Food is Dramatic, Life is Delicious
Episode 261: To Hell With Burgundy: The Return of Jean and Foxy
by Mistress Crinkle
I was exhausted, but I was finished. The presents were wrapped, my Douglas fir was perfectly positioned, I’d purchased a full gallon of ID glide, and a large pile of pot brownies sat next to an extremely tall glass of goats milk on a low table next to the Christmas tree: I was ready for the arrival of my gentleman caller, Kristopher Cringlestofferson.
I settled into my leather armchair, and glanced at the bottle of Four Loko on ice in a bucket to my left, and contemplated what fun it was going to be drinking a military-grade neurotoxin, forgetting my worries, and waiting for my beau – I only saw Kris once a year, so whenever he came, we made sure to make the love-making last. I had just sipped my first taste of Fo-Lo preparing to feel fly like a G6 when my calm was interrupted by the dreaded Yakety Sax ringtone that belonged to none other than Jean Skort.
“Hello” I said timidly, hoping against hope that this was just a courtesy call.
“Caller, Foxy and I are bored. I have a guest coming over later, but Foxy and I want to kill some time by doing a little mescaline and eating a little mesclun before my gentleman caller makes his appearance. Let’s go to The Burgundy Room, eat some shit, and trip the light fantastic. We’re outside, so get ready now.”
I began to respond, but quickly realized that if I didn’t come out, she and Foxy would just let themselves in –Foxy inexplicable always seemed to have keys to my house.
Less than an hour later I found myself sitting in a rounded booth in The Burgundy Room, The Short North’s premier Wine and Tapas bar. Jean in pink chiffon and a large, white leather belt to my left, Foxy Bagels dressed as an elf to my right, and a ridiculous amount of food in front of us. Foxy had apparently faxed her order ahead.
“Caller, this Roasted Butternut Squash and Arugula salad with pickled beets, spiced almonds, Maytag blue cheese and apple cider-brown butter vinaigrette is the deal. If it had an ass, I’d be eating it,” said Jean as she attempted to navigate a large fork full of salad into the gaping, lipsticked hell mouth that was her food hole. Her large, fake nails attempting to make use of the fork was comedic at best, and disastrous at worst.
“You are eating it, Jean,” I said as I took a bite out of small smoked wild boar corndog slathered in molasses ketchup, the smoky boar meat filling my senses.
“Oh, girl. I know. It’s just an expression. What has you all salty, bitch?” asked Jean, still ‘working’ with her salad.
Sighing, I spoke, “Well, honestly Jean, I was sitting in my house, waiting for this guy I really, really like, and you guys showed up. It just seems like you’re are always forcing me to do things that I don’t want to do. I just wanted to sit in my house, drink a few glasses of Four Loko, get into my stocking-shaped sleeping bag, put a little Vaseline on my nether regions, and…”
Jean, who clearly was only half-listening, interrupted.
“Oh, I’m seeing a guy tonight too. I can’t wait. We’ve had this thing going on for years. He comes over about 9pm, we go at it, drink a little asti-spumanti, and play footsie until he has to go make his deliveries at 11. It’s like magic. We do some weird stuff, too. I’m talking rubber sheets, and yelling. He had me curse at him in German for an hour once. It was hot, gurrrrrl!”
Sighing again, I watched dejectedly as Foxy dug into her sweet meadows farm braised pork slider on focaccia with pickled carrots, Amish Munster, mixed greens and rosemary-Dijon aioli with lemon-thyme roasted fingerling potatoes. Why is it, I wondered, that Jean never listened to me? Why was it always about her?
Convinced I should say something about our very one-way friendship, I spoke.
“Jean, I really feel like you’re not interested in my life. I am really excited about my guy-friend visiting tonight, and you can’t even listen to what I’m saying!”
“Shit girl, be right back.”
Jean had spotted the infamous Hurricane Garrison Stevens Coquezucked Michaels Summers D’opulence, Columbus’ leading bulldog impersonator. Jean stood and quickly made her way over to the ageing but still-impressive hurricane. They hugged, and chatted for a moment, which all seemed very normal, until, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a strange flash of light. When Jean returned to the table, a large glass of Chianti in hand, her hair was ablaze.
“Jean, you hair is on fire!” I screamed, looking frantically for something with which to douse the flames.
“That bitch lit me up! She always does! I don’t even think she knows she’s doing it,” said Jean nonchalantly as she calmly patted her flame filled hair. Foxy, moving more urgently, grabbed the bowl of shrimp and grits with broken arrow ranch smoked wild boar kielbasa and red eye gravy, and dumped it on Jean’s head. The flames were quickly smothered by the thick and delicious concoction.
“When Kris C gets here, I want to make sure this weave is turned out. Foxy, you better shampoos every delicious bite of these grits out of this weave!” said Jean, as she stuck her finger into her hair, and then licked her finger clean.
“Did you say Kris?” I asked, ignoring loud chewing.
“Yea, Kristopher Cringlestofferson. You don’t know him – he’s from out of town. He’s about 700, Dutch, I think. Gray beard and hair, kind of bearish. He loves the south pole, if you know what I mean.”
I was stunned and utterly crushed. My Christmas visitor, the man I’d given my virginity to all those year ago, was cheating on me with Jean Skort.
“Jean, you ignorant slut. You’ve been sexing my Christmas visitor.” I was shocked by how angry I sounded. Jean took notice, looking at me strangely, and putting her sparkling glass of Schloss Gobelsburg down.
I continued, my voice becoming louder as I spoke.
“I put up with your constant theft, your lying, your weird contour technique, the late-night phone calls, the bad choreography. I put up with all of your shit, and this is how you repay me? By letting my bearded man make you his ho-ho-ho. Jean, I’m going to kick your fat, padded, pock-marked ass! “
Reaching into my purse, I grabbed a jar of Vaseline. I quickly applied it to my face, and pulled my fake lashes off. Foxy looked on in horror. Jean, stunned and utterly silent, looked at me fearfully, stood, and then ran. Smiling, I kicked my shoes off, and tossed some cash on the table.
“Pay the bill Foxy. I want to kick a Hippopotamus for Christmas, and her name is Jean!”
“Have fun gurl,” Foxy yelled as I sprinted away. “And bring me back her weave, I want some more of those shrimp and grits. That shit’s expensive, you know.”
The Burgundy is located at 641 N High St. Bar hours: Mon-Sat 4p-2a, Kitchen Hours: Mon-Thu 5p-11p, Fri-Sat 5p-1a. For reservations call 614.464.WINE.
