The Later Journeys - 25: Dinner With a Side of Racism
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Ben apparently enjoyed a restful nap. He retired to his room after a relatively light lunch and stayed there for a couple of hours. I should have done the same. Instead, it was at my body clock’s personal ebb tide when Ben emerged, smiling, and said he was eager to resume our studies.
He had questions about everything. As before, he was really intrigued by restaurants. On the front page of the advertising circular he’d looked at was an ad for a place called El Sombrero, a couple of towns over. Ben wanted to know more about Mexico and why so many people seemed to like food that originated there. I called Trevor in to assist, and he did a beautiful job of filling Ben in on Mexico’s relationship with Spain (which would have been current during the American Revolution) and key developments since then.
“When we get back to history, which will be soon, we’ll talk about the Louisiana Purchase in 1803. A huge amount of what you see on that map of yours began with it. Mexico’s a pretty big part of that.”
“Why is Mexican food popular? It must have unique qualities.” He peered at the illustration of fajitas, asking for information about tortillas and the basket of triangular chips shown next to a dish of salsa.
“Yeah, it’s pretty unique, Ben. And now you’ve gone and gotten me hungry. I know you enjoyed the food Gerry brought.”
“Italian, yes? It was sublime. Especially the...peet-sa.” His careful pronunciation drew an affectionate laugh from us. We knew "Italian" cuisine, as it had evolved, bore little or no resemblance to anything Ben might have experienced in Europe.
“Mexican cuisine is the second most popular type of food in this country. Italian is the third,” Trevor said, and waited.
“And the...first? Most popular?” asked Ben.
“Chinese.”
Ben raised his eyebrows. “Really? I know so little about China. It appears our ports have opened, then.”
“It’s a long history, like just about everything else,” conceded Trevor. “But as for the food, Cantonese was the variety Americans were familiar with, until around the late 1960s, when restaurants featuring Szechuan and Hunan cuisine started popping up. Spicier food. China’s a huge place with dozens of ethnic subgroups. We’ll definitely introduce you to a lot of it. There is no shortage of Chinese restaurants in New Jersey. Or anywhere else in the U.S., really -- though the quality is much better in some places than others.”
“That’s for sure,” I said, remembering some places I’d visited in the south.
“So, Ben, if you’re interested, we can order Mexican food for dinner tonight.”
Ben was always interested when it came to food. Trevor consulted Warren. The three of us decided to check out the offer from El Sombrero and order a variety of standard offerings so that we could mix and match. Trevor took Warren’s Nissan. In the fading daylight, we saw him sitting at the wheel, tapping the screen on his cell phone, undoubtedly placing the order online.
“Is he ‘phoning it in?’” asked Ben.
“In a way,” I replied. “I’m sure I mentioned that cell phones can do much more than just function as telephones. They are actually computers, which offer a different way to communicate.”
“I see,” said Ben, though he most likely did not. “Gerry also mentioned computers. They are different, then, from radios and telephones?”
Warren and I looked at each other and sighed. Where to begin?
“Computers combine many functions. A good, powerful computer can eliminate the need for books, maps, mail, cash money, or even personal association."
"Which comes in very handy at times," I added, remembering ten years previously, when the whole country had been getting used to Zoom meetings and delivery orders left on doorsteps. A time nobody felt nostalgic for.
Warren got my meaning and nodded, without comment. "They’ve been around since the early 19th century, but it took a very long time for all the science and theory to be shared, and for the reality to catch up with the possibility. One small innovation after another eventually led to what we have today.”
Ben gazed around the study. “Are you saying that if not for my presence here, there would be no books or maps in this house?”
“Great question, Ben,” I said. “No. People still read paper books. Some people dislike computers very much. While they can do a lot of things, we still mostly have a choice of whether to interact with them.”
“I see. How does a computer take the place of money?”
Another look was exchanged as we thought about the best way to explain it. Warren stared out the window, thinking, as Trevor headed down the driveway toward the road.
“A bank will usually be able to give you cash money if you have funds in an account. But there are channels between banks and merchants, whereby if you were to give them a set of numbers that correspond to your account, they can transfer the desired amount of money electronically, so that cash isn’t needed. That’s what Trevor was doing just now. He may have phoned the restaurant and given them an account number, but more likely he tapped the numbers onto his cellphone screen, and they were received by the restaurant. So that when he arrives there, they will have had time to process the transaction -- which takes just a few moments -- prepared the food and have it ready for him.”
