The Potty Mouth at the Table

by Laurie Notaro

  But when I looked up the restaurant’s phone number online, I was shocked to find the following words under the second Google listing: “I would NEVER eat at this place.” It was the start of a thread on Yelp with numerous posts by people who had decided that although none of them had been to my new favorite pizza place, they were never going to try it because they were convinced that someone associated with the restaurant was posting phony positive reviews. And the Yelper bees were angry about it. Buzzing. Ready to sting.

  “Goddammit, don’t kill my new pizza place!” I cried at the computer screen. Since when is it a crime to post a positive review of a restaurant when you genuinely love the food and just happen to know the owner? I must have missed the paragraph in Revelations that says the last sign of the apocalypse is a nice review of a pizza place to cue Satan to step up and rule Earth for a while. Apparently, the phrase “the crust is good” was the wrong thing to say to people on the Yelp thread, and if you hadn’t guessed by now, I was the one who said it.

  Maybe they didn’t like being called assholes—that was probably part of it. But seriously, what did all these people do before their life goal was to earn “elite” status on a message board because they went to six Starbucks in a two-mile radius and compared aromas? Were these the same people who subscribed religiously to Reader’s Digest and constantly submitted their own jokes? Were they compulsive couponers? Or perhaps the kind of people who would spend way too much time attempting to draw Tippy the Turtle in order to get into a correspondence art school? Is this what happens to society when people don’t have to use up spare time to darn their own socks or milk cows?

  I don’t know how many hobbies you have to try and suck at before you find your way to Yelp, but it appears to be an overwhelming number. True, I do know some people who contribute useful, informative content, but they aren’t the ones organizing witch hunts and carrying torches to my favorite new pizza place. And, if I may be so bold, if you wanted to be a food reviewer, why isn’t that your job? (Sorry. Blogs don’t count. Really. They don’t.)

  Instead, Yelp has evolved into a socially acceptable bloodsport, and suddenly, it’s perfectly fine to cast allegations out into the Google wind and have those accusations listed second on a results page. The first girl who came at me, Hannah “the Banana,” immediately said that I was a fake person with a fake profile, and if that wasn’t enough, she demanded: “Who r you? We r avid yelpers with numerous tips and photos and friends and reviews. I plan and go to events. I am elite.”

  And that was true. As a member with elite status, Hannah “the Banana” has climbed up the asshole rungs of the Yelp ladder, with such classic reviews as: Bed, Bath & Beyond (“The 20% off coupons you get in the mail, you can use them EVEN if they are expired!!”), Olive Garden (“WE GOT SOOOOOOOO SICK!!! I don’t know what would make us that sick but now I really do NOT want to eat here ever again!”), and perhaps her Magnum Opus, 7-Eleven (“Good location. Always open . . . and there is a redbox outside so that’s cool. If you try a slurpee my fav flavors are pina colada and banana . . . and even the two together . . . try ’em!”) And, because I know you were waiting for this one, Hannah gave Subway four stars.

  Ahhhhh. The elite.

  So I replied to Hannah “the Banana”: “You’re the fake. You’re not even a banana,” and I begged her to review T.J.Maxx. Well, clearly she rallied the troops of the elitist goon squad because soon, another elitist, Mary “the Skeptic,” entered the fray. I’d written that it wasn’t cool to assume that everyone who posted a positive review of the place was fake—that’s when Mary announced that I was a fake, too.

  The conversation proceeded just as you would have expected: a post from me suggesting Mary take a communications law class before spreading more libel about other area restaurants, another accusation from Mary that I wasn’t a real reviewer but merely a plant from the restaurant. Honestly, I don’t know how to argue my existence with someone who has reviewed a gas station (one star). I also don’t know what someone who reviews a gas station expects from a gas station. I expect gas and to hopefully not die in a sudden explosion. If those two things happen, that’s a winning experience for me. But surprisingly, once someone believes you are not a real person, it is remarkably hard to debate that you do indeed exist—especially when that person is so delusional they gave Applebee’s four stars twice. Two different locations. That’s diabetes squared. Both legs, sister.

