Yes, it’s me, not just sitting in a vegetarian restaurant, but actually having lunch in one. I'm not here by choice, at least my choice. This is day twenty-nine of a fifty-six day liver-cleansing diet and I'm hurting big time. My being in this place is like a Protestant Church Minister golfing on Sunday. And the menu board; lots to choose from, but none of it contains even a minimum of the RDA of grease.
Looking at my plate, I observe a variety of vegetation that cows, rabbits and deer would drool over. Not for me, I feel like I’ve sold my hunting birthright for a mess of pottage. Poking morosely through the salad in the slim hope of locating a wayward caterpillar, I thought jealously of Noah, and all those tasty animals he had on board. He didn't just have venison he had a pair of venison, on the hoof of course. Pulling all I can from that vision I set mental eyes on buffalo burgers, elephant steaks, wild pork chops, loin of lion all the way up to zebra roasts.
Even the atmosphere is weird here, for an ex-army ground pounder. At the doorway is a petition against war, a variety of alternative newspapers clutter empty tables, mystical art work adorns the walls and semi-meditation music seeps out of concealed speakers, lulling us, no doubt, into thinking that we were actually eating real food.
Hunger, along with the kind words of my liver-specialist Doctor, has driven me here. He has stated clearly that I would be highly regarded in the areas of France where much planning and preparation goes into the development of livers such as mine. Unfortunately, the owners of said livers are short-lived geese, destined for the pate-loving taste buds of gourmands.
As I chow down on lettuce I close my eyes and think of KFC. You know what those initials usually mean, but for me they now say "Keep Fats Clear".
As I write this confession and graze on my Jamaican veggie delight, I watched other diners charge in. None of them look as if they'd just come from the doctor, nor are they eating at gunpoint.
Even the Buddha statue looming over my shoulder is a slender figurine, who I'm convinced is mindfully contemplating a dish of barbecued pork ribs and a super sized order of fries, smothered in gravy.
The meal is nearly done and tasted surprisingly good. As my stomach settled into a feeling of fullness, I righteously lean back in my booth, let slip a non-menacing burp and admire my empty plate.
All is peaceful; the pre-lunch desire to eat a raw steer has subsided. The folks in the dining area, no longer masquerading as a hippie-weirdos, or dope-smoking, peace-monitoring fanatics look to me to be almost beatific. Even the guy in the scarlet-dyed Afro has taken on the appearance of a kindly uncle.
My last piece of corn bread gobbled, I can proudly re-enter the wet streets of Victoria knowing that if it wasn't for my leather shoes and my fur-lined Joe Boxer's, I would be a Vegan.