“Does this system ever fail?” Ben asked.
“All the time,” I responded immediately.
Warren smiled. “Well, not all the time, I suppose...but there are steps in each transaction where something can go wrong. Sometimes the transmission fails. There could be a power outage somewhere so that the restaurant doesn’t get the order. Sometimes the person placing the order gets their account number wrong. There’s plenty of human error and bad customer service. We haven’t found a way to cure that.”
“And sometimes stores and restaurants advertise things they don’t actually have. Like this restaurant Trevor’s going to could run out of something he ordered. One time,” I said, looking at Warren “I walked into White Castle and ordered a sack of burgers. They told me they were out of ketchup. What idiot at White Castle dropped the ball on ordering ketchup?” Warren and I laughed about it.
Ben smiled. “Ah - ketchup. A most pleasing condiment. The one I am most familiar with contained oysters, white wine and lemon peels, flavored with mace and cloves.”
That got a laugh from Warren and me. “Yes, we have heard that ketchup has gone through a lot of variations since it was first introducted in America. But nowadays it’s made from tomatoes and vinegar. What you describe sounds a little more like A-1 sauce.”
“Ah,” replied Ben, and I just knew this information would make its way into his notebook. I made sure to put ketchup on my next shopping list so he could try it. And A-1 as well.
We passed the time talking about the different types of cuisine that Ben was likely to encounter in the coming weeks.
“Of course, there’s also American cuisine,” said Warren. “But I don’t know if there’s any one type of food that really personifies it. I think that varies from region to region. Like fried chicken is especially popular in the south. In your town, Philadelphia, cheesesteak sandwiches are legendary.”
“Cheesesteak...” Ben mused, trying to visualize it.
“What it sounds like, Ben. We’ll get you some of those, too. We can make it at home. Plenty of things we can make at home, actually,” I said.
About forty minutes after he’d left, Trevor returned home. Immediately behind him was another car, and when we saw from the light bar on top and the ram on the grille that it was the police, Warren and I went to the door and opened it.
We watched Trevor climb out of the car, slowly close and lock the door, and take his time walking back to the house with the large carry-bag from El Sombrero.
We had a hunch as to what was going on, so as soon as Trevor crossed the threshold, I pasted a welcoming smile on my face, and Warren clapped him on the back. Then for good measure, I offered whoever was driving the other car, a big, friendly wave.
Trevor was not smiling. He looked extremely tense. Before we closed the door, we saw the police cruiser back out of the driveway and turn back down the road at a leisurely pace. Then the revolving lights came on, the driver accelerated and quickly disappeared from view.
We took the bags of food and spread them out on the kitchen table. We were back to taking our meals in that less formal setting. Ben set about opening bags and arranging place settings.
“You okay?” I asked Trevor.
“Yeah,” he said, subdued. He looked off into the distance and shook his head as if to clear it, and gestured toward the bag. “Well, there you go. Enjoy,” he said.
“Wait,” said Warren, with an edge to his voice. “What happened?”
Trevor didn’t answer immediately. Warren nodded toward the table and Trevor sat down, absently pulling off his jacket.
“Well.” he said quietly. “Glad there’s a shitload of other Mexican restaurants around here.”
“What’d they do?”
“They had my order -- I went to their app. Ordered all this,” he said, gesturing. “They had my credit card number. I added a tip. Everything was fine when I checked out. But when I got there...”
We waited.
“You know those Westerns where a guy walks into the saloon and all the conversation stops? Soon as I walked in the door, I felt it.”
“Shit,” I said.
“You would think none of these people had ever seen a black person. This is fucking Jersey!”
We felt the tension coming off him. Ben was listening, beginning to grasp what Trevor had experienced.
“They asked to see my credit card, and my I.D.”
“Oh no!”
“Oh yeah. The food was there, all bagged and ready to go. Good thing. If not, I’da been worried about someone spitting in it. Or maybe they’d tell me the stove quit working, or....
“So I got my phone out and showed them the screen with the order I’d placed -- it said “Thank you Trevor,” so I guess they didn’t quite have the nerve to demand anything else of me. I got out of there as fast as I could. Got in the car, headed back, thought maybe I’d stop off and pick up some margarita mix and tequila. But after I saw the blue lights in the mirror, there was no way I was going to a liquor store or anywhere except here.”
“You got pulled over?”
