Trust me, when I say there can be too much of a good thing
I. Love. Korean food.
There’s something about fat-marbled meat, coated in a sweet, savory sauce that drives my consumptive instincts wild. Plus, I love variety, so the the accompanying banchan (those half-dozen side dishes, each a gem in its own right) drives me crazy.
I learned the joys of Korean food in college, where I had a Korean roommate and a number of other friends who were already in the know. It was love at first taste.
So, the first time I asked a girl out on a date, what better way to impress her than to take her to a Korean restaurant?
It was brilliant (in the American sense). And the girl said yes, so it was doubly brilliant (in the British sense).
As we settled in at the restaurant, the waiters laid out a cornucopia of visually stimulating side dishes. We were soon taking turns grilling beautiful meat after beautiful meat on the grill built right into the table. It was smiles and delight all around.
So, as you can imagine, I was quite pleased with myself as we left the restaurant. I proud to have shown off this culinary treasure and, to my luck, my date was a light eater, so my belly was extra full.
That sense of satisfaction trailed me the whole way home, from the door of the restaurant to the parking in front of her apartment, where I'd planned on dropping her off.
And then, I felt it.
A rumble, emanating from deep within my bowels.
“Uh oh…”, I thought.
We sat there in the car chatting for a minute or two, recapping what fun we'd had, before she invited me to have some tea before heading home.
I could already feel pressure swelling in my lower abdomen. I knew we were in the danger zone.
But she was insistent and she was pretty and I was enjoying the conversation and.. fuck it, it'll be fine.
So, we hopped out of the car and started walking.
Not 10 steps in, I stopped in my tracks.
Damn you, Korean food! Why are you so delicious?!
She turned, with a confused look on her face.
I didn’t know what to say or do.
“You go ahead. I need to fart.”
Yeah. That was all I could think of.
It was one of those moments where we recognize what’s to come and there's nothing left to do but capitulate to the inevitable.
“What?”
Oh shit... Did she not hear me? Or were the words so unexpected that her brain failed to process them?
Then, like an overzealous actor, unwilling to wait for his cue, the Korean food made its encore.
Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr r r r r r r t...
There was a moment of silence as we stared at one another.
“Okay, I’m good now.”
She didn’t say another word until we got to her apartment.
I’ll never know if she didn’t hear it, felt too awkward to ask about it, or was just totally indifferent to it.
But, she never mentioned it again.
