lunch in the 'hood, fer ril y'all

Last Thursday, I overheard my coworkers talking about a fish place: what kind of fish they like, how they like their fish breaded or battered. So, when shortly thereafter, when I received an invitation to go get fish fry for lunch, I gladly signed on.

This is probably the best place to mention that I am generally the only caucasian involved in most work related situation these days. We were going to lunch in the 'hood. I was prepared for an impoverished neighborhood, and much like my favorite misdirected Liz Lemon, to casually brush aside any stereotypes I might encounter on the journey. I also expected, quite honestly (and totally stereotypically, also ala Liz Lemon), an amazing clique "hole-in-the-wall" that would someday end up on "Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives", or perhaps "No Reservations" if Anthony Bourdain ever decides to do a show in a non-Asian country.

Driving there, in my colleague's absolutely shitty Mercedes, I was alerted to landmarks including, "This is where my friend got shot", and "If yo car 'bout to get repo'd, sell it to them Puerto Ricans". Once the conversation turned, for the second time that day (long story), to how much food stamps everyone gets, I finally admitted to myself that I was out of my element.

But, just as all hope was about to be lost, we arrived at the fish place! And I lost all hope. Concrete floor, and an absolute terrible smell of.....fish. Not in an "Oh, good! I'm in an undiscovered treasure of an eatery!" way, but in a "yup, stank fish fry in the 'hood" way. I ordered a shrimp dinner priced at $4. My coworker, who initiated this fish fry field trip, ordered chicken fingers, which says a lot. As our food fried, we went next door to the meat market. I tried not to look like a caucasian in an Old Navy cardigan while my hostess priced pork ribs. We returned to the fish place to collect our food, and I went to get money out of my wallet. My companions, already showering their fried food with so much hot sauce that my eyes began to water, did not accept my cash. Chicken lovin' coworker had already swiped her EBT, i.e. paid for all 3 meals with her food stamps.

I struggled with this for a few minutes, as I watched her try to secure her lunch on the dashboard. This resulted in the windshield of her once fine Mercedes Benz being smeared with Boss Sauce as soon as she turned out of the driveway of the sad ghetto plaza we'd just patronized. Homegirl had used a fucking lot of sauce, so much that it was leaking out of the plastic bag that housed the styrofoam container that housed the gross chicken (review of my meal: shrimp was gross) covered in sauce.

Epilogue: We just went back to work and ate our respective lunches on our own. Which is kind of good because I didn't have to pretend that I liked what I ordered, because that shrimp was totally from frozen and not seasoned well at all. It was also kind of disappointing because I still wanted a chance to bond with my coworkers, whom I really like in a lot of ways. I decided not to feel guilty about my food stamps lunch. I felt like it was my good reward for paying taxes and therefore it wasn't a free lunch; I paid for it indirectly. And if I'm being honest, I'm glad to know firsthand how shitty my coworker's Mercedes really is. Because I had often wondered, "How the fuck do you drive a Mercedes when you're on food stamps?" But it's a piece. Especially now, with the sauce on the windshield.