Trolls in Hell

“Welcome to Hell.” That’s how we were greeted by our hibachi chef on a special night out.

When you’re planning a special night, it might be best to not make the mistake we made.  That mistake: not specifying that by “special night” we didn’t mean “fill it with “special” people. Special people aren’t supposed to make your night special.

First stop, we went to the TransSiberian Orchestra concert. Pretty cool. The second half was definitely better than the first half. And if you have to listen to Christmas music then you need to have it loud and with electric guitars, in my humble opinion. The show itself would have been special and a memory made and all that sappy stuff, but the people…omg, the people. It is my opinion that for a concert like this one, one should dress appropriately.  Country music show wardrobe: who cares. Rock concert: black t-shirts and jeans. Broadway play: dress-up. Orchestra: business clothes.   In appropriate wardrobe choices:  shorts and sandals with black socks, slippers, and velvet lounge pants with flying pigs on them.  Leggings with boots are okay if you are under 350 pounds (even then you should wear underwear of some substance); but, for our purposes we’re going to have to put them in the inappropriate category since there were an abundance of people who didn’t get the memo about the rules on leggings. To be fair, one woman wore leggings which were not too small…they were really loose, with big baggy pockets of over-stretched material at the knees and a dropping crotch.

We were lucky enough to have seats on the end of a row. This allowed me to observe the comings and goings of people while watching the show. One “super-sized” man went back and forth to concessions several times. During the course of the show, he purchased the following:  two hot dogs, 5 sodas, 4 big tubs of popcorn, nachos, and two soft pretzels. Granted the show was three hours long so perhaps he was just trying to keep his blood sugar stable. The number of stains on his t-shirt increased as the night wore on. Another couple came to a row and passed two empty seats to inform another couple that seats 3 and 4 in the row were theirs. An usher became involved. The people in seats 3 and 4 stayed, the offended couple who by-passed two empty seats in the sold out show never returned.  Seats 1 and 2 remained empty for the entire show. A ten year old, accompanied by his mother, passed by 4 times. They never brought anything back. I can only assume these were restroom trips.

Which brings me to eavesdropping on people in the restroom. This Christmas season has taught me that women will say the damnedest things in public restrooms. It’s like they think they’re alone, in their own private space where everything is safe. I’ve been trying to drink lots and lots of water after I read some article about how 95% of Americans are constantly dehydrated. Of course this week I just read an article that someone can die from drinking too much water; so, this trend might not last. 

Anyway, I think the first horrific thing I heard in a quasi-public restroom was at a business holiday party in mid-December. It was held at a resort and there were several holiday parties going on at the same time. I stopped at the restroom near another party. Two women were in there, adjusting their fishnet stockings, holding their skirts up with their chins and revealing thongs that split their woman parts like dental floss strung between two flattened baby monkey heads. They’re having a discussion about how many blow jobs they think they’ll be able to give to the men at the party and talking about separating them from their wives so “get the job done.” The women’s bathroom at the show was no different other than the fact there were more women in there. At the TransSiberian Orchestra concert, the topic of discussion between three women was yeast infections and how one woman thought it was just something that came off a new underwear she bought at WalMart because normally she washes things first but she didn’t this time.  My bathroom trip was spent making awkward eye contact with equally repulsed and uncomfortable people who would have preferred to be spared this discussion.

After the show, we were off to dinner. I won’t even talk about the traffic and people’s driving skills. That comes as a given any longer.  We decided to stop at an Asian Sushi and Steakhouse in Westlake for dinner. We figured it would be fun and memorable.

We get into the restaurant and we’re told that they are cleaning off a table for us and we can wait. Right after we come in, two big families come in with kids.

Some guy comes up and seats one of those families even though we’ve been waiting longer. You know, now I’m predisposed to disliking this people. The hostess returns and is distressed to find out that someone was taken before us…then proceeds to sit us at the hibachi grill with the very people who gleefully butted in front of us.

The tables are these huge double hibachis. One side is completely filled with a large party. Our side has the interloping family grandfather, grandmother, mother (who I thought was a guy) and two kids. Apparently the interlopers have already ordered stuff.  We make our orders and the waiter tells us that all the chefs are busy so it might be a bit.  In the meantime, the chef for the other side of the grill and the big party comes out and we watch their show.

As we’re watching, I notice the woman at the end of the big U-shaped group. She’s older. Her hair has been dyed blonde, but gray roots have ground out about three inches. Her hair is pulled back with a plastic hair band; so all the blonde is at the back and her face is surrounded by gray. She looks unhappy. She looks like she didn’t want to come to this party but she was obligated. She looks like she’s at the end of the group because no one wanted to deal with her.

She’s miserable. She tells the cook he didn’t give her enough fried rice. And then….wait, we need an aside.

When you go to a hibachi restaurant they usually give you some dipping sauces. Usually these are ginger and sauce known as Yum-Yum sauce.  This Yum-Yum sauce is basically mayonnaise, tomato paste, some garlic, a pinch of cayenne pepper, some butter, some sugar.  It sounds horrible when you spell it out, but it actually tastes pretty good. Just not THAT good.

This woman who I have dubbed “The Yum-Yum Troll” pours the dipping sauce over her fried rice. She steals the yum-yum sauce from the kid next to her.  She asks for more.  She eats rice dripping with yum-yum sauce like heavily applied salad dressing.  She sticks her tongue out to capture each drop before she shoves the fork into her mouth. She asks for more. The waiter brings her an entire container of it, just for her.  She pours more on. The rice is gone. She’s still eating yum-yum sauce. Sticking her tongue out before each bite. “It reminds me of a frog catching a fly,” says my companion. Only the fly is made of yum-yum. I wonder if she eats mayo out of the mayo jar without anything else. She looks angry as she licks her fork like some puffy lizard clutching a cane. She starts talking to the interlopers. “That’s my favorite sauce,” she tells them.

Yeah, no kidding.

Finally our chef gets to the table and we find out the interlopers want specialized hibachi. They have demanded: no butter, no oil, no shellfish, no egg, and no salt. Great, I’m at a steakhouse with a table full of vegan wheat germ-drinking naturalists. This explains why the mother looks like a guy. It’s that thin, pale, washed out, I don’t eat any meat or anything non-organic look.

The chef lights things on fire. “Welcome to Hell,” he says.  He clarifies all the specifications of the interlopers. And then he looks at us and says, “What about you?”

“Oh,” I say, “we’ll take everything you got.”

My companion whispers, “With extra butter.”

The chef shares an evil grin with us. We grin and smile at our shellfish, rejoice in our eggs, and we get extra butter. He joked with us. We were old chums now, sharing in the ridiculous of the interlopers and thankful that no one had asked for gluten free hibachi. He rolls his eyes when the Yum-Yum trolls tells him that he seems like a better cook than the one who made her meal because she wasn't happy with him and she was not given as much fried rice as the others.

Knock. Knock. Who’s there? It’s the yum yum troll. She walked by on her way out and eyed our yum yum sauce. It was uncomfortable. It made us feel all yucky and unwashed and vegan-y. But the food…it was Yum Yum. Our night in hell was an adventure. Trolls slain. Interlopers sent off with grandparents who stopped to tell us that they had no idea what their daughter had turned in to with all these demands she made for her food. 

Who's that clip clopping over my hibachi? It's the yum yum troll!  Beware!