Back freshly rested from the extended Memorial Day weekend, I thought I was ready for anything – until my private secretary told me who had arrived at 11:30 a.m., and was patiently awaiting lunch with me.
“Henry Palikowski?” I was essentially astounded at that, as regular readers of this blog are, no doubt, likewise nonplussed. Because as they and I both know, Hank is my brother in law, married to my dear older sister Rose Lotus. He is a middle manager at Pabulex, the multinational infant supply manufacturer and the father of a large suburban Catholic family; thus a person who is not only extremely unlikely to require the services I offer, but also, most assuredly, someone who could never, ever be able to afford them. So, I figured, filial duty would require me to blow an entire lunch hour with this Polack clown who, in some absurd and inexplicable paroxysm of fate had married my robust, tall, buxom, strong, uncomplicated, libidinous, fecund, yet strangely virtuous, faithful, pious, pragmatic, practical and pulchritudinous sister Rose.
When I greeted him in the reception area, my private secretary looking him over like a serving of questionable beef intestines at a fly-specked Korean eatery in the bad part of downtown Richmond, I assumed he would spend our luncheon crying on my shoulder about his latest investment fiasco – or perhaps, the ramifications of his in-laws recently moving in with him, Rose and the kids after losing their house to the ravages of an adjustable rate mortgage. Regular readers of this blog know, of course, that Rose had, after all, divulged to me her innermost fears concerning Hank’s brother’s wife – and will also recall, perhaps, my Rx for that malady. As we engaged in the usual pleasantries, discussed a venue for our repast and, and having decided upon one, navigated our way to it through downtown DC, however, he made no attempt to breach either subject. Instead, he dwelled on topics both exotic and inexplicable.
“Tom,” he asked, as we walked, side by side, up Eighteenth Street, “I have a confession to make.”
“I left my collar at the seminary,” I replied ironically, “but I’m still a pretty good listener.”
“Yeah, well,” Hank continued, “when Rose introduced me to you, I knew you had spent a couple of years studying for the priesthood. And then when we met, I could tell you didn’t care much for sports, or think that women with big, ah, you know, knockers, I guess – think that they were the best; and you didn’t go in for NASCAR or strip clubs, or hunting or bass boats or golf or even have a porn collection; and you liked to cook and go to the opera and the symphony and stuff like that; and you read the Washington Post and the New York Times and a bunch of magazines like the Atlantic Monthly; and Rose told me you go to the Rainbow over at White Flint for your haircuts and that you get a facial and a manicure and a pedicure while you’re there and that the guy who cuts your hair used to work for Vidal Sassoon. So you can see why I thought that, right?
I stopped and gave him a penetrating look. “Thought what?”
“Ah, uh, oh, crap… “ Hank averted his eyes and stared down at the sidewalk. “I guess I’ve just screwed up again,” he sighed, shrugging sheepishly, “I’m only a normal guy, Tom, and normal guys aren’t good with words…” Hank slowly gathered the courage to look me in the eye. “I thought, well, you know,” he stammered, “what with you driving around in an imported sports car, going to foreign films, attending art exhibitions, and all the women – even Rose – going on about what a great dancer you are, and you playing classical music on the piano all the time, and the way you’re always so meticulous about your wardrobe and wearing hand-made European shoes and stuff like Boucheron instead of Aqua Velva or Old Spice or Axe or something…”
“You thought that I’m gay,” I concluded.
Hank turned redder than a home grown tomato. “Yeah, that’s it, I did – until I saw you with Cerise.” Hank shook his head in a mixture of disbelief and envy. “Damn, she’s hot, Tom! I mean, sure, she’s kinda flat, but that face, that hair – those legs, that… that behind! I don’t mind sayin’, I’d just wanna bang the livin’ hell outta her, rack or no rack! Not that I would, ya know, ‘cause I’m married to your sister and Cerise is your girlfriend, but what I’m trying to say is, when I saw that, I knew for sure, no way you’re gay or anything!”
“Gee, thanks, Hank,” I replied, pointing to the facade of a truly fine restaurant that I shall not name – because if I do name it in this blog, I fear that it will be mobbed with unexpected business it does not, in fact, really need – “there’s where I made our reservations.”
