Chocolate Chinese

Szechwan Pavilion was a great Chinese restaurant; probably still is. Two long buffet lines of entrees, and also lines of salads, desserts, and a soft-serve ice cream machine. Whenever my sister and her family were in town, my mom and I, along with my aunts, uncles, and my cousin Kathleen, would arrange to meet there for a meal. We all loved the food, and we were able to get in maximum quality visiting time. So we ate there every couple of months or so and absolutely enjoyed the vast variety of entrees and other delights.

Then there was that one time. That one memorable time. That time that went down in history...not only my family's history, but the history of Szechwan Pavilion. Yeah, that time. For all I know, school children are now studying about it.

You have to know my family. We all have a quick wit, an easily tickled sense of humor, and the tendency to get out of hand with both. So, as usual, that time in 1994, we were all WAY out of control by the time we finished grazing from the entree buffets and started thinking about the dessert bar.

My 11-year-old nephew and I decided we wanted soft-serve ice cream, so we went together to the end of the dessert bar where the machine and assorted toppings were placed. It was about three yards from the END of the main, double-sided, entree line, which was probably about twelve feet long. The rest of our group was either still at the table or had their backs to us at the dessert bar.

Daniel and I both wanted toppings, so we finessed the machine and put the soft-serve vanilla ice cream in cups. I got my ice cream first, and moved to the side of the counter, next to the hot fudge pump.

You can see it coming, can't you?

My nephew waited while I attempted to work the pump that would anoint my ice cream with hot fudge. He was standing in front of the pump, but a little to the side.

That hot fudge just would NOT come out. So I pushed down harder. And harder. I was so distracted by the humor of the entire dinner that it never occurred to me that the pump was filled with dried and hardened hot fudge. So I put my entire upper body into it and pushed down one last time.

It unplugged.

Faster than the eye could see, hot fudge shot out of the pump. I gasped, my hand flew to my mouth, and I looked up at my poor nephew. He had hot fudge in his hair, dripping from his eyebrows and chin, down the front of his shirt, across his jeans...

I doubled over in gasping laughter. I couldn't help it. I couldn't stop laughing. Even when my stomach and my back started to hurt. Even when I could no longer breathe. Even when I almost vomited. I couldn't stop laughing. Not for a million dollars. I kept looking up at him from my doubled-over, grabbing-onto-the-counter, knees-failing stance.

And Daniel? He just looked at me. Completely deadpan. Hot fudge across his ear, the slogan on his shirt obliterated, he just looked at me. And finally he said, still deadpan, "Thanks. Aunt. Faith."

By now we had drawn a crowd. I looked around and saw about six employees hustling around the very long, double-sided entree bar. My hand flew back to my mouth in horror, and Daniel turned to look. Hot fudge had completely missed the protective plastic shield, shooting down the length of the steam table and somehow managing to add itself to entrees on both sides.

There was hot fudge fried rice, hot fudge chicken chow mein, hot fudge beef and broccoli, hot fudge jalapeno shrimp, hot fudge pot stickers... Everywhere I looked, pans were being pulled out of the steam table and taken to the kitchen. Soon the magnificent entree bar contained just empty holes with water beneath and a few pans of food here and there. It looked so sad.

I almost fell to the floor with laughing. My nephew headed to the restroom, leaving hot fudge in his wake. (Okay. Maybe that part is an exaggeration).

I looked down at my cup of ice cream. Nary a drop of hot fudge on it. Nor on me.

I managed to make my way back to our dining table, only to discover that not a single family member had seen the performance. I tried to tell them, I really did. But I couldn't breathe. Employees were coming by our table just to look at me. Patrons made detours so they could check me out. And a huddle of hungry people had already gathered at the empty steam table. I feared the development of an angry mob.

Finally my nephew returned from the restroom, and I totally lost it again. He apparently had washed his hair (though it was still streaked), washed his face, washed his clothes...and he had a cup of naked ice cream in his hand.

I still say it was the restaurant's fault for not keeping their hot fudge pump clean. And they should have had to pay for Daniel's shirt, which couldn't be salvaged. And they probably should have paid for me to see a doctor, because I surely had internal injuries from laughing. I certainly have never been the same.

So since 1994, our family has called the restaurant Chocolate Chinese. We don't even know what it's really called anymore: I had to Google the hospital across the street and check what was near it to even find out the restaurant's real name in order to write this blog entry. But we met there many, many more times. (Yes, they actually continued to let us in!)

But have I been able to live it down? Oh, no!

Several years later, I took my niece, Sarah, who was at Chocolate Chinese when the incident occurred, to the movie theater. Before the movie started, we bought drinks and popcorn, then headed to the self-serve condiment bar. As I reached up to pump melted butter into our popcorn bucket, she said, "Stop!" Confused, I turned to look as she scampered behind a concrete pillar about ten yards away. Then her eyes peeked around and she called out, "Okay...GO!"

And just two weeks ago, Daniel, now 27, emailed me this link.

Oh, well. I guess sweet memories are made of such as this.