The Bloomin' Onion

Anyone who's had the Bloomin' Onion from the Outback Steakhouse knows well its fried clarion call.

If it weren't for this, Outback Steakhouse would be nothing. A nonentity. The steak is crap. The food all has the same salty-peppery seasoning. The drinks are watered down. The waitstaff is overly-friendly and annoying. It is my belief that the Bloomin' Onion is single-handedly keeping the place afloat. If they were to close down their entire operation and instead have a Bloomin' Onion kiosk, they would do just as well, if not better. But, I digress.

The Bloomin' Onion is solely responsible for my very first date experience. The date that set the bar so low, that all dates after it were a smashing success. I first met Steve online via gay.com. I was 16 years old. He was 20 and in community college. I didn't even have a car or license yet, so like a gentleman he picked me up at my parent's house (they loved that, by the way). He asked me where I'd like to go for dinner. I replied with the response I gave my parents whenever they asked me—Outback Steakhouse. We drove 30 minutes to the nearest Outback. On the way I was incredibly nervous, so I did what I always do when nervous—tell wildly inappropriate jokes and stories, then laugh so hard I snort. The first time I exploded in cackle-snorts I thought he was going to drive off the road. I could see the shock and horror written on his face, but couldn't seem to keep my mouth shut. I kept filling the silence with bawdy, unflattering stories. Each one was received with more terror than the last. To Steve's credit, he did have the courtesy to fake a smile.

When we arrived at Outback Steakhouse in Tyngsboro, MA there was a 30 minute wait.

"Do you mind waiting a little bit for a table?" He asked me.

"I'm starving. Let's just sit at the bar." I urged.

"Oh... okay... are you sure you don't want to wait for a private table?" He coaxed.

"Nah. Let's just sit at the bar. I see some empty stools next to that old couple." I pointed.

"Umm... it's a little loud over there. Are you sure you don't want to wait?" He practically begged to deaf ears.

"I don't mind a little noise. Let's go eat!" I led him over to the crowded bar area and perched happily on a stool.

We were greeted cheerfully by the bartender who took our drink order.

"Have you boys been here before?" A waitress asked, siddling up next to us and handing us menus.

"I've never been--" Steve started to reply.

"Oh my god, yes! My parents and I come here all the time. In fact, I don't even need a menu." I interrupted loudly, pushing the menu back at her.

"Well that's great. Welcome back." She smiled at me, then turned to Steve apologetically, "I'll just give you a few minutes to look over the menu then."

"Wow... you really like this place huh?" Steve asked.

"Not really. There's just one thing I like here." I chirped while sucking down my soda.

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"The Bloomin' Onion. Oh my god it's so good. It's like this onion the size of a coconut, all cut up into slivers and deep fried and it comes with this spicy, tangy sauce thing in the middle. It's amazing." I said with lots of hand gesturing.

"That does sound pretty good." He said looking at the menu. "Oh, it's an appetizer? Shall we split it then?"

"Oh no." I replied wide-eyed. "I get it as my meal. You can get your own though... if you want."

"Oh." Disappointment was evident in his face and voice, but it went unnoticed.

After we placed our orders, we sat mostly in silence—me not knowing what to say—he probably not wanting to say anything. We picked at the free loaf of bread speared with a steak knife at the table.

Ten years later, the waitress returned with our meals. He ordered something sensible like steak and potatoes. It looked tough, overcooked, and over-salted. My Bloomin' Onion was emitting steam and each onion petal was perfectly fried golden and looked like something from a magazine. I could see the lust in his eyes.

"That does look really good." He said.

"Yeah. It's amazing." I slurred through a mouthful of fried heaven.

"Would you like to try any of mine?" He asked, sawing at his steak. "I'd gladly trade some steak for some onion."

"No thanks." I gurgled. "I don't really like the steak here."

"Some mashed potato?"

"No thanks. I'm happy with mine."

"That's really all you're going to eat? No meat? No vegetables?" He asked skeptical and incredulous.

"I'll see how I feel afterwards. Maybe dessert."

Concentrating solely on our food at this point, we finished in ten minutes. The waitress came over to clear our empty plates.