Inside, the maître d’, who of course recognized me at once, seated us at a table prepared for six as an immaculately clad and well-mannered busboy cleared the other four settings. There were the usual pleasantries with the staff, all of whom look forward to my visits to their establishment, and with good reason, indeed – I routinely tip 20 percent of the check before taxes. If you, dear reader, dine at good restaurants on a regular basis and wish to enjoy not only their best service, but the finest versions of their menu and potables, not to mention the genuine affection of their staff, I strongly suggest you give my method a try. Just tip 20 percent of the check before taxes a few times at a posh eatery and I guarantee that, subsequently, you will be instantly recognized upon arrival, seated at the best tables, be privy to the most extraordinary culinary and oenological creations on offer, and even, on occasion, be given free food. I am not making this up, people – Americans are such lousy tippers that any display of respect for restaurant personnel approaching which passes for the merely pedestrian on the Continent is greeted with nothing less than the sort of adulation I bet you think only billionaires, movie stars and rock idols get. Not so! Hank, who tips like a typical philistine from the suburbs with a wife and gaggle of screaming kids, was appropriately impressed.
“Damn, this is way pumped up,” he observed after the waiter retreated with our orders, “it’s amazing – like they actually care about your satisfaction or something.”
“I have reason to believe that in fact, they do indeed care about it,” I replied when a basket of freshly baked continental pastries and a bowl of fresh, soft butter landed between us, as the busboy poured iced water into crystal goblets quickly and discretely placed at our elbows.
Suitably impressed by the service, Hank’s curiosity, such as it is, could not rest. “What’s your secret?” Hank implored, leaning over the table, whispering.
I must confess I could not restrain my puckish side as I mockingly leaned towards him and replied, likewise in a secretive whisper, “I tip twenty percent of the check before taxes.”
I do believe that Hank could have been no more astonished at that pronouncement, than if I had corrected his suspicions that I am a homosexual with a clarification that no, indeed, I have intercourse with nanny goats instead.
“Oh, my God!” Hank was unable to formulate any other reply. He sat, stunned, for several minutes, while I enjoyed a fresh, hot, pastry, drenched, as I like them, in just a bit too much soft, fresh butter. Mmmmm.
At last, Hank spoke. “I guess that kind of thing is okay if a guy is single and making the kind of money you do, Tom… I mean, I suppose… but… sweet Jesus, twenty percent?”
I nodded affirmation. Hank replied by shaking his head in total disbelief.
“I swear, Hank,” I said, swallowing the first morsel of what promised to be another exquisite dining experience, “that’s really all there is to it.”
“I donno,” Hank mused, “I think I’d have to discuss that with Rose first.”
“By all means, do that,” I recommended, “and let me know what she says.”
Our cocktails arrived – a B-52 floater for me and a Bacardi Rum and Diet Coke for Hank.
“So,” Hank enquired nervously as he looked around the restaurant, “you get this one – I’ll get the next, right?”
“No problem,” I replied, hoisting my cocktail and saluting him jauntily, “as a matter of fact – in order to prevent having to eat at a Bugaboo Creek Steak House, I’ll get the next one, too!”
Hank lit up like a fireworks display at a municipal Fourth of July celebration. “Gee, Tom, that’s great!” Then, suddenly overcome with doubt, Hank peered across the table at me. “Is it the food or the talking animals?”
“Well,” I allowed, “I suppose I could stand the food if my meal wasn’t constantly interrupted by an animatronic moose, raccoon or similar critter, relating supposedly amusing stories of the Canadian back woods. You see, I’ve actually been in the Canadian back woods and I heard the unexpurgated, non-Bowlderized versions of those stories…”
“What’s ‘Bowlderized’ mean?” Hank asked, mystified.
“Oh never mind,” I replied as our appetizers arrived, “why don’t you tell me why you chose to pay me a visit for lunch today?”
