Steve is a lactose intolerant fuck. He's basically Franco the Fascist, but instead of killing anarchists and being afraid of those wind-up toys that run across the table and knock over the salt shaker, he can't stand any sort of milk-based product. Milk, yoghurt, calpis, curds, whey, kefir, ice cream, dulce de leche, quark; Steve wants to destroy them all.
Every week, I go out for dinner with Steve and his wife Evelyn. We alternate who chooses the venue. This week, I chose a Mexican restaurant near my house, La Cocina del Culo.
The proprietor, Culo Mayusculo. Alexas_Fotos
El Culo is a slow shuffling old man with three hands. What he loses in speed, he makes up in carrying capacity. He makes a continuous circuit between the kitchen and the restaurant, taking the same route every time, handing out plates and memorising orders as he goes. It's a one-man taco train starring Culo as the caboose, Culo as the diesel loco, and Culo as the restaurant car, inside which there is presumably another Culo doing just the same.
We sit down, and when El Culo makes it to us, we've already decided what to order. Evelyn orders a big cheesy burrito with milk of magnesia sauce to curb the inevitable heartburn. Steve orders a big fleecy burrito with sheep's wool for the extra vitamin D. I order a big wheezy burrito with a few coughs thrown in, ostensibly to boost my immune system, but really so I could feel closer to El Culo.
While we're waiting for the food, conversation naturally drifts back to Franco's fear of wind-up toys. During the First Spanish Civil War, my grandfather worked in a factory near Avenue Place in Barcelona. He carved the wooden wheels for the wind-up toys that were to be smuggled across the front and into Franco's dining room. I always keep a wind-up toy in my bag to show people in case they don't believe me. It's a mechanical monkey, which starts clapping once I wind and set it on the table. One time, my grandfather said, as Franco sat to dine and lifted the soup-server, he found it swarming with wind-up toys. Franco nearly had an aneurysm, and executed his entire staff the next day. This is how the anarchists were able to translate Franco's fear of wind-up toys into a fear of soup. Given enough time and wind-up toys, I suppose they could have turned him off food entirely, and starved him to death. Alas, it was not to be.
El Culo carries our burritos out to us and sets them down. "Burrito fantastico", I mumble half-way through my first bite. After a few mouthfuls, Steve stops chewing and starts un-chewing. He un-chews an awful lot, spilling his predigested burrito onto the entire table. Strands of melted cheese drip off the still-clapping mechanical monkey.
Steve is frothing. Evelyn was supposed to get the cheese burrito, not Steve.
"God damn it, Culo you vagrant! It's Edam and Eve, not Edam and Steve!"
The monkey gives an extra special clap, sending cheese strands flying.
This is how I was able to translate Steve's fear of cheese into a fear of wind-up toys.