Right now, Western is In. Girls wear Western clothing, or what they fondly imagine to be Western clothing. (It is, for hookers.) Last week on the plane I sat next to a grandma with dyed black hair teased into a beehive clad in black leather shorts, black tights, and knee-high brown boots with huge silver buckles. She had a top on as well, but I was leary of bringing my eyes up that far—I was too enthralled with the truly awful boots. She was very proud of looking, as she told me, like a Westerner. To me, Western means there’s a horse or cowboy on it somewhere. Should I wear my faux pony-hide ballet slippers, I will be laughed off the airplane. I complemented her on her choice of outfit—and tried not to look at her sticky double-tape-created false eye folds, fearing that if I did so, I might reach out and touch one. But what the hell, I once went to a high school football gave in the States wearing a Mandarin-collared coat, a coolie hat, and the sort of shoes we knew as “Jap Flats.” (They’re actually Chinese.) She felt hot: why would I condemn that?
What pisses me off no end, however, is the latest “Western” phenomenon that I have labeled, for lack of better term, Forno. Forno is the practice—usually performed by young girls—of having themselves photographed while eating Western food, then posting the images up on a web site somewhere to show how dang sophisticated they are. My daughter and I were first introduced to Forno about three years ago at a local Canadian-style diner called Paul’s. It was Thanksgiving. The place was packed with foreign people who had called ahead for reservations months in advance. Two local girls sauntered in and took over a table which was clearly marked “reserved.” They insisted that the harried wait staff give them the regular menu—not the Price Fixe holiday menu—and they ordered a bizarre combination of food that went together about as well as caviar-coated Twinkies served with a side of Horlick’s, with a Budweiser chaser. I believe they ordered a Salty Dog (grapefruit juice with vodka) a chocolate milkshake, spaghetti with garlic bread, a Tequila sunrise, milk, orange juice, a hamburger, French toast, a pecan waffle, Salisbury steak, and fish and chips. Sides included a salad for which they had the foresight to order extra Thousand Island dressing.
As the waitress staggered out with each order, the girls took turns spearing a piece of food with a fork, bringing it daintily to their lips, then snapping a picture. The fork went down immediately while the model inspected the shot on the digital camera. After much discussion, the photo was either discarded, or posted to their web site. Then the OTHER girl would speak a chunk of food on a fork—or sometimes, as a nice alternative, a knife or spoon, and pose for a head shot of gee—HOW CUTE—a Chinese girl eating Western food. The shots were downright pornographic—hence the “orno” part of the name—although none went so far as to deep throat a banana. At no time was any food actually consumed, I might add. Much of it fell on the floor and they squealed in outrage when a French fry fell on one of their fake Louis Vuitton bags. (They made the waitress come over and pick it up for them.)
Now, I’m not exactly Miss Manners over here. I spear things on forks and choke them down myself. I don’t correct my Chinese friends when they are served hamburgers open-face and gravely eat them one half at a time—first the lettuce-tomato-mayo top bun half, then the lower half with the patty on it. I don’t even glare too much at the Chinese people who snigger condescendingly at me when I eat a slice of pizza with my hands. So who am I to care about girls playing Food Whore? So what if they’re showing how sophisticated they are by snapping pix of themselves digging into a pile of fries. Shit, that Mark Salzman has a picture of one of his book jackets showing his bare arms bulging with muscle while he digs with chopsticks into a to-go carton of (presumably) Chinese food. Now that I think about it, that’s probably where they got the idea in the first place. And yet—and yet—when I see it, I get pissed off all over again.
I am having lunch at home today so that I’m not subjected to the awful sight of a girl peeping suggestively over a chicken leg, but also, I confess, because the mac and cheese is about to go off and I want to finish it rather than throw it away. The guy who paws through the garbage outside really gave me hell last week for tossing out some Limburger given me by an admirer (how can you tell if it’s gone off? I mean, it’s Limburger! Who the hell gives a love interest stinky cheese?) If there is any way to eat mac and cheese suggestively, I will promise not to post a picture of such. Your imagination, I’m sure, is so much better.
What pisses me off no end, however, is the latest “Western” phenomenon that I have labeled, for lack of better term, Forno. Forno is the practice—usually performed by young girls—of having themselves photographed while eating Western food, then posting the images up on a web site somewhere to show how dang sophisticated they are. My daughter and I were first introduced to Forno about three years ago at a local Canadian-style diner called Paul’s. It was Thanksgiving. The place was packed with foreign people who had called ahead for reservations months in advance. Two local girls sauntered in and took over a table which was clearly marked “reserved.” They insisted that the harried wait staff give them the regular menu—not the Price Fixe holiday menu—and they ordered a bizarre combination of food that went together about as well as caviar-coated Twinkies served with a side of Horlick’s, with a Budweiser chaser. I believe they ordered a Salty Dog (grapefruit juice with vodka) a chocolate milkshake, spaghetti with garlic bread, a Tequila sunrise, milk, orange juice, a hamburger, French toast, a pecan waffle, Salisbury steak, and fish and chips. Sides included a salad for which they had the foresight to order extra Thousand Island dressing.
As the waitress staggered out with each order, the girls took turns spearing a piece of food with a fork, bringing it daintily to their lips, then snapping a picture. The fork went down immediately while the model inspected the shot on the digital camera. After much discussion, the photo was either discarded, or posted to their web site. Then the OTHER girl would speak a chunk of food on a fork—or sometimes, as a nice alternative, a knife or spoon, and pose for a head shot of gee—HOW CUTE—a Chinese girl eating Western food. The shots were downright pornographic—hence the “orno” part of the name—although none went so far as to deep throat a banana. At no time was any food actually consumed, I might add. Much of it fell on the floor and they squealed in outrage when a French fry fell on one of their fake Louis Vuitton bags. (They made the waitress come over and pick it up for them.)
Now, I’m not exactly Miss Manners over here. I spear things on forks and choke them down myself. I don’t correct my Chinese friends when they are served hamburgers open-face and gravely eat them one half at a time—first the lettuce-tomato-mayo top bun half, then the lower half with the patty on it. I don’t even glare too much at the Chinese people who snigger condescendingly at me when I eat a slice of pizza with my hands. So who am I to care about girls playing Food Whore? So what if they’re showing how sophisticated they are by snapping pix of themselves digging into a pile of fries. Shit, that Mark Salzman has a picture of one of his book jackets showing his bare arms bulging with muscle while he digs with chopsticks into a to-go carton of (presumably) Chinese food. Now that I think about it, that’s probably where they got the idea in the first place. And yet—and yet—when I see it, I get pissed off all over again.
I am having lunch at home today so that I’m not subjected to the awful sight of a girl peeping suggestively over a chicken leg, but also, I confess, because the mac and cheese is about to go off and I want to finish it rather than throw it away. The guy who paws through the garbage outside really gave me hell last week for tossing out some Limburger given me by an admirer (how can you tell if it’s gone off? I mean, it’s Limburger! Who the hell gives a love interest stinky cheese?) If there is any way to eat mac and cheese suggestively, I will promise not to post a picture of such. Your imagination, I’m sure, is so much better.
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