I’ve been arranging the new room, making this lovely new hellhole into my hellhole, and recuperating from yesterday’s hard work of moving which gave me this morning’s bad back.
With no paid work and no major tasks, it’s the first day I’ve had to myself in a while, and I wasn’t even planning to get dressed. For reasons unknown, though, no water comes out of my faucet, or the sink in the john. No flushing. No showers.
Thirsty, I’ve been coughing almost as loud as the TV in the next room, so I put on pants and went downstairs to holler at Mr Patel, who of course wasn’t there. The office was locked, but I’d come prepared like a Boy Scout, so I wrote “Water?” on an index card and gluestuck it to the office door.
Then I went to the grocery across the street to buy some damned water. When I came back with two gallons, Mr Patel was back, and he said the water is disconnected “for a couple of hours” due to construction outside.
Which I’d mostly guessed: To get to the store and back, I’d had to detour around some orange-vested Super Mario types working on the pipes under the street.
But — for a couple of hours? My ass. The water was off when I woke up at about 10:00 this morning, and now it’s 3:30. And also, isn’t there supposed to be advance notice when the water’s going dry?
The hotel’s unflushable toilets smell like outhouses, and I ain’t gonna endure that stink for however long it takes to do what I gotta do. Instead I squatted over my trash can, then emptied it into the cans in the back.
♦ ♦ ♦
You don’t think about water until there’s none. In America, you turn a faucet and there’s water. Turn the other faucet and it’s hot water. It’s kind of amazing, actually, until you turn the faucet and there’s not even a drip.
This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.
On a gently sloping hillside in an ugly section of Tukwila, you’ll find Pancake Chef, home of a reliably average breakfast. Today’s post isn’t about Pancake Chef, though.
The parking lot for Pancake Chef is atop the roof of an old, mildly dilapidated strip mall, further down the slope of the hill. In the strip mall, you’ll find several African shops, including Mana Market, Shuriba Salon, Tabarak Halal Meats, and a restaurant called SeaTac Cuisines on its sign, but SeaTac Cuisine on its menu. Singular or plural, my dinner was darn good.
The interior walls are dusty orange, the décor is minimal, and the seating is fast-food antique. A big-screen TV was showing Al Jazeera coverage of Trump’s war on the Middle East, but at a volume low enough it wasn’t a bother. Seeing no staff, I took a seat at a small table almost directly under the TV, facing a utility closet on the back wall. It was the only seat where I wouldn’t even accidentally see the TV.
Soon, a youngish man brought a menu, and I ordered the Ethiopian Combination Dish (“homemade teff bread, meat stews made of chicken, beef, or lamb, lentils, spices [sic?] chiles, lettuce, mixed vegetables,” $22). I read a chapter of my library book before the meal arrived, so I’d guess it took ten minutes — not long.
During that wait, a customer took a rolled-up mat off a shelf, spread it on the floor, and briefly knelt facing Mecca. His prayer was quick, quiet, and efficient, lasting perhaps thirty seconds, and then he rolled the mat again, and returned it to the shelf.
The meal bore little resemblance to what the menu had promised. Usually with Ethiopian cuisine, meat is served in a stew, but my plate had a huge chunk of meat on the bone. It could’ve been a pterodactyl drumstick, as seen on The Flintstones. It was nearly as long as the distance from my elbow to my fist, and the meat was tender, juicy, delicious, and plentiful.
Surrounding the drumstick was a lentil concoction that was good, but everything else on the plate — a huge helping of spiced spinach, a large & excellent salad, and that damned drumstick — was spectacular. The salad came with a delicious dressing on the side, which was unlike any dressing from any other salad I’ve ever et. Dinner also came with two extra rolls of the outstanding, fluffy injera, fresh made and still warm.
Midway through my meal, two more customers unfurled the mat and prayed, one after the other, then returned the mat to the shelf.
The waiter hadn’t asked if I wanted a drink, and I would’ve said no, but an unopened bottle of Kirkland (Costco) water was delivered with dinner. The meal wasn’t particularly spicy, by Ethiopian standards, so I only drank a few sips of the water.
Oddly, silverware was provided, but the whole shtick for Ethiopian food is that you eat with your fingers, and by tearing off pieces of the injera (teff) bread to lift food by the mouthful, so of course I never touched the fork.
Also oddly, the table setting included only one ordinary paper napkin. While not fiery spicy, everything was spicy enough to make my nose run like a creek, so one napkin was woefully inadequate. There are always paper towels in my backpack, though, and I left six filled with drippings from the meal, and from my schnoz.
The waiter never checked on me with the traditional “Is everything OK?” but it must’ve been obvious that everything was better than OK, slobber wipe smile slobber wipe again. The check never came, but I didn’t really wait for it — it had been a long day and I wanted to get home, so I walked to the front counter and gave my waiter seven fives, to cover the estimated tab, tax, and tip. Next time, I’ll probably order the half-plate, which is several dollars cheaper, and would’ve been enough to fill me.
As for the service, well, the place had been busy, with at least dozens of customers, and I was the only one in the building who wasn’t black. My guess is, not many white folks eat there, and my experience is, white people are often assholes. If I’d been the waiter, I might’ve kept a safe distance, too.
And anyway, who cares about service? Do you go to a restaurant for the service? I come for the food, and I’ll come back to SeaTac Cuisine(s).
It’s the finest meal I’ve ever eaten under a parking lot. And after paying, just past the counter but still in the dining room, there’s a brilliant idea — a sink, out in the open, where I washed the sweet remnants of dinner from my fingers. I did not, however, unfurl the mat and kneel toward Mecca.