“Sure did. Driving While Black, you know. He ran the tag, looked at my license, asked me why the car wasn’t registered to me, the whole deal. Took his sweet time. At least the insurance and registration were current. But that’s why I got the escort home. Couldn’t wait to see what would happen next, but I guess when they saw you two at the door...”
“Yeah,” said Warren. “Probably got a call for something important, ‘cause he left in a hurry after you came in.”
“Still got an appetite?” I asked, having a feeling that none of us did now, except for perhaps Ben.
“I’ll eat. Margaritas would have helped, though.”
I could tell Warren was incensed. “Ben,” he said “Would you be interested in delaying dinner long enough to accompany me to one or two local establishments?”
Ben responded with enthusiasm and I was reminded that he hadn’t left the farm since our short coach excursion to the Flatiron Inn.
“Warren, be careful. You know Ben has no ID yet,” I said.
“Don’t worry,” said Warren. “I’m not even sure what I’m gonna do. But Dr. Montgomery is going to have his margarita, that’s for damn sure! C’mon, Ben.”
Once again, I was watching out the window. Warren was showing Ben how to buckle his seatbelt. After a moment or two, they drove off.
“I am so sorry,” I said to Trevor.
“You didn’t do it,” he responded. “But you’d better believe I’m going to get the word out.”
“Sure.” Thought about it. “To whom?”
“Well,” he said, “Everybody I know who might pass this way -- Gerry’s good. And I can call in a favor or two with my friends in the news media. Word does get around. Very quickly.”
News media. I reached out and seized Trevor’s hand. “News media. I know someone who would probably just love to get involved with something like that.”
Trevor looked at me with his tired eyes.
“Someone who was -- is -- never at a loss for words, Trev.” I smiled.
He did too, after a moment. Slowly, we unwrapped the food and started putting it in order. Our appetites were coming back.
Ben gazed around the study. “Are you saying that if not for my presence here, there would be no books or maps in this house?”
“Great question, Ben,” I said. “No. People still read paper books. Some people dislike computers very much. While they can do a lot of things, we still mostly have a choice of whether to interact with them.”
“I see. How does a computer take the place of money?”
Another look was exchanged as we thought about the best way to explain it. Warren stared out the window, thinking, as Trevor headed down the driveway toward the road.
“A bank will usually be able to give you cash money if you have funds in an account. But there are channels between banks and merchants, whereby if you were to give them a set of numbers that correspond to your account, they can transfer the desired amount of money electronically, so that cash isn’t needed. That’s what Trevor was doing just now. He may have phoned the restaurant and given them an account number, but more likely he tapped the numbers onto his cellphone screen, and they were received by the restaurant. So that when he arrives there, they will have had time to process the transaction -- which takes just a few moments -- prepared the food and have it ready for him.”
“Does this system ever fail?” Ben asked.
“All the time,” I responded immediately.
Warren smiled. “Well, not all the time, I suppose...but there are steps in each transaction where something can go wrong. Sometimes the transmission fails. There could be a power outage somewhere so that the restaurant doesn’t get the order. Sometimes the person placing the order gets their account number wrong. There’s plenty of human error and bad customer service. We haven’t found a way to cure that.”
“And sometimes stores and restaurants advertise things they don’t actually have. Like this restaurant Trevor’s going to could run out of something he ordered. One time,” I said, looking at Warren “I walked into White Castle and ordered a sack of burgers. They told me they were out of ketchup. What idiot at White Castle dropped the ball on ordering ketchup?” Warren and I laughed about it.
Ben smiled. “Ah - ketchup. A most pleasing condiment. The one I am most familiar with contained oysters, white wine and lemon peels, flavored with mace and cloves.”
That got a laugh from Warren and me. “Yes, we have heard that ketchup has gone through a lot of variations since it was first introducted in America. But nowadays it’s made from tomatoes and vinegar. What you describe sounds a little more like A-1 sauce.”
“Ah,” replied Ben, and I just knew this information would make its way into his notebook. I made sure to put ketchup on my next shopping list so he could try it. And A-1 as well.
We passed the time talking about the different types of cuisine that Ben was likely to encounter in the coming weeks.
“Of course, there’s also American cuisine,” said Warren. “But I don’t know if there’s any one type of food that really personifies it. I think that varies from region to region. Like fried chicken is especially popular in the south. In your town, Philadelphia, cheesesteak sandwiches are legendary.”
“Cheesesteak...” Ben mused, trying to visualize it.
