I'm all alone, at the lone corner seat on the farthest table, like the awkward teenager seated at the kids' table during Thanksgiving dinner.
Auntie M talks to various people and points to me. Is she arranging seating based on English skills? Or mocking me from afar? All's I know is that this party's going to get real tedious, being stuck here in its outer orbit with my head up my ass. In between the socializers, waiters pop in and out of existence, placing exotic foods onto the tables.
Oh well. If you can't join 'em, write about 'em. I pull out my notebook and a pen.
"Hola."
Who said that? Looking up, I see a large, well-dressed Peruvian guy with a strangely powerful grin. Not forced, but rather locked in place, like he cracked a smile from a recess joke in grade school and it just froze that way.
"Habla español?" The smile continues. Unchanging.
Don't stare. "Poquito."
"Poquito." He nods and sits down next to me. "My name is Marco. What brings you to Lima?" he says in impeccable English.
I shift in my seat. "Oh, I dunno. I guess because my American Dream is dead, and I wonder if I can make another dream somewhere else."
"Good luck, my friend. I hope you find your way." Marco puts his hand on my shoulder and widens his shark tooth smile. The intent seems reassuring, but up close the effect is terrifying.
Marco sits back and pats his ginormous belly, pulsing out like an expectant anaconda after she just swallowed a Clydesdale.
The toothy smile grows more intense. "How do you like the traffic?"
"Incredible." But not as incredible as a talking shark.
"You know how can you tell a second in Lima?"
I place a hand to my chin and fake think, then vigorously shake my head.
"It's the amount of time after a green light before the honking starts."
I laugh as Gabi, the energetic comedienne in her thirties, leans over to hand me a pisco sour.
"So Daaaaahhhhgg-ah, do you e-speak eh-Spanish?" She smiles while lighting a cigarette.
"Poquit-"
"Poquito." She's already deep in thought, the smoke plume gently defying the gravity around her face. She raises her voice above a cramped conversation behind her. "I seeee. Y how do you know Maaagda?"
"Uh, where I'm from in Oregon."
She cups her hand around her ear and leans in, puffing a big cloud of smoke at my face. "Uh, where?"
I sneeze, eliciting a chorus of "Salud" from everyone nearby.
"Thank you. . . Gracias." After shaking my head in semicircles from another sneezing fit, I turn back to Gabi. "Oregon. I'm from Oregon. You see, I know this guy named Gus and. . . I guess he knows her. . . or knows someone that knows someone that knows her. . . I think?"
Mixed laughter from Gabi and Marco.
It goes on like this. Peruvians politely listening to me butcher their language while they ply me with pisco sours in the hopes the alcohol will lubricate my foreign language cortex. Wouldn't bet on it. With every empty glass in front of me, I'm feeling sweatier and pastier.
By the fifth double shot, my skull feels like an empty vessel and even English is sounding alien to me. The brainless gringo novelty factor wears. I fumble with parts of speech like I'm having aneurysms, so the guests begin forming disparate groups to socialize amongst themselves. Marco rips through a big plate of ribs like a Great White sucking down chum on 'Shark Week'. Are those extra rows of teeth? Can't be.
He looks down at my empty pisco sour glasses. "¿Te gusta?"
I belch out a well-lubricated. "Yeah."
"Our national drink. One of your countrymen helped invent it."
"Really?"
"Oh yes." A high, simpering laugh. "An American named Morris left Gringolandia in the early twentieth century to work in Peru. A few years later he opened up Morris' Bar in Lima. It became a popular spot for the Peruvian upper class and English-speaking foreigners. The pisco sour went through several changes before a Peruvian bartender working for Morris named. . ."
Marco swishes around his half-full wine glass. ". . . ah, shit. . . "
I uncork a smile. "Shit?"
A laugh. ". . . Ah. . . shit. Dammit. Brain's not working. Yes. . . his name was shit. Ah. . . whatever. A Peruvian created the modern recipe in maybe the 1920s by adding Angostura bitters and egg whites."
"Bullsheet-ah." A gust of nicotine-flavored dissension when Gabi exhales. She raises an eyebrow while dangling her cigarette between her sparkly fingernails.
Marco smells at his wine with a sour look. "Eh, what?"
Gabi delivers her lines slowly for full effect. "I says that Daaaaahhhhgg-ah is going to need a broom for all that Bullsheet-ah."
There's a clash of Spanish and I dart my eyes between her brilliant fingernails and The Teeth while sipping my drink.
