Shiny Happy Person / My Favourite Meal
So I got lost on purpose, something I love to do in a new city. It’s an activity that never fails to cultivate some sort of strange magic. I ended up in this cafe in Edinburgh a little way off the beaten path of the main city centre, and the owner was completely nuts. A roly-poly, bespectacled older man, he asked me where I was from and — immediately after I answered — went on a well-rehearsed, supposedly-humourous-but-actually-quite-awkwardly-derogatory tirade about New Zealand, concluding with him calling me behind the counter to watch a YouTube video of some kiwi school students doing the Haka, while he gave a running commentary about how ridiculous it looked. It’s not something I could meaningfully take offence to, but it seemed he needed to be put in his place lest he gravely offend someone else, so I said: “Well, you guys wear skirts, so…?”. He replied: “Oh, uhh, the kilt… ” and toned down his rhetoric a bit, admonished perhaps.
Before that however, I nearly didn’t stay in the place. It was 7:30pm on a Sunday night and for some reason they were still only serving breakfast. This left me to wonder if this time of the evening is the locals “rise & shine” following an excessive Saturday night out. After perusing the menu I said to the other staff member present — a double-breast buttoned, white-uniformed, mediterranean-looking man — that I might come back for breakfast sometime. He replied, hurriedly: “Well, what would you like? I’m a chef!”. At this point I was somewhat unconvinced staying was the best choice I could make, so I asked him for something likely impossible in a place only serving various configurations of eggs on toast all night long. Could he make me brown rice with vegetables, specifically including broccoli? Basically, my favourite meal. The plan failed. After clarifying some details of what I wanted, ten minutes later he brought out exactly what I’d asked for, and it was delicious. I’m not actually sure how he did it, given brown rice takes 40 minutes to cook. I had visions of him sneaking out the back door to a convenience store to get a packet of pre-cooked microwave rice just to keep me happy.
The owner kept watching Haka videos on his own while I waited for and ate my meal. He continued assessing New Zealand’s proud tradition out loud, but after my admonition, seemed to make a marked turnaround in manner. More and more positive words emerged, culminating in what by the end appeared to be professions of total admiration.
It felt right to leave a tip. The turnabout on shitting on my country of origins heritage notwithstanding, they had made something especially for me, and it was even good. But the YouTube-addicted owner wouldn’t accept it. He gave it back, exclaiming: “You had me watching Haka videos, and I liked that!”
I realised that the inverted-cajolery he began with was just his way of trying to make friends, and I regretted my “kilt” comment a little, though not it’s apparent effect. That a line in the sand worked was borne of his fair intention as much as my own. Sometimes people want to be friends, but are maybe too afraid of rejection at the same time — and sadly, the tension between these two can make it all just come out wrong. How many other problems in our world have a similar dichotomy at their root?
When I left, the carefully-curated music had segued into Shiny Happy People by REM. Despite his unusual manner, the owner did actually seem quite happy, and certainly shone in his own way.
Maybe one day that will help me find the place again.
