By: Kent McCarty
Dysfunction Junction chronicles the unfortunate strings of events that plague my life. Everything below is true, and that’s what’s scary.
Disclaimer: To avoid any law suits, I will refrain from mentioning the name of any business mentioned below; though slandering their name across the land does sound fun right about now.
I’ve never had a big problem with bugs. When I see a bug on the ground, I step on it. The bug is dead. Game over. But while bugs on the ground are no big deal, a bug in my food is a problem I can’t easily get passed.
The day before the incident, my mom had promised us a trip to our favorite steakhouse as long as we would all find something to eat at home that night. Being the lover of steak that I am, I agreed to scrounge out something from the pantry, deciding on a classic peanut butter sandwich. The next day, I opted out of the school cafeteria lunch of a chili dog, and, though I was very hungry throughout the day, I kept telling myself it would all be ok since a wonderful feast was awaiting me at supper.
When my mom and family arrived at home with our food from the restaurant (we ordered our food to-go), I was on the verge of starvation. I immediately pulled my meal–a salad, a steak, and a potato–out of the to-go bag and opened my salad. Right before I plunged my fork into the lettuce, I caught a little flicker of motion out of the corner of my eye. Upon further inspection, I realized that the bit of movement I saw was coming from a living, or half-living, creature; a roach, to be exact. Of course, I didn’t believe what I was seeing. I tried to tell myself it was an olive, or a raisin, or even an unidentified piece of trash, but no, it was definitely a roach. I looked to my mom with a concerned face and told her that my food was contaminated; I was trying to be subtle because I knew if I made a scene my younger sister would never quit talking about it. My mom, however, didn’t pick up on the subtlety and announced to everyone that a bug had made its home among the lettuce and cucumbers. Of course we threw the salad away, and I couldn’t even bring myself to eat the potato; when I got done searching through it for other signs of uninvited guests it just didn’t look too appetizing. I did, however, reluctantly eat the steak, all the while fearing that a worm or snake was going to crawl out of it.
After nearly 30 minutes of discussion with the restaurant’s managament, we realized the conversation was going nowhere. They, of course, had a predisposition to deny any accusations of unappealing additions to entrees, and since our order was to-go, they decided we had no concrete proof. It was at this point that we vowed never to eat there again. It’s been a month since roachgate, but I can safely say that our family hasn’t been back, which is saying something considering we ate there at least once a week B.C. (before cockroach).
