“Yosick’s, Gurllll”
As I sat in my living room admiring my Christmas tree and finishing my morning coffee, my phone rang. The Yakety Sax ringtone signaled that the caller was none other than the infamous Jean Skort, reigning Queen of Columbus drag. I considered not answering for a moment, but my good upbringing forced me to reluctantly accept the call.
“Hello” I said, sounding a little defeated.
“Caller, have you seen the movie Food, Inc.?” Jean asked, not bothering to say hello.
“I have not, Jean.”
“You must. Me and Foxy Bagels just finished it, and we’re disgusted. Both of us have decided the only way to keep corporate America from poisoning us with E. Coli is to keep Kosher.”
“Uh huh” I said as I feigned interest and flipped through a magazine.
“Girl, put on your knickers, we’re picking you up in five and we’re heading to this Kosher place in German Village. They have chocolate and pastries, and quiche, and everything one might need to live. Plus they’ve got chocolate macaroons, and you know Foxy and her macaroons. See you in five! ”
I began to respond, but quickly realized that Jean had ended the call and was on her way to my home.
Less than an hour later I found myself sitting in Yosicks Artisan Chocolates, Jean to my left, Foxy Bagels to my right, and an enormous amount of food in front of us. Jean had ordered one of everything on the menu, and was working her way through the pile of kosher delights with the determination of an Olympic figure skater. Foxy was, as always, silent. She mumbled occasionally, but the white noise that was her chewing was her major contribution to the conversation. Jean, on the other hand, wouldn’t shut up. Between bites of fragrant spinach and cheddar quiche, and the occasional apricot rugelach interruption, she spoke on what seemed like ten-thousand topics.
“Caller, this quiche is divine! Each bite is like a small kosher explosion in my mouth. On an unrelated topic, let’s ski Kilimanjaro. We’ll have Yosick’s make an eight inch round chocolate cake with buttercream frosting, and we’ll eat it at the bottom to celebrate!,” said Jean, the remnants of last night’s drag all over her face.
“You can’t ski Kilimanjaro, Jean. The bottom half is solid rock, and there’s no place to stop off and have cake. It’s Tanzania.”
“Oooh, you’re a sourpussy today. Here, eat this spice cookie, then you’ll be right as rain,” said Jean, pushing the cookie into my face. I began to protest, but before I could speak, Jean spotted the infamous Coco Marie Love Punasty Fontaine Vasquez Rollins Manchester Von Schaffelhund, Columbus’ leading Delta Burke impersonator. Jean stood and quickly made her way over to the ageing but still-impressive Hurricain. They hugged, and chatting for a moment, which all seemed very normal, until, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a strange flash of metal. When Jean returned to the table, a large cranberry scone in one hand, she was noticeably pale.
“I think she just stabbed me. She always does that – I don’t even think she knows she’s doing it,” said Jean nonchalantly as she sat and began to fumble through her large tote, grunting loudly. After a few moments of frantic searching, her hand emerged from the bag clutching a large roll of duct tape. She immediately removed her top, and using her hands, probed around until she found the offending wound. She reached for several rugelach, and began stuffing them into the wound. From here she worked quickly, wrapping the duct tape around her body, cinching her waist, and stopping the small but steady flow of blood. Customers began to notice.
“Duct tape, mon frere, isn’t just for dick taping and fixing a hippie’s automobile,” said Jean as she replaced her top, and threw the duct tape roll haphazardly back into her bag.
“Don’t you think you should see a doctor?,” I asked as I bit into a large and savory tomato-basil-mozzarella scone, my tone somewhere between disbelief and concern.
“Of course not, silly. Duct tape fixes everything, and I don’t think I could tear myself away from these delicious sweet cheese croissants!? And at $2.50 each, I’d be a fool not to have another!,” said Jean as she stood, and stumbled toward the well-appointed counter.
When she returned, she had several cheese croissants, and what looked like twenty pounds of artisan chocolates.
“What the hell are you going to do with all that chocolate?,” I asked, pleased in stomach but not in mind.
“Bath house, girl. We’re taking them there and using them to attract gentlemen callers. Foxy likes for gents to find a treat in her peach.”
At this, Foxy nodded vigorously.
Sighing, I bite into a chocolate biscotini and tried to let its deliciousness erase the image of a chocolate delight nesting in Foxy’s peach and the person who might be regaled in finding it there.