“What it sounds like, Ben. We’ll get you some of those, too. We can make it at home. Plenty of things we can make at home, actually,” I said.
About forty minutes after he’d left, Trevor returned home. Immediately behind him was another car, and when we saw from the light bar on top and the ram on the grille that it was the police, Warren and I went to the door and opened it.
We watched Trevor climb out of the car, slowly close and lock the door, and take his time walking back to the house with the large carry-bag from El Sombrero.
We had a hunch as to what was going on, so as soon as Trevor crossed the threshold, I pasted a welcoming smile on my face, and Warren clapped him on the back. Then for good measure, I offered whoever was driving the other car, a big, friendly wave.
Trevor was not smiling. He looked extremely tense. Before we closed the door, we saw the police cruiser back out of the driveway and turn back down the road at a leisurely pace. Then the revolving lights came on, the driver accelerated and quickly disappeared from view.
We took the bags of food and spread them out on the kitchen table. We were back to taking our meals in that less formal setting. Ben set about opening bags and arranging place settings.
“You okay?” I asked Trevor.
“Yeah,” he said, subdued. He looked off into the distance and shook his head as if to clear it, and gestured toward the bag. “Well, there you go. Enjoy,” he said.
“Wait,” said Warren, with an edge to his voice. “What happened?”
Trevor didn’t answer immediately. Warren nodded toward the table and Trevor sat down, absently pulling off his jacket.
“Well.” he said quietly. “Glad there’s a shitload of other Mexican restaurants around here.”
“What’d they do?”
“They had my order -- I went to their app. Ordered all this,” he said, gesturing. “They had my credit card number. I added a tip. Everything was fine when I checked out. But when I got there...”
We waited.
“You know those Westerns where a guy walks into the saloon and all the conversation stops? Soon as I walked in the door, I felt it.”
“Shit,” I said.
“You would think none of these people had ever seen a black person. This is fucking Jersey!”
We felt the tension coming off him. Ben was listening, beginning to grasp what Trevor had experienced.
“They asked to see my credit card, and my I.D.”
“Oh no!”
“Oh yeah. The food was there, all bagged and ready to go. Good thing. If not, I’da been worried about someone spitting in it. Or maybe they’d tell me the stove quit working, or....
“So I got my phone out and showed them the screen with the order I’d placed -- it said “Thank you Trevor,” so I guess they didn’t quite have the nerve to demand anything else of me. I got out of there as fast as I could. Got in the car, headed back, thought maybe I’d stop off and pick up some margarita mix and tequila. But after I saw the blue lights in the mirror, there was no way I was going to a liquor store or anywhere except here.”
“You got pulled over?”
“Sure did. Driving While Black, you know. He ran the tag, looked at my license, asked me why the car wasn’t registered to me, the whole deal. Took his sweet time. At least the insurance and registration were current. But that’s why I got the escort home. Couldn’t wait to see what would happen next, but I guess when they saw you two at the door...”
“Yeah,” said Warren. “Probably got a call for something important, ‘cause he left in a hurry after you came in.”
“Still got an appetite?” I asked, having a feeling that none of us did now, except for perhaps Ben.
“I’ll eat. Margaritas would have helped, though.”
I could tell Warren was incensed. “Ben,” he said “Would you be interested in delaying dinner long enough to accompany me to one or two local establishments?”
Ben responded with enthusiasm and I was reminded that he hadn’t left the farm since our short coach excursion to the Flatiron Inn.
“Warren, be careful. You know Ben has no ID yet,” I said.
“Don’t worry,” said Warren. “I’m not even sure what I’m gonna do. But Dr. Montgomery is going to have his margarita, that’s for damn sure! C’mon, Ben.”
Once again, I was watching out the window. Warren was showing Ben how to buckle his seatbelt. After a moment or two, they drove off.
“I am so sorry,” I said to Trevor.
“You didn’t do it,” he responded. “But you’d better believe I’m going to get the word out.”
“Sure.” Thought about it. “To whom?”
“Well,” he said, “Everybody I know who might pass this way -- Gerry’s good. And I can call in a favor or two with my friends in the news media. Word does get around. Very quickly.”
News media. I reached out and seized Trevor’s hand. “News media. I know someone who would probably just love to get involved with something like that.”
Trevor looked at me with his tired eyes.
“Someone who was -- is -- never at a loss for words, Trev.” I smiled.
He did too, after a moment. Slowly, we unwrapped the food and started putting it in order. Our appetites were coming back.
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