Barbs have cumulative effect, setting fire
Something tells me, Smith, you’re the one writing this review. Even as we speak.
What’s the matter, The Hunched Cornish, lost your nerve?
That’s me, John Smith, taking the piss out of the freak who likes eating with me sometimes. It’s a little joke of mine – every so often I like to play them. Yeah, I can be that way.
I don’t know where to fit this bit of information, so I’ll just say we are in the middle of summer – late July to be more exact – and it’s a bright, hot, sunny day, not sweltering. This happened some weeks ago.
Whatever you say, Smith. Sure, I’ve lost it. You realize they’re not serving me.
Yeah, I do.
While I’m supposed to sit here watching you do all the eating.
You can do whatever the hell you want.
Smith, what’s the point of having me meet you here if they’re not going to serve me? What’s with that sign outside? Is that part of a stupid Smith joke – or what?
The Hunched Cornish testily refers to a sign outside this new place that’s opened in Podil on Sahaydachnoho Street not more than a month ago. It’s the same strip that saw at least another three reviews before this one, including one in which The Hunched Cornish burns down an Uzbek joint at the other end of it.
The name of the place is Mozzarella (yeah, real damn original) – another joint of Italian-like eats; another pseudo-Mediterranean theme – neither recommended nor dis-recommended by myself – Smith.
I don’t know if The Hunched Cornish recommends this place or not since he has nothing to base a judgment on, since the sign outside he’s referring to says, “We Don’t Feed The Hunched Cornish.” Just like that. Smith doesn’t know if that’s part of his little joke played on The Hunched Cornish or not. So I tell him:
I don’t know if it’s part of a stupid joke I’m playing on you or not.
Hmm-errr…
I watch The Hunched Cornish as I eat a salad studded with seafood – mussels, shrimp, maybe octopus, maybe something else – eat it right in his monster face, that huge head that sends shivers down your spine if you’re not used to it, obnoxiously, my mug contorted in a goofy self-satisfied childlike expression – I make like my cheeks are full and bursting even after I’ve swallowed.
What can I say? I’m exaggerating, of course, being a dick, I suppose, but the salad for 43 hryvnias is pretty good. I drink it down with a large cranberry lemonade for UAH 25.
I think The Hunched Cornish is up to my game. He might be cracking a smile. It’s hard to tell with the deep creases in his face.
For UAH 63, I am also finding pretty good two bits of steak at the ends of bones that look like the ribs of a gnome cow, together with a side of thin-sliced fried potato for UAH 19. I ordered what I thought would be a real steak, for UAH 76 or 79, but when they bring out the two small meat pads on sticks, they say it’s because, being newly opened, they still don’t have the entire inventory of meals in stock as featured on their damn menu – AND IT’S NOT LIKE THEY COULD HAVE TOLD ME BEFOREHAND!!!
I’m left both hungry and pissed.
Step’s up to this, The Hunched Cornish says.
Up to what?
I’m on my own turf and I can’t even have a meal.
What does Step have to do with it?
Why doesn’t he come over to this side of the website? I’ll settle my differences with him fast enough.
Why don’t you go over to that side? You afraid of Step?
Listen, Tiny – you know I can’t go over there. Step’s got more latitude. He can come over to The Checkout. He says he’s fearless. Others say he is. But I’ve challenged him, and he won’t do it.
That’s a lie, The Hunched Cornish. You’ve been to The Commix – that episode you pissed on Kate Mustard. That was really –
Look – if that happened, I had no control over it. If I was there, it wasn’t by my own agency. Otherwise, I can’t step across The Commix; but Step can.
How’s your girlfriend, I asked, changing the subject, referring to Tango Baby, Manny Face’s old flame, violated, abducted and brainwashed by The Cornish into a googly-eyed worship of him.
She’s pregnant.
Congratulations!
Fuck you, Smith. If it’s Manny Face’s kid, I’ll kill both her and the fucking kid.
Come on – the kid’s innocent. And if it’s Face’s kid, he’s probably going to be one hell of a good-looking –
The Hunched Cornish glares at me – immediately unsettling.
But then he says, Ahaha… This is followed by: And then The Half Guinea’s putzing around town with some mangy dog.
That’s Milk Bone, I say. He’s actually kind of a man who looks like a dog. Sometimes vice versa.
Smith – it’s a fucking dog!
Well, that fucking dog wrote a piece for The Commix.
He what?!
I said, Milk Bone wrote a piece for The Commix.
You mean to tell me I can’t write for The Commix, but some fucking dog can?! How… Smith… how is that possible?!?
I don’t know. He just sort of did it, filed it – it got published. Maybe Step let him get it in somehow. What can I tell you? I don’t think he thought about it too much. And after that, he laughed – sort of like this: “Khe-khe-khe-khe…”
What the –
Yeah, and then after that, I filed one, and so did Kowalski.
Kowalski?!?
Yeah – Kowalski!
The Hunched Cornish is struggling; he’s in mental torment, suffering: But if a fucking dog can write for The Commix, he agonizes, then… then… maybe I can –
I’ll admit I am unusually cruel when I quickly dismiss his gathering supposition. I say:
Nah, I don’t think so…
Our red-and-white-checkered tablecloth goes up in flames. They rise, gathering heat and strength, devouring the very table before us. Mozzarella wait staff and administration come running toward us in a panic. The fire, starting somewhere from the cradle of The Hunched Cornish’s groin, envelopes my legs, but it doesn’t burn me – I don’t even feel it.
John Smith, August 11, 2013