  Mary “the Skeptic” was such as elitist, in fact, that not only did she review the University of Oregon (three stars) and the airport (three stars), but she also blazed an elite trail by reviewing Yelp—yes, Yelp—itself. Extraordinary. Imagine Mary’s disappointment, however, when she dropped into the home office in San Francisco and expected to be escorted upstairs to the main office because, as she explained to the receptionist, she’s elite. You know, Elite. As in “I reviewed ten separate Starbucks and gave them all the exact same rating (three stars)” Elite.

  Alas, maybe it was the four-star review of Red Lobster that finally caught up to her, or perhaps it was the general impression she gave of being a waddling lunatic who had just wandered in off the street, but Mary’s request was denied. “When I tried to ask the receptionist whether I could go up to your headquarters to ‘check in,’ ” Mary yelped. “She told me she had no idea what that meant.” And thusly, two stars were dropped from what could have been an impeccable rating. In the end, Mary gave her host and, at the same time her denier, a “C.”

  So I decided that perhaps it was time for one more review.

  Mary, “the Skeptic”

  Category: Local Flavor, Active Life

  Two Stars

  Although Mary “the Skeptic” appears to be very real, her fact-gathering tactics could use some sharpening. Attention to detail is superb, spending what must have been at least a half an hour composing a review of the local sanitation company (four stars), which she called “somewhat reliable.” Spends an inordinate amount of time eating meals with her mother-in-law. Delights in crinkle-cut fries and not surprisingly, has a special soft spot for restaurants that provide menus for people with dietary restrictions. Is bold—not afraid to write a review of a restaurant she has only walked into, or one that she’s simply heard about. Like most Yelpers, has a tendency to force the mating of any word with the suffix “-ness,” even if that merge is somewhat rough and/or confusing to the general population. Has a photo of every meal eaten since February 2011. Is not deterred easily, and truly believes she can determine the real from the unreal. Online social skills are somewhat lacking and could be considered “abrasive” or even “bossy” (although sodium levels are most likely quite high).

  But please, Mary, “the Skeptic,” continue in your elitist ways, carry on with your Yelp mission. Keep eating at the chain Mexican place you love so much (four stars!), especially since my plumber told me that their kitchen is so filthy he wouldn’t drink a soda in a can from that place (which will remain unnamed since I did, in fact, take a communications law class).

  YOU ARE NOT INVITED

  I wasn’t on the Facebook invitation list.

  I checked twice, three times, sure that I was just so used to seeing my own stupid face that I had skipped it out of habit. The list was long, full of faces that I knew. A long line of faces that had eaten party food at my house and had pulled a beer I had paid for out of a cooler on my back porch. And on this long list of invitees to the birthday party of a person I considered a very good friend, my name wasn’t there.

  Mark Zuckerberg is an asshole, I immediately thought. The last thing I ever wanted in my life was social transparency! I want to stay in the world where I think that the people who like me like me and the people who hate me like me, too. I don’t need to know the truth! I can’t handle the truth. Who can?

  If you ever really feel the urge to time travel, especially back to seventh grade, all you need to do is log on to Facebook. It will only be a matter of moments before the opportunity presents itself: people laug
hing in pictures that you’re not in, inside jokes you don’t get—proof that people you like don’t like you back.

  I was instantly transported to a place where I emerged from a lunchroom with smooshed bread packed around the orthodontics of every tooth. I’d already given up saltwater taffy, Cracker Jacks, and corn on the cob—for four years. I was not giving up bread. But, on the bright side, if I were back in seventh grade, it would be the last year I’d be able to wear buttoned shirts without the aid of safety pins in the breast bud area. I should really enjoy the moment because I have a decent body mass index at age twelve that will scurry out of my control by eighth grade due to my Nutty Ho Ho obsession.

  Still, on Facebook, I can’t help focusing on the fact that I have been left out again, by people I know, people I trusted.

