spoke or lifted a hand and I always felt that missed Friday dragging on my spirit.

I never saw a customer at Royal Cuisine. My neighborhood is at that turning point where people are as likely to want pressed duck for lunch as they are a hotdog. Elmy was neither one nor the other in his enormous blue truck. Other, sleek, smartly painted trucks that lined up across the street had plenty of people waiting to order. Elmy's truck was, well, slightly worse for wear. It likely began its life running newspapers to corner stands in all kinds of weather. In its second life, it does business out of the backdoor; there isn’t a window on the side to display the menu or take orders and hand out the food. The newer trucks, by contrast, were huge rolling kitchens.  Properly ventilated and wired for the Internet, they offered smoked meats, Indian samosas, Vietnamese banh mi, shrimp and oyster po’boys, artisanal cupcakes and rocket fuel coffee. What did Pharaohs eat?

When I think of Pharaohs, the first thing that comes to mind is a shriveled, little brown guy wrapped in linen once fresh and luxurious now stuck like Band-Aids to scabs. I know some pre-classical history but my only visual for a Pharaoh is an ancient, dried out turkey wing in a museum display case. A juicy lobster roll is going to trump that every time. Live and learn, I said to myself as I walked past thinking I should at least buy a shawarma.

Another Spring is hurrying to meet us and today I walked up 3^rd in the late afternoon feeling the sun warm on my back and legs. There he was—a cigarette dangling from his lips; his dark blue apron wrapped around his waist and tied in front; his goatee graying. He lifted the little sandwich board advertising his menu with the weariness of a man who had arrived at the end of his day. He was just folding it away when our eyes met. I raised my hand to him. He stopped and lifted his in return. I kept walking toward him, never taking my eyes off his. When I was close enough for him to recognize, he broke into a smile that made no apology for the missing teeth. He reached out and I grabbed his hand and held it; smiling back at him, genuinely relieved to be received into his good graces again.

His set the sign back on the sidewalk. ‘C’mon,’he said. ‘I got something for you.’ I nodded and followed him. He made his way into the truck calling me after him, ‘Come.” I stepped right up.

'You eat meat?'  Yes, I tell him but he is already pulling lamb from the refrigerator and throwing it on the grill.  It hisses and steams while he prepares a plate for me: white and yellow basmati rice, the most aromatic and richly flavored in the world; purple cabbage, red tomatoes, green chives; grilled peppers, their skin blackened and burst by fire.  'Be careful of that one,' he says indicating a plump, oblong yellow pepper no different from the one beside it.  It is perhaps slightly bigger.  I will, I say.  He packs potato salad into one corner and I laugh.  Did the Pharaohs eat potato salad?  The remaining space is given to iceberg lettuce topped with cherry tomatoes and chopped green onions.  He keeps adding little things; just a taste of something he thinks I will like; tzatziki though surely he calls it something else.

Are you Egyptian I ask, wanting him to talk about himself. ‘Yes.’ Nothing more. I’m Greek, I tell him. ‘Neighbors,’ he says with enthusiasm. He gives me his business card. 'Royal Cuisine' is stamped below a photograph of the Sphinx backed by the Pyramid of Giza. The Ptolemys, I say because I don’t really know where he’s going with any of this. He turns away to tend to the lamb, pushing it back and forth in its own grease until it is glistening with fat and ready to be piled on top of the rice. I think he’s done but no, he is not. He grabs a huge, beaten old white plastic bottle and drizzles the lamb with barbeque sauce. The early Pharaohs must have passed through Kansas City. The mound of food barely fits under the lid when he hands the box to me. ‘For you,’ he says. ‘Made with love.’ I throw my arms around his neck. I have, late in life, become a crier. I cry holding him. Thank you, I say.

It is January so, despite the afternoon sun, it’s cool. The food won’t stay warm long. I had lunch less than an hour before. I’m not hungry but a voice in my head says that right now the food in the box is as good as it will ever be. And I feel I owe it to this man to eat his food at its best possible moment. To taste what he intended.

So I walk over to Heinold’s and take a seat under the palm trees—just like an ancient Pharaoh. I eat and it’s good. I want use my hands—forget the fork. The little yellow pepper pops sweet and tender in my mouth. It is delicious—not too hot, not too sweet; cooked tender to the teeth but still firm enough to chew with satisfaction. I mix the sauce into the rice and bend low to scrape bigger bites into my mouth. The slightly bigger pepper, the one he warned me about, burns my lips and tongue. How did he know? The meat is soft and flavorful; perfect against the nutty taste of the rice. When every last atom has been licked from my plate, I look for him. His corner is empty.