Gabacho Does Dallas

After another afternoon of shopping, we packed our bags. Our flight back to Chicago was in the morning and, for our last night in Dallas; we had dinner reservations at Cafe Pacific. According to the hotel concierge, it was the best restaurant that Dallas had to offer. It was in the posh Hillside district, which was deep into George Bush territory. I wouldn’t have been surprised if we’d run into Jerry Jones, H. Ross Perot, or any other Larry Hagman look-a-like. I was getting a feel for Dallas, and I knew what to expect at the restaurant.

The plan was to stir up the mix, and make a full frontal assault on good taste, decency, and Texan theology. We told the concierge to tell the people at the restaurant that I was a food critic, but not to blow my cover. I donned an over-sized floral imprint shirt that I picked up in Mexico, slacks and sandals. I also brought along my knock-off Rolex that I bought from a Nigerian trader in Venice. The watch looks real from a distance, and the fat-cat corporate raiders think I’m just another eccentric, rebelling against my trust fund.

My eldest daughter combed her flaming-purple hair straight back so she could give the maître d’ the evil eye, if he so much as stammered when he greeted us. She also wore black-leather motorcycle pants, skull earrings and her snake-bite lip rings. What was worse was she was in a shitty mood, and her mean-ass look that strikes fear into the hearts of the feeble minded. I have seen the effects up close. Once when we were having dinner in a restaurant in Chicago, a little kid was staring at her hair. She motioned to the little twerp, telling him to come closer, and when he least expected it, she grabbed him by the shirt collar and said, “if you don’t quit staring at me, you little shit, your dick is going to fall off!” The little shit scampered off crying, muttering something about coming face to face with the Medusa.
 
My youngest daughter, who had recovered quite well, was in her pressed blue and white cotton spring dress, white socks and sparkling red MaryJane shoes. She looked like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. She also brought along her plush toy and coloring books. The only one who fit the part was my wife who entered with her exquisite Prada ballet slippers, designer slacks, and sensible blouse highlighting her shapely figure. She also brought along her Tod’s handbag. She has had to tell people on occasion that she isn’t famous, but they don’t always believe her. In any case, she turned her bag around so that no one in the restaurant could see who the designer was. Although she’s a trend setter, she despises copycats.

The only thing that would have given us a better entrance into Texan high society would have been to arrive in a vintage VW micro-bus, with “NORML” written on the side in big letters and surrounded with colorful flowers. The wait staff really didn’t care what we looked like. They were used to dealing with Texan eccentrics who acted like European royalty, spoke with a drawl, and wore boots and Stetson cowboy hats.  The entrance to the restaurant was surrounded by high priced foreign cars. Rumor has it that if restaurant owners want to make the A-List, they rent Lamborghinis to park just outside the front door to attract the right kind of crowd. I hadn’t seen a restaurant this glitzy since we had dinner in a place in Zurich, surrounded by surrealist paintings. As I hacked through a slab of veal, I had a view to works by Dali, Picasso, Miro, and Juan Gris.

To be continued…

Cross-posted at My Ongoing Struggle with Misanthropy: http://jimmygabacho.com/?p=646

Gabacho– according to the Dictionary of the Spanish Royal Academy– is derived from an old Provençal word “gavach,” meaning a person from the foothills of the Pyrenees who spoke incorrectly. These days, it means “outsider,” somebody who just doesn’t fit in.

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