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.

Why I Hate Dating

There are plenty of reasons to hate dating. It is time-consuming, expensive, and most of the time proves to be fruitless. My biggest fear about dating is the first disappointment—whether it's disappointment in my date or theirs in me—typically it's the latter.

Like most of us, I've had my share of horrendous dates. Few are so scarring that you remember them years after the fact. My worst one started out so good and went downhill so fast that it felt like a bad dream. It was like I was watching some sitcom and the poor schmuck dating is all giddy with hope and then the date says or does something so heinous that it comes crashing to a halt.

I met Noah at a coffee shop while I was waiting for an interview to start. I arrived too early and didn't want to be rude so I decided to kill time with a tea. I walked into a Starbucks and was waiting in a long line when Noah walked in behind me. It began with an off-hand comment about how the lines here are always long. It ended with him buying my tea and sitting at a table with me. He was clearly interested in more and I was completely in shock. I'm not the kind of beauty that often gets hit on in public and certainly not in daylight. Before I had to go to my interview he asked me for my phone number. I wrote it down on a napkin for him, with "Joshua" above it. I don't know why I wrote "Joshua" instead of "Josh". I blame never being asked for my phone number before for not knowing how to handle the situation.

The very next day, Noah called. I almost thought it was a prank. A handsome, gentleman caller was calling ME the DAY AFTER meeting. No 3-day rule or game playing or googling me and finding out that I write a stupid blog and am practically a mental patient. He even wanted to see me again after our phone conversation (I give TERRIBLE phone and am incredibly awkward) which went like this:

Noah: Hi, it's Noah from Starbucks yesterday. How did your interview go?

Me: Is this a prank call? I swear to God if you're one of my asshole friends pretending to be the coffee shop guy I'll hunt you down, slit your throat, and shit down your neck.

Noah: Excuse me?

Me: It's really the coffee shop guy?

Noah: Yes. It's Noah. I was wondering if you'd like to do dinner sometime and what your availability—

Me: YES!

Noah: Okay... that's good... and when are you free?

Me: ANYTIME! I mean... I don't have that job yet so my schedule is pretty open. I mean except for Tuesday night because I have to watch the West Wing and Gilmore Girls... but I mean I could always tape it if it was important. I still have a vcr. Tivo is kind of expensive and I hate Comcast so I try to limit their services. Aren't they the worst? I mean my internet always stops working and when you call them they're all like 'We can come next Friday between 10 a.m. and 3 p.m.' and I'm all like 'You're damn lucky I don't have a job or I'd be so pissed off right now.'

Noah: Yeah... Comcast is the worst... so what kind of food do you like?

Me: LOBSTER! I'm just kidding. Isn't that what the person getting the free meal is supposed to ask for? I was only kidding. Not that I don't like lobster. It's good. Uh... I'm sorry, I'm just nervous. I don't get many phone calls from strangers. Not strangers! I mean like strange guys... guys that ask me out.

Noah: Do you like French cuisine?

Me: I'm not sure. I've never had it. When I was younger there was this bully who used to give me a 'french crépe' which consisted of him wrapping his fist in a plastic bag and trying to get me to eat it at recess. But I'm guessing that doesn't count?

Noah: Do you like French wines?

Me: I'm not sure if I've ever had one. Most of the wine I've drank have been out of a jug that says 'Paisano' or 'Riunite'.

Noah: Ok. Why don't I introduce you to French then? I think you'll like it if you enjoyed that tea yesterday.

Me: You remembered what I was drinking? You're really nice.

Noah: You must know how attractive you are.

Me: I... You're... Thank you.

Noah: So how does tomorrow night sound for dinner? I'll call you beforehand with the address and time once I make a reservation.

Me: That sounds great. Thanks Noah. I'm really glad you called.

Noah: Me too. I'll see you tomorrow cutie.

I was elated the rest of the night and the following day. I called everyone I ever knew and told them all about my upcoming date and how some handsome stranger thought I was a "cutie." Before I'd even had my first date with Noah, my friends and family were sick of him.

Panic set in about 2 hours before the allotted date time. I didn't know what to wear. He'd seen me in my only interview outfit the other day. Anything else I put on just made me look homeless and pale. I settled on my best cardigan with funky houndstooth pants. On my train ride over to the french bistro, I heard another passenger whisper "70's porn star" to her friend while looking at me.

When I arrived Noah was already in the lobby, looking incredibly dapper in a suit jacket with a new haircut and trimmed beard. I gave him a big hug, a kiss on the cheek, and he took my arm and ushered me to our table. He helped me take off my jacket and even pulled out my chair for me. I thought I might faint. Guys did that in the movies for glamorous women, guys didn't do nice stuff like that for other guys—let alone a disheveled looking ragamuffin.

Noah ordered a bottle of wine for us, helped me translate the fancy menu, and then ordered for us. The waitress returned with a beautiful bottle of wine, poured us both a glass, and we toasted to our chance encounter. We talked for a few minutes and he even seemed to enjoy my stupid sense of humor. In the beautiful restaurant with shimmering candles and a single chandelier providing the only lighting, the scene took on a magical quality. I was completely smitten and swooning when he looked up from his glass and asked:

"So... where do you go to Temple?"

Confused, but not thinking anything of it, I replied "I don't go to any temples."

"Oh." He said, "So you're a bad Jew?"

"No." I replied. "I'm a no Jew."

"You're not Jewish at all?" He asked, incredulous.

"No... Why would you think that?" I asked.

He hesitated, unsure of his words. I knew something awful and insidious was coming but I wasn't prepared for exactly what it was.

"Well... your name for one thing... it's a very Jewish name."

"It's a biblical name." I said non-chalantly. "Not specifically Jewish. My parents aren't religious at all. They just liked the name."

He continued. "And... well... to be honest... with a nose like that, I just assumed..."

"A nose like what?" I said much more shrilly than I'd hoped.

"It's just... it's a very Jewish nose..." He said sheepishly. "Anyways, Judaism plays an important part in my life. I only date Jewish boys... I'm sorry if I've misled you."

"Oh." I said, still in shock. "Well I'm sorry if I've misled YOU with my giant, hideous nose!"

"It's my fault." He said blushing slightly. "I shouldn't have assumed... I can't believe I'm the first person to tell you this though..."

"Well you ARE the first person to tell me this." I huffed.

"Maybe we should call it a night. Can I get you a cab?" He asked.

"No thanks. my nose might not fit in the backseat."

The long train ride home I spent touching my face, feeling around my nose, closing my eyes and pretending to be blind, learning my own face strictly through its contour. It didn't seem particularly big to me, but the more I touched it, the more gargantuan and grotesque it felt on my face. Other passengers started to look at the ill-dressed boy fondling his own face as silent tears trickled down.

When I got home, my roommate asked me what happened and why I was home before eight o'clock. I ignored her and went straight to the bathroom mirror. I stared at my hideous, ruinous, date-crushing, false-heritage nose. I pictured a plastic surgeon cutting into it to remove some cartilage.

"I'm sorry Joshua, I don't have a knife big enough for this job. And we may have to remove the excess cartilage in installments. I've never seen anything like this."

My earlier excitement about my date had completely betrayed me. Before bed I was flooded with phone calls, all wondering how my perfect date had gone and when was the wedding? Several times I had to recount the story of my mammoth nose and how appallingly bad the evening had gone.

To this day, I don't pass a mirror without looking at my nose in profile—a twisted Pinocchio look-alike. I also don't flirt with any strange men without first introducing myself by saying "Hello. My name is Josh. I'm agnostic. Nice to meet you."