The Wabasso Triangle
The Semolina Incident
The Semolina Incident
Anthony Chianti, Licensed Private Eye and Indian River Community Pasta Detective, reporting:
It was Monday. A quiet morning, then two pasticides since lunch. After sampling soggy restaurant food all day I needed a break. So I decided to treat myself, and what better way than to eat out.
Location:
Dr Pepperoni's Italien Ristorante.
I ordered, put my feet on the table and picked up the crossword. Two clues later, the waiter stood stiffly to attention and delicately placed the entrée. A tiny scraping of Lasagna Verde sat alone in the middle of a huge plate. I hadn't seen a meal this small since I ordered from the Nouveau Cuisine Menu at that truck stop on I-95.
I held up the plate: “You call this a helping? Do I get a microscope with this meal?" No wonder they were so thin. The Chef is probably anorexic.
"I didn't order Lasagna Minisculi… can I see the manager?”
Well, I don’t know about you, but thin means only one thing to me. Think China. Think Bulgaria. Think North Korea. That’s right. Think thin. Have you ever seen an overweight communist? There are several reasons for this, but basically Communism works by suppressing economic growth to keep the population in a late agrarian, early mercantile phase of development. And that has drastic and far-reaching carbohydrate consequences, especially for pasta production.
After what seemed like an eternity but was probably only a couple more New-York-Times clues, Herr Ober arrived.
I pointed at the tiny helping on my plate,
“Qu’est que c’est vous etes mon petite portionette, huh?”
(I've learned that it's best to speak to restauranteurs in their own language.)
There was a pregnant pause; my impeccable Foreign had obviously thrown him.
“You get long horder?” He volunteered.
Well I don’t know how it happened, probably just years of experience as a Community Pasta Detective, but then, in a flash of intuition, it just dawned on me: This guy wasn’t Italian. He wasn’t even Mediterranean!
There were several pieces of hard evidence to confirm my suspicions: First, he was yellow. Second, he was short. Third, he had two almond-shaped eyes. Fourth, and most telling, he was Sin Lo, former grinning garçon at the Wancid Wok. We had brushed paths many times, his noodleness and me.
“This wlong food? " Then his eyes lit up in surplize as he remembered me.
“Misher Chianti, did not lecognize you...” He bowed inscrutably, "Misher Chianti, say what you ploblem, again?"
"This tiny portion…"
He whisked the plate away and rushed into the kitchen. This gave me time to think. But still the nagging question remained: 73 Across. The only possible answer was BRUSCHETTA, but it had to end in a 'Y', and BRUSCHETTY sounded like the heir to an oil fortune.
And there was another ploblem: What was my old oriental arch-enemy Sin Lo doing in an Italian restaurant? He knew the Chinese food business inside out – I remember his early creative days as Vegetable Sous-Chef at the Wancid Wok. My favorite dish was his Sin Lo Sweet Haricots.
And now, pretending to be an Italian Purveyoroni…
This can mean only one thing: The Wabasso Triangle had struck again!
As you know, inside the Wabasso Triangle the Vermicelli Energy Vortex is so intense that the normal Laws of Physics break down. So did my toaster last week. A perfectly ordinary toaster on a perfectly ordinary Thursday. Little did I know as the alarm went off that I was only ten minutes away from realizing the secret fear of all toaster operators: a core temperature excursion. Muffin Meltdown!
Flames shot from the top as it buried itself deep into the counter. Toaster China Syndrome but without Jane Fonda's cool head and tight jeans. It should not have happened, but one thing is certain: it did happen.
And why were the portions at Dr Pepperoni's so tiny? They used to be huge. I always took half my dinner home. Warmed-over Rotelle Rigate, yummy. Makes a great breakfast. Especially since the toaster went nova.
Undercover Pasta Detectives are trained to be observant. I looked around, pretending to do the crossword. Casually, I leaned against the wall and peeked through a hole in the newspaper. Even the décor had changed! What happened to all those shelves with jars full of pasta? This place used to look like Rigatoni Death Row.
In the corner a long-haired guitarist crooned an old Italian folksong:
“How are things in Guacamole?
Is that little brook still leaping there?”
They reckoned without years of undercover pasta experience – I instinctively knew something was wrong – it wasn't Italian, it was really a Mexican folksong!
I folded the Durum Wheat News and glanced at the headline: EUROPE BANS AMERICAN PASTA. Strasbourg, from Our Correspondent: The Europeans today blocked all imports of pasta from the United States. "American pasta is loaded with Bovine Growth Hormone," said an EEC spokesman, "We also found Ziti with an IRA in excess of 401K parts per million… that, together with traces of UB40 in Macaroni… " I'd read enough – here was another news item, plus those emails from the Al Dente Pasta Alliance Newsgroup. That was the fifth attempt this month to halt pasta exports. America, the world's largest producer, must be backed up with pasta – where's it all going?