Marco turns to me. "Eh, both Peru and Chile claim the pisco sour as their national drink. But they are really two kinds of pisco with two different styles."
We both look down. In between all the pisco commotion, my drawing hand has been tracing Marco's face with oversized razor-wired shark's teeth on my notepad. We both look up at each other, then I scribble it out, hoping he hasn't made the connection.
Silence.
After pushing my latest pisco casualty from me, I look down at his mangled ribs. "¿Te gusta?"
"Oh yes. You will love the food here. Peru has been 'The World's Leading Culinary Destination' for six years now."
With this, Gabi's eyes fill with life. "Ohhhhh Sí. Ceviche."
Marco quips. "Lomo Saltado. The Jumping Beef."
Gabi's head sways from side to side like she's in tune with a song my gringo ears just can't hear. "Que Rico-ah. Aji de Gallina. Y Papas a la Huancaina'ah."
I have no idea what any of these words mean, but they seem to be enjoying it.
Marco nods approvingly. "Y Causa, Rocoto Relleno, y Anticuchos. Grilled Heart."
Oh Christ. I knew it. He's a fucking vampire. I grab a yellow 2-liter of Inca Kola, pretending to read the Spanish words on the label as I scoot my chair further towards the exit.
Gabi screams and lifts her arms like Peru's futbol team just won the World Cup. "Y Pollo a la Brasa!"
What the hell have I walked into? Some sort of anti-Weight Watchers Club? "Has Peruvian foodie culture always been this. . . spirited?"
Marco initiates me into the lore surrounding Peru's recent culinary history, simply known in Peru as 'Before Gaston' and 'After Gaston'. "Gaston Acurio and his German-born wife, Astrid, opened up their first restaurant in Lima in nineteen-ninety. . .nineteen-nintey. . ." Marco swishes around his half-full wine glass. ". . . ah, shit. . . "
I can't help but smile. "More shit?"
A laugh. ". . . Ah. . . shit. Yes. . . nineteen-ninety-shit. Ah. . . whatever. They started as a traditional French restaurant, but since Peru has so many local ingredients from the sierra and jungle, they decided to try out more experimental plates."
A waitress drops off Gabi's iced Chilcano. She tastes it approvingly. "We have more than uh, two-thousand types of potatoes y two-hundred tipos of cheelies."
"Nice." I hold up the Inca Kola bottle. "Is this any good?"
Gabi's jaw drops. "Noooooo! Jouv never had Eeenca Kooola, Daaaaahhhhgg-ah?"
I pour a glass of the golden kola and give it a go. Ahhhh. Tastes like carbonated bubblegum and looks like urine. "Nice."
It does feel good. My stress is gone. And even though I'm not doing anything important, I'm no worse off than I was before. The filthy thoughts of my potentially ex-job have finally washed away. I pour more.
Marco chimes in. "Inca Kola is the wonderful story of when a HUGE corporation didn't get to fuck over the little guy."
I sip while tilting my head. "Huh?"
The room starts spinning as The Smile chimes in. "A British guy named Lindley moved to Rimac around 1910 and formulated Inca Kola using the Peruvian lemon. He built brand loyalty tying Inca Kola to Peru's dozens of national dishes. So, unlike other countries where Coca Cola or Pepsi prevailed, in Peru they couldn't unseat Inca Kola."
Gabi smiles smugly. "Poor Cooooca-ah Coooola-ah. HAH!"
Marco continues, "Coca Cola threw in the towel in 1999. Paying the Lindley's $300 million U.S. dollars for a minority share of the business."
Gabi purses her lips like a baby and blinks her eyes, theatrically. "Pobrecitos."
I smile and look around the room. "Excuse me. Where is the bathroom?"
They both point outside the glass double doors and Gabi raises an eyebrow. "What's the matter, Daaaaahhhhgg-ah?"
I get up and frown. "What?"
Marco laughs. "You're looking a little pale, my friend."
Gabi picks a rogue piece of thread off my shirt, then smiles like an innocent little girl before blurting. "Borrrrracho!"
My cheeks warm to a pleasant smile as I start walking. "You have an interesting country, my friend."
Marco says "Gracias" as I jib towards the glass double doors, overcome by a warm, friendly glow. I slosh through a sluice of happy faces enjoying life. The sing song tempo of esoteric gibberish fills my ears, and I feel the heat of the garish, yellow lights on my sweating face. My head pulsates in four different directions as it bobs from the recoil of uneven steps towards the bathroom.
Pure bliss.