never houelle

(a review of Submission, by Michel Houellebecq)*

INTERIOR: ITALIAN RESTAURANT. MIDDAY

The dimly lit foyer of a mediocre Italian restaurant. A handsome Italian gentleman is behind the counter as the restaurant's host. He is early fifties-ish with white hair slicked back. He mindlessly fingers an early nineteen-nineties model cash register that beeps at his insistence.

The door opens, briefly lighting the room, which is lined with shelves displaying framed celebrity portraits and dusty wine bottles. Enter a mushroom-like brunette woman wearing frumpy jeans and puffy shirt. She approaches the counter, quickly at first, but slows almost immediately. Addressing the host, she speaks while sniffing the air.

MUSHROOM WOMAN
Why does it smell like Chinese food in here?

ITALIAN HOST
I don't know. I didn't know it smelled like Chinese food.

MUSHROOM WOMAN
It smells greasy. Like Chinese food.

ITALIAN HOST
Is it you?

MUSHROOM WOMAN
I once boarded an airplane that was on its way to India after it stopped in New York City. The whoooooole flight, everything smelled like curry.

ITALIAN HOST
I love to visit New York City. I love the Italian food.

*Palermo's Ristorante Italiano
Los Angeles, CA




I left and went to the cheap Indian place instead.