At last my meal arrived. Not large, but about twice the previous amount. Portion, schmortion. It looked good. Only… something was wrong – this wasn't Lasagna! I poked around – this was soggy Tortilla! Tortilla, as you know, is a Mexican delicacy made from sun-dried sliced tortoise. They were using pasta substitutes! Things started to make sense and by now I had a hunch.
I grabbed the glass of drinking water and headed for the bathroom. I up-ended the glass onto the wall. The wrong way, and soaked myself. Then I listened carefully,
"… this shipment…. pasta quota… another two tons… "
I hurriedly finished dinner and drove away into the night. Then I walked back – if you're a Community Pasta Detective the night is young when there's still some unfinished noodle business…
The Wancid Wok had closed down just before Christmas. Everybody congratulated me, thinking that my persistent Low Mien Litigation had eventually won through. But this is a tough game – even a successful prosecution under The Health and Pasta Equality Act, 1987, doesn't necessarily mean the end of a shady food business.
Only a handful of us knew the real truth– the Wancid Wok had been closed down by the Indian River Triad for bourgeois tendencies! The owners had been seduced by the very Western Monopoly Capitalism that they were sent here to undermine! They sold out. Then Sin Lo and his friends were sent home for 're-education'.
Now he was back. And up to no good.
I disguised myself as a drunk by pulling my tie out and acting incoherently. Then, I staggered around the back of Dr Pepperoni's. Three guys were shoveling sand into wheelbarrows.
Slowly, silently, it all went black.
When I came round I was tied to a chair.
"We meet again, Misher Chianti!"
"I know everything, Sin Lo, your little game is up… " I bluffed.
"Then you know all American pasta is being diverted to further the gleat plan…"
"I know everything, Sin Lo, you worm!"
Being tied up, I resorted to verbal abuse.
"So you know about the ships dumping pasta three miles off Velo Beach?"
"Pasta?" I shivered at the waste.
"It doesn't matter, as you are going to die anyway, I tell you the lest of the story…
“You familiar Sargasso Sea? Well, soon become Semolina Sea! So far we dump ten million tons of glound-up pasta off Velo Beach… when it leaches critical mass – about eighteen mirrion tons – it turn to Jello and block off Gulf Stream. Without Gulf Stream, Europe fleeze solid.”
"Your wicked scheme will never work, Sin Lo!" I barked defiantly.
"Au contlaire, Misher Chianti, you find out hard way! You soon be glound up and dumped in sea with pasta! By Chlistmas, Flance completely flozen! Gleat Blitain glind to halt! Then we take over! We lun whole of Eulope!"
"You'll never get away with this, Sin Lo…" I sneered at His Noodleness.
"First, we ploduce documentation showing Statue of Riberty was really on loan – it long overdue, and fine now 1,000 pairs of Levis a day. Then we demand United States return Scott Key back to Flance, its lightful owner. Or we start World War Thlee…"
"Scott Key?" I queried.
"You never hear of Flance's Scott Key? You iriot, what you do in school? Well, histolically, Flance is lightful owner of Scott Key, little island you call Manhattan… but it not size that important, it plinciple... "
“Also, we ban vicious, lacist plopaganda – no more ploductions of Madame Butterfry or Mikado. Soon world donimation, ha, ha... "
Four skinny waiters threw me in the back of the truck, his manic laughter still ringing in my ears. And then it rained pulverized pasta.
I only found out later what happened. Apparently the driver of the pasta truck had seen a Police car, panicked and driven straight off the Wabasso causeway. Bang – twelve tons of minced macaroni and one Undercover Pasta Private Eye hit the river.
Marine Patrol picked me up Wednesday as I drifted out Sebastian Inlet, "Where is your Personal Flotation Device?" They charged me with various maritime offences including failing to posses a fishing pole, using an expired CB Handle and having no canned alphabetti emergency rations.
Detective Inspector “Raving” Ravioli bailed me out. At first no one at the Serious Pasta Crimes Squad HQ believed me. One by one they remembered recent grim pasta portion experiences, and, to cut a long story short, Sin Lo and his skinny henchmen are now doing time.
Well, amazing but true, and it can only have happened here. That’s about it for this month’s update from the Wabasso Triangle.
Anthony Chianti, Indian River Community Pasta Detective, signing off.
© 1999 Pastarology