Friday, May 22, 2009

Never Trust a Skinny Chef

I was scurrying back to my hostel in Sydney to grab my luggage, print out my boarding pass, and head to the airport, so I swung through one of these roadside multinational fast food joints that offer everything from burgers to tibuli kebabs. They had a bunch of pies on display that they sell by the slice, and I eyed a tasty looking wedge loaded with meats, vegetables, chilies and just about anything else you could want on a pizza.  The sign next to it said Fatt Ma’s Special…  I figured how can you go wrong with that.  Someone secure enough to call herself Fatt Ma must know what she’s talking about when it comes to loaded toppings.  The lady I assumed to be Ma was standing behind the counter looking well fed, but not exactly what I would call fat.  I smiled, pointed at the pie, and said “I’ll take a slice of the Fatt Ma’s Special please”, in what I’m sure was detectable American English.  Ma looked at me, looked at the pizza, back at me – dismay, and back at the pizza.  She then informed me, in a restrained politeness, that I believe I’m looking for a slice of her daughter’s favorite pizza – her daughter Fatima.  Sure enough, that second T wasn’t a T at all, but a roman I with the brackets on top and bottom.  It’s a damn good thing I’m getting out of the country, Fatt Ma looks like the type that would track a bloke down and demand retributions.

I’m heading to the airport, finally dragging myself out of Australia after close to two months.  So much for my planned 1-2 week stay.  I know I’m long past due to update on what I’ve been doing out here for the past 6 weeks…  and I’m, um, getting to.  Perhaps the 8 hour flight to Singapore will give me time to catch up.  Or maybe I’ll just play Tetris on the inflight entertainment console.

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