"Did we save room for any desse--" She turned to me and stopped, her mouth hanging open.

"What? Do I have onion on my face?" I started touching where my cheek should have been. It was about 3 inches out from where it ought to be.

"Something's wrong with your face..." Steve and the waitress said in unison.

I got up from the table and went immediately to the bathroom. There was a man washing his hands at the sink in front of the mirror. He looked up into the reflection, saw my bulbous face, looked immediately away, and made an exceptionally fast exit. I bolted over to the mirror and examined my freakish face. My cheeks looked like I was hiding golf balls in them. My lips were bigger than Angelina Jolie's. It looked like I had a severe sunburn from my eyes down to my adam's apple. My tongue hurt, so I stuck it out for inspection. It was much larger than normal and was throbbing. It literally felt heavy and clunky. I stuffed it back in my mouth with my fingers and returned to the table, hiding my face behind hands.

"I think I have to go to the hothpital." I slurred. "It hurth."

Seeing his opportunity for an early date escape, Steve offered to drive me to the nearest hospital. We left cash without getting the check and rushed out to the car. As he drove, I pulled down the visor and looked at my swollen face in the mirror and cringed.

"It's not so bad." He comforted. "I'm sure you just have an allergy and need some benadryl."

I tried not to cry, but some tears escaped down my puffy face.

"Does it hurt much?" He asked.

"Not weawy. Ith not tho bad." I managed, "But I weawy wanted detthert."

I was kidding of course, but I'm pretty sure he was appalled anyways.

He dropped me off at the emergency room entrance and told me to go inside while he found parking. When I got to the emergency front desk, the nurses were very accommodating and ushered me back to a triage room. A doctor entered the room a couple minutes later and inspected my face and mouth.

"You're having an allergic reaction. A pretty strong one. I'm giving you a cortisone injection that should relieve the swelling. What did you eat that could be causing this?"

"I think ith the bwoomin' onion" I said.

"How much of this onion did you eat?" He inquired, taking my pulse.

"Aww of it." I croaked.

"How big is it? How much onion?" He pressed.

"Wike a coconut thize."

"Oh my... with that much in your system we need to get it out of you. I'm going to give you a solution that will induce vomiting. You need to expel as much of it as you can."

I spent the next 20 minutes hurling spicy fried onion into a hospital basin. As good is it was going down, it was reversely bad coming up. A nurse made me drink a gallon of water when I was done, before I was allowed to be discharged.

When I got back out to the waiting room, there was no Steve. I asked a nurse at the front desk if she had seen anyone fitting his description. She said no. I sighed, dreading what was to come. Reluctantly, I asked her if I could use their phone. I dialed home.

"Hello?" My Mom asked sweetly.

"Hi mum. Ith Joth. I'm at the hothpital and--"

"YOU'RE WHAT?" She shouted.

"I thaid I'm at the hothpital and I need a ri--"

"WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO YOU?"

"I'm had an awwergic--"

"ARE YOU HURT? DID HE HURT YOU? WERE YOU RAPED?"

"Jethuth chritht mom! I'm fine. I need a wide home. I'll expwain in da caw."

If being ding dong ditched at a hospital emergency room wasn't evidence enough that it was not a successful date, my mother driving me home while crying was a pretty good indication. Because I was 16, a typical idiot teenager, and full of misdirected rage, I started yelling at my mother.

"Thith ith all yaw faulth!" I burst at her.

"I know. I never should have let you date."

"No! Ith that you never taw me how to date! I wath a jerk to him!"

"He left you at the hospital alone and without a ride home! He is a pig. You're sweet and too young and men are pricks. You won't be dating anymore!"

"YAW NOT THE BOTTHH OF ME!" I shrieked.

"You're right! You can date all you want! As long as they're women!"

We rode home in an angry silence. We didn't speak the rest of the night and we went to bed angry with each other. In the morning, we both apologized.

"Your face looks all better. How's your tongue?" She asked, giving me a hug.

"It feels pretty normal again."

"Why don't we go out to lunch and spend the day together?" She smiled.

"Sure." I acquiesced.

"Where would you like to go?"

"Outback Steakhou--"

"Shut the fuck up Josh!"

I love my mom.