  I have two immediate reactions:

  1. Wishing Mark Zuckerberg would get some friends—friends who will probably blow him off and scar him irreparably by the social burn he has witnessed from his very own creation turned monster.

  2. Bursting into tears, putting on my KC and the Sunshine Band album, and rocking out while imagining Rick Springfield pushing the hair that I have put off washing all week off my face with a gentle, loving hand, wiping my tears away with the cuff of his red leather jacket, and hopefully not popping a pimple on my cheek in the process.

  What did I do this time? I wonder, looking over the invite list again. Oh. Oh, oh, oh. I see she’s invited, the girl who got drunk at a party last year, fashioned the cardboard twelve-pack holder into a hat and set it on fire; and look who else is coming, the guy who is clearly so on the spectrum he can make talking about Honey Boo Boo as tedious and snore-worthy as whatever he just read in Harper’s. And the girl who got an $800 tattoo running up every fat roll on her right side, claims to be too poor to order anything off a menu but will help herself to food on your plate—she got invited, too!

  How can I not be invited? If it was because I said you had cheap toilet paper at your house, I’m sorry. But I just don’t understand why you wouldn’t want your guests to have the best bathroom experience possible, and not have to go through half a roll of off-brand bathroom tissue just to accomplish the mission that four squares of Charmin easily can. You get what you pay for. I will buy meat in the clearance section before I will skimp on a life necessity like sturdy but gentle, nonballing toilet paper. And yes, I know you spent some time abroad and we should all be happy that we live in America where newspaper is upcycled in more primal ways than say, the Czech Republic. My point is that we do live in America, not in a country crippled by wars and huge moles. That’s all. We live in America. Home of decent toilet paper. Wipe free or die.

  Any yes, I will admit that I did walk away from your grandma midsentence at your last barbecue but she spit a taco chip on my face while she was talking and in all honesty, I stood there for as long as I could. For as long as I could. It landed right above my lip and it flew at me like a rocket. I knew it and she knew it, but did she reach over and wipe it off? NO. And was I too afraid to insult her by brushing a chunk of masticated grandma food off my face? YES. So I stood there, seeing the yellow chunk that seemed as big as the sun every time I looked down. I tried to blow it off. I tried to shake my head. But the chip had guacamole on it, the mortar of nature, and it was going nowhere. It would stay with me for decades if I let it. Three people passed by and pointed at my lip, including my husband, who yelled at me later for not being a good party eater.

  And if my not being invited to this party had anything to do with the stuffed mushroom incident, then say it to my face. I was the one who invented that recipe, experimented for years with blue cheese, garlic, and wine. THAT WAS ME. That was also me who gave you the recipe when you asked for it, that was me when a platter of them appeared at your Christmas party and a guest complimented you on them, and yes, that was me who heard you say “thank you,” without giving me proper attribution. You cannot co-opt a stuffed mushroom and claim it as your own when I am standing two feet away. That is theft. Grand food larceny. You are an appetizer thief, and next time you ask me for the recipe for my chile con queso or mini-quiches, you can probably expect it to be an abbreviated list.

  BUT I STILL LIKE YOU. AND I WANT TO COME TO YOUR PARTY. Why won’t you invite me? I want to be the one to say to everyone after the girl with the flaming head has passed out that “someone needs an intervention, but she already ruined one of my carpets, so we can’t have it at my house—although I will bring stuffed mushrooms.” I want to tell the girl who has just plucked cheese off my plate that her tattoo doesn’t look as much like an oak tree as it does a human, arthritic claw, and I am fully prepared to bring my own toilet paper. In fact, I want to. I insist on it.

  I am the perfect guest.

  I just don’t want to talk to your grandma.

  Stuffed Mushrooms

  20 to 25 white or cremini mushrooms

  1/2 to 3/4 cup bread crumbs

  1 shallot, finely chopped

  2 to 3 tablespoons Parmesan cheese

  1/4 cup blue cheese

  1 stick of butter, melted (yep, a whole salted stick—I love salt. Or you can substitute 1/2 cup olive oil.)

