Reading Buttered Pringles

After six months of living in Uganda, I realized last week that I have developed some guilty pleasures and ingrained habits that I frankly don't even think about anymore. A supervisor, who was visiting for the week, was quick to point them out to me:

"Patti, do you realize that you know every, single restaurant in Kampala? And, for some bizarre reason, you go to the grocery store...every, single, day? And why do you have all of these deep insights about our clients based on time spent with them in restaurants or grocery stores...what gives?"

Robert, who was driving at the time, let out a whistle and agreed with Jennifer, "Every, single day to the grocery store or a different restaurant!! It's amazing!!"

OK, it is true. I didn't realize I was that strange or obvious but it is fairly easy to explain...

One of my guilty pleasures in life is food. I love to cook, I love trying new restaurants (even if it nearly costs my loved ones their lives- see the post on French Bouchons), and I love basically everything related to food and cooking. Luckily, the Universe is kind and has granted me the metabolism to support my obsession. And, to be honest, I don't really eat that much food...the point is just to try it out or cook it. To people who see food only as a means of sustenance, well, I completely confound them.

So, yes, I do know every single restaurant in Kampala because I made it my mission to try them all out. I usually do this during my lunch hour as a means to get out of the office for a little while and, occasionally, meet up with friends or clients in a better atmosphere.

And it is true that I tend to "read" people based on what transpires across the table from me.

I come by it naturally, my mother is the same way.

"He's got control issues," she diagnosed, watching a former boyfriend carefully separate all the food on his plate so that nothing was touching. "This isn't going to work...that is not normal behavior." (Mind you, although I am less obvious about it, I try to make sure my steak is not touching my mashed potatoes either but everyone, including my mother, knows about MY control issues).

"He has no manners....I don't care if he was in the Navy for six years...you do not put seven pieces of bread on your plate at the same time like you're never going to see food again!" became another ex-boyfriend's coup-de-grace.

And so, I sort of do the same thing with friends and clients although I am not nearly as harsh as my mother...I think.

When a prominent certain Minister sat across from me a few months ago at my favorite restaurant, he methodically wiped the rim of his Coke bottle, then the rim of the glass, then the entire glass, then the rim of the Coke bottle again. Then, when the food arrived, I noticed that he was mumbling over his French fries.

Hmmm...a prayer? I wondered.

Nope, he was counting them. I had never seen anyone count their French fries before but he apparently wanted to be certain that he was getting the proper amount of fries, as advertised.

It later turned out that he reads my memos down to every last detail and can recite them by rote. If there is even one type-o or a page number missing, I hear about it (good naturedly) the next time we speak.

But that almost never happens...because I saw him counting his French fries and had all the info I needed about future relations with him and his Ministry.

A judicial official in the High Court is the opposite. When we meet for lunch I regularly watch in horror as his tie drags through the soup or whatever is in front of him. He eats his food quickly and without regard but if I am anything but completely engaged in the conversation and witty at all times (which usually means I don't eat during these lunches), he becomes sullen. Needless to say, I give him documents that might have a type-o or two in them, but they are legal memoranda written like poems. He doesn't care about the grammar and spelling but the substance better be presented in the most entertaining and intellectual fashion possible.

But I got that long before delivering one document from watching him over lunch.

Same how I knew things were going to work out with Scott, after watching him over the past year at various dinner tables. The man has some of the most impeccable manners I have ever seen in my life.

In Paris, I was stunned to see that he is one of only a handful of males who knows how to eat soup correctly.

"I love you so much!" I declared enthusiastically, "You know how to eat soup!"

He has perfect table manners that are not forced or showy, he is careful and polite, and, despite 24 years of military service, he doesn't eat like a starved animal. All of these traits signaled to me that he had a thoughtful, patient, and tolerant personality. Which he does.

"My mother was emphatic about table manners," he related in Paris. "She never wanted us to be in any way embarrassed or uncomfortable in social situations. I have always appreciated that gift, in particular, and it has served me well."

(Exactly the same rationale as my mother...plus he appreciates it and he appreciates his mother...good man and the right man for me).

My obsession with grocery stores kind of falls along the same lines of thinking. I like to visit the grocery store everyday because, for me, it is endlessly entertaining and a good way to get to know people over the contents in their grocery carts.

People are not likely to be caught off-guard or intimidated in the grocery store and, since we all need to shop and eat to survive, it is a natural point of conversation.

Sure, perhaps it was a little odd last month when I met a court official and spied that his entire cart was full of passion fruit, ice cream, and exfoliating cream...but now I get why he insists on wearing his powdered wig even outside of the courtroom. And why he has the hottest male Ugandan I have ever seen as his "special assistant," and why, precisely, I have never been invited to his Friday night "ice cream parties" even though we get along quite well.

Same with a particular prosecutor who is always in a horrific mood during morning meetings. I met him at the local grocery store and found his cart to be so full of boring and bland items, I asked if he wanted me to bring him some of the lasagna I was planning on making that night.

"No, I can't, but thanks. I have Type III Diabetes and I am very limited in what I can eat. Plus, my wife passed away last year and I think what I miss the most is that she would always try to find creative things for me to eat for breakfast so I wouldn't be in a bad mood at work in the mornings because that's when my blood sugar is the lowest. These days, all I can really manage is plain toast," he conveyed.

Also, because I am at the grocery store everyday, I have a whole slew of friends there who are willing to do just about anything for me because I always tip well when they help me with my bags and I always ask about their lives.

Jen was amazed when she went shopping with me last week...

"They all know you...it is so strange. Why don't you just shop once a week and stock up? It would save on fuel and endless trips to the store," she inquired.

Because this IS my social event. I enjoy going to the store everyday, meeting people outside of their office environments, and getting to figure out what people are really like based on the contents of their grocery carts.

"You are a strange bird," Jen said, "but it seems to work for you."

Then...

"I once had a boyfriend who buttered his Pringles on both sides before eating them, I was madly in love with him but it didn't work out...do you think there were clues there?" she asked.

"Was he artistic or somehow anti-establishment, which you found sexy....but then he cheated on you?" I asked.

"How did you know that?!" she asked.

He buttered his Pringles. Enough said.

"I once dated a guy who buttered his Oreos," I confided. "Same thing happened to me."

Jen shook her head in amazement.

"You are strange...but accurate, apparently. The clients seem to adore you and you're doing something right so...are we going to the store again tomorrow?" she asked.

You betcha.