Some words make me wildly uncomfortable. I guess this is true with all people. Say the word “utensil” around my mother and she’ll throw something at you. I’ve got a million of these words and I’ve found as soon as I admit to one, it’s used again me relentlessly.
Kelsey, Mikey and I went to a late dinner at Pluto’s last night. Mike ordered the Tri-tip sandwich, au jus.
“What’s that sauce?” asked Kelsey, pointing to Mike’s plate.
“Don’t say it!” I screamed. “I fucking hate that word.”
“What word?” Mike looked up. “Au Jus?”
“Oh my god, ewww.”
Kelsey laughed. “Why do you hate au jus?”
“Because.” I said, as Mikey took a bite. “It’s like blood juice.”
“Au Juuuus. I like saying it.”
“I’m not understanding what’s wrong with au jus.”
“Keep antagonizing me. Watch what happens.”
Back and forth they went, in some kind of vaudevillian routine in which they each word “au jus” into seemingly unrelated sentences, culminating with Mikey’s hit, “I’m not Catholic. I’m au jus.”
“Oh my god, you guys are assholes.”
“I like au jus. I like eating au jus. I like saying au jus...”
Kelsey looked at him. “Do you like drinking au jus?”
“Oh my god. Kelsey, don’t.”
“I dare you to drink your au jus.”
Well now he had to. “Michael, that’s blood sauce.”
“It’s like pan drippings.”
“People, let’s call it what it is.“ They both turned to me. “AU JUS!”
Mikey examined his little bowl of au jus, sniffing it, considering the consequences.
Kelsey could barely contain her excitement. “Beth, pull out your camera! Mike, pose with the au jus! Get a pose shot, then a drinking shot. Oh, this is fucking awesome. Chug the AU JUS!”
He knocked his head back and downed the au jus, choking as he looked back at us.
“Oh my god, I owe you a drink. I can’t believe you did that.”
“Uh, I need some water or something to push that shit down.”
“Go get some.” Sighed Kelsey. “And get me something fried and greasy while you’re up there.”
We looked across the restaurant and noticed that the couple next to Mike was getting ready to go, leaving a barely touched plate of spectacular seasoned curly fries.
“Um, you guys. Check out those fries. Those people are abandoning them.”
“We can’t take them.”
“Why not?” I asked. “That couple looked clean.”
“They do look pretty good.”
“Seriously. But I’m not taking them.”
“Mike, just grab ‘em.”
“Ugh, no. I’m scared.”
With that, 2 poorly dressed bike messengers swooped by and grabbed it, non-challantly bringing it back to THEIR table.
“Those losers stole our fries!”
“Oh my god, now I really want them.”
I was shocked at their moxie. “Now that other people have taken them, I’m convinced how totally harmless they are. Suddenly, I feel that my fries have been stolen. God, we should’ve taken them.”
“I know!” Mike said. “We should walk over there claim them back.”
“Oh, forget it, guys. Let’s go to the bar next door.” Kelsey said, as she put on her coat. “We don’t have any more au jus sauce to dip them in anyway…”