Even though my husband knows
I am the wrong person
to take out to eat
we attempt to order eggs,
undercooked vegetables, meat
cool to the touch, and a caesar
salad stacked like a jenga puzzle
knocked over with
my fork, the one I hold
with the curved edge pointing into
my mouth, not upside down
in some lack of understanding how
the simplest of utensils functions.
I have been laughed at,
for my mispronunciation of wine;
I have been told there is a new
line cook who perhaps lost their
thermometer even though I know
the uniform comes with a handy
narrow pocket to keep this essential
tool accessible; I have stopped myself
from telling my husband,
a pound of perch costs the same
as these three perch served with fries;
I have poured hot water into the
sludge of coffee and sipped;
I have ordered the ten dollar
glass of fresh squeezed orange juice
because it was delicious and too short;
I have asked to substitute chips and salsa
for fries when they are a more suitable
companion for quesadillas;
I have watched guests peel back
the crisp skin of a salmon and lay it on
the side of their plate where seeds
or an inedible garnish go and somehow
I have abstained myself from leaping
onto the table and shoving the skin into my mouth
because it’s the best part. I have embarrassed
my husband when I took notes of what I was
eating and where, never mind the service
was always outstanding when I kept the menu
and scribbled with audible glee first
razor clam; or the oyster whose brine
hit my bad molar and I cringed
at it’s coolness to quickly grab another
and bite once but this time on the good side
releasing the sweet pocket of sea; or the waiter
who ignored my husband when I ordered
for him in Spanish and I thought
holy shit it must be wonderful
to be a man sometimes;
I have been instructed on how to eat
a whole fried fish by two separate people
after I said yes, it is ok, I know there
are bones in a catfish, and I promise
not to choke on them; woozily I almost
wept watching a waiter wisk an egg
table side for a caesar salad and when
questioned about anchovies I said yes.
I have tried to read The Plague while
eating the best chicken tacos in Kalamazoo
and had to set down Camus to finish;
I have stood outside swinging doors
listening for Spanish and mariachi music
jealous of dishwashers who had machines
and hoses like a car wash when all I had
at my job was a six inch fan to keep me cool
in front of my three sinks; I have grated the skin
off all four knuckles and without pausing
threw away the blood spotted cheese,
sanitized my station, put my hand
in a glove, and started all over again.
I have been served a niçoise salad
with a can of tuna hurriedly thrown over
iceberg lettuce; I have been handed a pizza
which was 99% cheese and never again
saw the waiter until I was given a check;
the long distance between a check planted
too early and so late I would consider leaving
but don’t because my husband is good company;
we have waited all week to get out of the house.
Monica Rico is a Mexican American CantoMundo Fellow, Macondista, and Hopwood Graduate Poetry Award winner who grew up in Saginaw, Michigan. She holds an MFA from the University of Michigan’s HZWP and works for the Bear River Writers’ Conference. Her manuscript PINION is the winner of the 2021 Four Way Books Levis Prize in Poetry selected by Kaveh Akbar.