"I'm three-burger-hungry!" I declared as my husband and I sat across from our friends in a little pub in New Haven, Connecticut. It was our first night visiting them and, having made an unintended detour (more on that tomorrow), we had arrived late and hadn't eaten.
By the time our main courses came, we were well into our first pitcher of beer, the wings and fries had covered our mouths and fingers with a pleasing smear of grease, and the conversation had become loud and animated.
I took a bite of my "Southwest Chicken Wrap", paused, then shook my head. Hmm...That doesn't taste right. But no, it can't be. I took a few more bites, trying to concentrate on the question one of my friends was asking me.
The room was hot and loud, and the beer consumed on an empty stomach was starting to send warm fuzzies to my brain.
"...I'm sorry," I interrupted her, "I think there's something wrong with my sandwich."
The men looked over.
"What's wrong with it?" someone asked.
"Well, it sort of tastes like..." I blush and falter, then begin to giggle, throwing my hands up in defeat, "...POO?"
Their mouths drop open. Then a general burst of laughter.
"What!?" they cry in disbelief. The sandwich is passed around, and it's confirmed. It's a definite poo-wich.
Next, I have to explain the situation to the waiter, and if saying the word 'poo' to my friends wasn't hard enough, imagine how I blushed and choked as I told him that the food he had just served me tasted and smelled exactly like excrement.
It was really a shame. Apart from the chagrin of having eaten more than ONE bite of the stinky crap-wrap, I felt a little sad as I sent back food for the first time ever. The waitress in me rebelled.
But the rebellion was brief, and in the end the rebellion of my olfactories won out. The poo-wich disappeared into the kitchen, never to be heard from again.
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