Hank had had no idea what to order in a restaurant like this, of course, so he waited until I ordered, then simply asked for the same thing. Consequently, Hank was simultaneously confronted with my question and a plate of seared foie gras in fig sauce, and it was evident from the expression on his face that Hank was prepared neither for my question nor the goose liver. “Oh, Christ… “ he muttered, looking helplessly at the foie gras, then pleadingly at me, then once more at his appetizer. Finally, he decided to skirt the question of his intent, momentarily at least, and seek my advice. “Ah, what… how am I supposed to eat this, Tom?”
Hank watched as I demonstrated, then took a bite for himself. A strange expression spread across his face. “This…” he burbled, half taken by the trance of what might well have been his first gourmet food rush, “this is amazing!”
“Enjoy it while you can,” I advised, “because it’s going to be illegal in DC pretty soon. It’s already a crime to serve this in Chicago.”
Hank took a second look at his foie gras. “Illegal to eat this? How could they make something that tastes like… I don’t even know how to say it… like mesquite and bourbon grilled boneless prime rib steak wrapped in hickory smoked bacon topped with real melted Swiss cheese… no, even better than that! What the hell, isn’t everything legal in Chicago? How could something like this be illegal in Chicago?”
“Animal rights, Hank,” I explained, sampling what may be my last serving of seared foie gras in Washington, “the activists say making this stuff is too cruel.”
“Damn,” Hank said, helping himself to another round of soon-to-be-outlawed cuisine, “I guess I’m lucky I got to taste it once before it’s gone forever, then.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” I replied, polishing off the last of my serving. “In years to come, I will lay back with a glass of cognac and use it to evoke the memory of seared foie gras, because I won’t be able to buy it anywhere.”
Having tasted the stuff once in his life, Hank seemed genuinely touched by my sentiments. “It’s just a cryin’ shame, Tom, what some [expletive] with an attitude can get up to, screwing up good stuff for [expletive] stupid reasons.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” I concurred as the busboy whisked our empty plates away while our waiter placed a jumbo wild-caught Gulf shrimp cocktail between us.
“What’s this?” Hank regarded the shrimp with frank puzzlement. “Did you order it?”
“Nah,” I said, smiling slightly, “they’re just showing their appreciation. So, anyway, back to the feature here – whazzup?”
Hank toyed with a shrimp, lolling it slowly in the house cocktail sauce – which is a truly remarkable blend of all fresh ingredients, by the way – then took a bite. I could see from his expression that Hank was about to exclaim once more about his gustatory experience, but he restrained himself. Whether that was because he had concerns about appearing foolish, constantly gushing about the food, or whether he had finally summoned the gumption to address the issue that had caused him to seek me out in the first place today, I cannot say, but at some considerable length, he spoke. “Tom, it’s this: Rose is paranoid about AIDS.”
Dear reader, let me note here, without reservation, that laughing with a jumbo shrimp in your mouth is not something one should attempt. I only narrowly escaped requiring a Heimlich maneuver through quickly biting it in half and swallowing. When I was finished laughing, Hank just sat there for a few minutes, eating jumbo shrimp, staring down at the table cloth.
“Okay, Hank,” I began, “you’re going to have to explain that one, because no matter how I try to get my brain around the concept, what you said makes absolutely no sense in the universe I currently inhabit.”
Hank was sincerely mystified and a bit shocked. “Holy smokes, Tom, how come?”
“Because, in order to contract AIDS, it would be necessary for either you or Rose to have sex with someone besides each other,” I observed dryly, “and, given that you both have jobs and a huge brood of kids to raise, it’s virtually impossible that either of you two could find the time, or work up the energy to hook up with anybody else.”
Hank contemplated the last shrimp intently, then dipped it. After another protracted examination of that magnificent crustacean, he consumed it; chewing slowly and thoughtfully. “As you know, Tom, we’re Republicans.”
“Seems to me,” I recollected, “I’ve heard you mention that. Well, why not? I mean, after all, consider the alternatives.”
The shrimp cocktail dish disappeared and was quickly replaced by our entrées of pecan-crusted rockfish filets with asparagus in bernaise sauce and basmati rice red lentil pilaf. Beside each, our waiter placed a glass of chilled Friuli-Venezia Giulia pinot grigio.
