Inedible Poetry

I know what the knee-jerk reaction to this little tale will be: It's about damn time white people experienced a taste of the degradation and suspicion that is heaped daily on the plates of one of America's biggest minority groups. I'm not going to kvetch (much) about the fact that as a Jewish woman, I've suffered, if not what some would consider my fair share, at least a measure of discrimination throughout my lifetime, and no doubt I will continue to do so. Or take the high road -- though it is the path I've chosen -- and state over and over again that I won't tolerate intolerance in any way, shape, or form, but particularly when it comes to my personal passions: food and poetry.

All I want for everybody, secondary to a theme song, is to imagine the brouhaha that would have ensued if a restaurant had publicly singled out a table of black people and then harassed them throughout the evening. And then add the Wet Olive to my list of establishments, along with notoriously bigoted ones like Denny's, where it's just a little too uncomfortable to ever dine again.

Jeremy Eaton

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