  1 clove garlic, finely chopped or crushed

  A glug or two of any white wine. ANY.

  Salt and pepper, to taste

  Preheat oven to 375°F.

  Clean mushrooms and remove stems. Chop up ten or twelve stems finely and mix with all ingredients. Fill mushroom caps until stuffing is about just over the rim of the cap. If you have some left over, fill them up more! Bake for 25 to 30 minutes. If someone asks you for this recipe, make sure they give you the goddamn credit.

  BLACKOUT

  That’s it!” my mother snapped from the other end of the phone. “I’m not talking to you anymore. From now on, we are not talking!”

  This was hardly the response I expected after giving my mother a compliment. I was stunned. No, I take that back. I was not stunned, but I guess I didn’t expect that strong of a reaction.

  “Did you hear what I said?” I reiterated, positive—no, I take that back—hopeful that my mother had heard me wrong when I told her that when I got notes back on a project I was writing, the first comment was: “More of your mother. Love her.”

  “You were their favorite part in the whole thing!” I tried to tell her. “They want more of you!”

  “I heard what you said, and that’s why I’m not talking to you anymore,” she explained, her voice rising. “If I don’t talk to you anymore, then you can’t write about me anymore.”

  “That is ridiculous,” I stammered. “Who doesn’t want to be everyone’s favorite part?”

  “ME!” she shot back. “Why don’t you write about your in-laws? They’re funny.”

  “Are you kidding?” I asked. “That lineage is off-limits! Most of them have guns and I have to eat Christmas dinner with those people!”

  “In that case, I’m buying the next gun I see on QVC,” my mother informed me. “Even if it’s not Joan Rivers’s brand.”

  “See?” I said. “That’s why you’re everyone’s favorite part.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. You have a weird brain. Why can’t you leave me alone and write about little boys and girls like that other woman with the weird brain?” my mother asked.

  I took a stab at it.

  “You mean J. K. Rowling?” I answered. “The richest woman in the world? I do not have the same brain as J. K. Rowling.”

  “Well, maybe not the same one, but there’s something wrong with both of your brains,” my mother continued. “She’s a weirdo. I heard there’s a lot of sex in her new book. Disgusting. You should try to write a magic book—one in which the mother is dead.”

  “I can’t help it if you’re funny, Mom,” I tried to explain. “That’s not my fault. That’s God’s fault.”

  “Don’t blame God for that!” my mother snapped. “I am not funny. I just don’t know why you couldn’t have b
een a nurse or a paralegal.”

  “You’re hilarious,” I argued.

  “Name one thing I said that was funny,” she challenged me.

  I cleared my throat and launched into my best Mom voice, complete with a thick Brooklyn accent. “ ‘So I went for my first iPad class today, and there were ten people in the room. I was smarter than nine of them.’ ”

  My mother waited for me to finish the joke.

  “That’s not funny!” she finally said. “They were all touching their screens, making them filthy, like little animals. Your father bought me a special pencil that I use. Why would you dirty your screen if you could just use a magic pencil? That’s not funny. That’s using your head!”

  I launched into exhibit B, my second impression.

  “ ‘So I said to my friend Judy, “Here, this is the stupidest book I’ve ever read. You’ll love it,” ’ ” I finished.

  Again, my mother paused.

  “Oh,” she said. “That James Patterson book. You know, he is my favorite author. But that book stunk. It was terrible. And you know what? She loved it! Did I ever tell you Judy has a tattoo?”

  “Yes,” I confirmed. “Every time you say her name.”

  “You know,” my mother said, pausing, “to think that I was so excited when you were born. When, in fact, I should have looked at you and said to myself, ‘This is the one. This is the one that’s going to kill me,’ ” my mother said. “Because I would have been right!”

  “Well, if you’re so unhappy with me, who would you trade me for?” I challenged her. “Any daughter in the world: who would you trade me for?”

  She giggled a little bit. “You know,” she said. “You know.”