I’m an Anglo Round-Eye. No doubt about it. There is nothing particularly exotic about my appearance, and I cannot pass for anything other than who I am (although I did once have a masseuse tell me that she was sure I had some Native American blood in me, but I think she wasn’t being completely innocent in saying so). The problem is: I don’t eat like an Anglo Round-Eye. I eat like a crazed panethnic sperm whale (I’ll wait until you’ve got a good visual. Good? Okay, let’s proceed). So…as I spend a chunk of time in restaurants all over the country - most of which cater to people other than me - I’m used to the puzzled looks, the attempts to save me, and the oftentimes very funny explanations offered. In turn, I’m always interested in how poorly the melting pot actually works: there is no expectation that I - as the aforementioned Anglo Round-Eye - would have any knowledge of, or interest in, any other experience than Whitebreadia.

Aside from my foray into chicken stuffed waterbugs last month, I’ve had two other recent experiences that have convinced me none of this is going to change. The first was in an Indonesian restaurant in Roswell, Ga. Let me repeat that, for those of you not paying attention: an Indonesian restaurant in the northern burbs of Atlanta (which, if you’re running for your atlas, is in fact, a province of Whitebreadia). I was the only Anglo Round-Eye that had been in since the place opened over a month ago. You know that classic scene where the stranger pushes through the saloon door and the place goes quiet and everybody stares, glasses halfway to mouths, cards unplayed? Yeah? Now imagine that in a strip mall in Roswell, and that they crazy old guy that always breaks the tension in the movies is instead a nice middle aged woman who asks if I didn’t mean to go into the Crazy Taco next door.

Amongst other things, I had the nasi gudeg, known amongst my people as beef skin. Half way through the meal, the cook and a waiter came over and demanded to know why I was there, and where - exactely - I had lived in Indonesia. And, by the way, how I could possibly enjoy the mounds of chilies I was going through. We had a nice chat, about the food, the business, and their prospects. In a slightly sad development, I learned that the Indonesian community - while strong - just couldn’t support the entire store, and so they were planning a lunch buffet in an effort to attract the local office lunchers. $5.95 for all the food you can eat. I’ve seen the buffets in Georgia, and they’ll get a nice flair at the beginning, but won’t attract people back for dinner - where they need to be, and where the melting pot has a chance to melt.

Even funnier? I was at a Korean restaurant this last weekend - in Northern Virgina - one very, very popular with Korean and Anglos alike - and as I was looking at the menu, the very nice and helpful waitress insisted that what I wanted to drink was a Budweiser. I swear I stared at her for two full blinks. And then ordered a bottle of soju (yeah, I know, in retrospect and for future planning: Soju + Gin + a little wine = not what you’re looking for. Regardless of what you’re looking for.).

Thankfully, that very same Korean restaurant does it right with its food. There is very little Anglosizing going on, and everything is really quite good. For instance, their dumplings (a weakness of mine, regardless of who makes them):

are really good (and a perfect excuse for this post’s only picture).

Being a white boy - I’ve discovered - allows you to star in a huge and unpredictable culinary adventure, even if you’re not actually aware of it.