“What’s more,” Hank continued as he ventured a fork full of rockfish, “we support President Bush.”
“You’re in good company there,” I assured him as I began by dipping asparagus tips in bernaise sauce, “nearly 28 percent of Americans feel the same way you and Rose do.”
As Hank chased his initial morsel of fish with a sip of wine, his face lit up again. “Tom, the contrast of the pecans and seasonings on the rockfish with the appetizers; the way the flavor opens up after a drink of this wine – it’s just beyond my imagination that you eat like this three times a day.”
“Usually two,” I pointed out, “although sometimes four.”
Hank shook his head in admiration. “Man, this is living, Tom. Anyway,” he took a taste of the pilaf, chewed, chased it with another sip of wine and looked across the table at me, “we figure, since he’s our president, we should support the Administration in all its efforts. And that’s what we’ve done, Tom, every day since George W. Bush took office.”
“He’s lucky to have such stalwart folks as you and Rose standing behind him in these times of adversity,” I managed to say without once again breaking out in laughter, “but, I sense, it seems that, at long last, you, at least, have developed a problem with one of the Administration’s policies?”
“Yeah, Tom,” Hank sadly related, “I’m afraid so. It’s tough to deal with – on the one hand, I have this deep patriotic emotional attachment to the good old USA, and what better way to express it than unquestioning support for our Commander in Chief? But on the other hand, I have another, equally strong gut reaction to the possible consequences of a recently announced Administration policy. The conflict is just tearing me up!”
“Oh,” I speculated, “you’re finally having doubts about whether we should be in Iraq?”
“No, oh, no way, Tom! I think we did the right thing from the very beginning on that – we had to get Saddam outta there so we won’t have any more 9/11’s!”
“So, it’s a domestic policy, then? The health care mess?”
“Actually, Pabulex has really good health coverage – BC/BS, PPO, and not too expensive, considering the number of people our policy covers; and, well, we haven’t given that much thought to health care for other people. That’s their problem, isn’t it? It’s a capitalist society, after all!”
“Sure. Is it these ridiculous gasoline prices, then?”
“Rose owns five hundred shares of Exxon-Mobil,” Hank shrugged, “you can’t have it both ways.”
“Oh, really? She never mentioned that. Immigration policy, tnen?”
“To tell the truth, Rose and I don’t know what to think about immigration policy – we figure whatever President Bush wants, that’s probably the best thing for the country.”
“Right. So which policy, and what about it, specifically,” I asked, “is causing all this cognitive dissonance? And what has it got to do with AIDS?”
Hank leaned closed and whispered, glancing side to side in an effort to ward off eavesdroppers. “It’s Ambassador Dr. Mark Dybul, coordinator of the United States Global AIDS program.”
“Oh him,” I commented, “now that guy – he really is gay.”
“I know, Tom, I know; but we Republicans have a big tent – we accept gayness, especially if it relates to the job, like being AIDS czar does for this Dybul guy.”
“So what’s the problem with him?” I persisted.
“It’s this President’s Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief. Rose read about it and got a copy. She went through the recommendations section. That’s when the, er, problem started.”
“Which is?”
“Tom, the Plan says that circumcision prevents AIDS.”
“Well, I think that’s probably an overstatement, Hank. That conclusion is only based on two studies.”
“Maybe so, but that was enough for Rose, Tom!”
“You mean, she…”
Hank wrinkled his face into a grimace of disgust and apprehension then nodded his head vigorously. “Yes! She wants me to get… clipped… to prevent AIDS! Tom, does that make any sense at all?”
“You mean, you weren’t, um, trimmed, when you were a baby?”
“Hell no, Tom! I’m from Baltimore! I’m Polish! None of the boys on my block got that. If we did, there’s that problem – you know, that Poles have…”
“You mean,” I said, filling in the blanks, “being mistaken for a Jewish person?”
“Exactly! Baltimore is full of Jews and full of Poles, too, and outsiders are always getting us confused! With our… convertible models, Polish guys got it set up so we can prove we aren’t Jewish. It’s… well, it’s traditional.”
