EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNAL

October 4, 1998

London

The Travesty

Rich and I think it might be fun to go to a local pub and have a light dinner. James seems up to the idea. His housemate, Ahed recommends a pub called The Swan on Bayswater Road. Well, from beginning to end, the entire expedition is a travesty (Rich’s word—Rich is now lying in bed deciding whether or not he should throw up).

The counter displays a monotonous menagerie of mayonnaise-covered pickled vegetables and medium-sized fried brown objects. The two foreign language teenagers behind the bar are having trouble processing the words, "I’ll have the set meal" uttered by the woman seemingly half a dozen customers before us.

Rich’s miniature chicken legs are oozing grease. His chips are room temperature, oily and flexible. My rather expensive microwaved potato is just that, with a side of iceburg lettuce swimming in an obscure liquid. With salt and pepper I have defeated the concept of the "jacket", where the potato's purpose is that of vessel, for chili or beans or tuna or cheese or something else. My big mistake is that I am still peckish and so order a highway robbery cappuccino. Now I lie here in its milkiness with a bloated gutache.