“Given the history of Eastern Europe, I think I get the idea,” I mused. “Okay, so Rose has concluded that her chances of getting AIDS will be significantly reduced if you.. make a bris milah, nu?”
“Don’t talk like that! It makes me nervous!”
“And what’s the matter with a little Yiddish, bubbeleh? You want I should say ‘prepuce reduction procedure’ instead?”
“Tom, this is serious! She’s already made the appointment!”
I dropped my fork. “Appointment?”
“Operation next Monday afternoon. Overnight stay in the hospital for observation. Discharge at 1:00 p.m. Tuesday. Then two weeks on amyl nitrate – to suppress… tumescence until the scars heal.”
“She took all those steps without even consulting you?” I was aghast – sure, Rose has always had a strong personality and tended to take the initiative in controversial situations, but this was going too far, even if Hank is her husband and a bit of an idiot. “Hank,” I advised, “it’s pretty obvious that Rose has misinterpreted the Bush Administration policy for AIDS prevention. The conclusions and recommendations that constitute the basis for her decisions and actions are completely fallacious.”
Hank took out a notebook. “Hold on, Tom,” he pleaded, searching his coat pockets and finally producing a ballpoint pen, “go slow so I can get this all down without missing anything. She always picks me to pieces unless I have all of my ducks exactly in a row.”
“No problem,” I assured him, mentally organizing my thoughts for ease of communication and cogent presentation, “let’s do it point by point. Number One: the policy recommendation is based on studies conducted in sub-Saharan Africa, not the United States. So, first of all, there is no evidence that male circumcision in the US has any effect, positive or negative, on the spread of AIDS here or anywhere else. Number Two: even in sub-Saharan Africa, none of the studies show, or were even expected to show, that male circumcision prevents AIDS – all it does is reduce the incidence of infection. Number Three: if both partners are HIV negative and refrain from sexual contact with others, the presence or absence of a foreskin will have absolutely no effect on the risk of either partner developing AIDS – in both partners, the risk will be zero. Number Four: male circumcision is a significant form of genital mutilation that substantially affects sensation.”
“… substantially affects sensation.” Hank looked up from his notebook. “It does?”
“Oh, yeah, quite substantially. Guys who had it done to them when they were babies don’t know, of course – they have no idea at all what they’re missing. But any adult male who undergoes it will definitely notice a huge difference.”
“So, on top of everything else, it would be a really cruel thing to do to me, right?”
“Right – at least as cruel as making foie gras.”
Hank smiled a huge grin of relief, put down his pen, stashed his notebook and dug in to his rockfish with renewed gusto. “Okay,” he chortled, “I sure am glad I got the straight dope from you before Rose had somebody take a knife to Mr. Happy.”
“My pleasure, Hank.”
As he washed down the last of his lunch with his pinot grigio, clearly enjoying that sensation, a dark cloud once more passed over Hank’s visage with acute suddenness – something worrisome had obviously just occurred to him. “Tom,” he asked nervously, “what if sometime in the future, the Bush Administration issues a policy statement that recommends male circumcision to prevent AIDS in the United States?”
“Not likely,” I opined, “but if it did happen, I’d say you have several options.”
“And what would those be?” Hank looked at his empty wine glass with a mixture of nervousness and longing.
“You could become Democrats…”
“Oh, no! Tom, I don’t think we could ever do that!”
“Or, independents…”
“Totally out of the question!”
“Or just join the 72 percent of Americans who think George W. Bush is an incompetent moron…”
“It doesn’t matter if he’s a moron! He’s the President of the United States!” Hank’s consternation was evidently about to interfere with his digestion, which, I figured, would be a great travesty, so I sought to mollify his anxieties. “What the hey, it’s no hoo-hoo. No point in getting your stomach acid up over something that hasn’t even happened yet. I say, don’t even bother thinking about what you would do if the Bush Administration recommended male castration… I mean, circumcision – as a method to prevent AIDS in the United States. Just resolve to address the problem the way that Ted Kennedy would.”
“What’s that?”
“Drive off that bridge when you come to it.”