Hummus me a Tune

I like Middle Eastern food. Lebanese, Syrian, Greek, it doesn't matter, I will eat it. There used to be a nice Lebanese restaurant next door to my place in Chicago. This was back in the 1980's so I'm pretty sure it isn't there anymore. Anyway, a friend and I went one evening for dinner and chose the sampler platter to share. It was just that, a huge platter with absolutely everything from the menu on it only in smaller portions. Still, as small as they were, it was filling.  After about an hour of gorging ourselves on hummus, kibbe, and other exotic dishes we said goodnight and went our separate ways. I, to my home right next door, and my friend to a bar six blocks away. It's a funny thing about Middle Eastern food. It tends to move rapidly through the digestive system. I don't know if it was all the olive oil or maybe some hinky tahini, but my friend only made it five blocks. It's one of my favorite stories that he repeats when we get drunk, how he had to either crap his pants or squat behind a dumpster in an alley. He chose the alley.

Yesterday afternoon Mark and I went to Ferdo's Mediterranean Grill in Fort Lauderdale. They have a great lunch special and Mark and I always order the same thing, the gyros platter. As usual, the food was good and the pita bread with olive oil helped me shovel all that lamb meat down my gullet. Lots of olive oil on the pita bread, lots of gyros meat. After lunch we moved on to our next chore of the day, haircuts at the hiphop barber shop. Here's a good rule to follow if you plan to have lunch or dinner at a Middle Eastern restaurant. After eating, don't put yourself in a situation where you are confined, like in a barber chair. I honestly tried to stifle the gas that was bubbling up from deep in my guts. I sat there in the barber chair with the apron like smock firmly fastened around my neck, trying my hardest to keep it all in until I couldn't take it anymore. The first one came out silent and strong, I swear the smock billowed up just a bit. As my barber fussed about cutting my hair, I implored him to move a little faster. "How about those eyebrows, you want me to trim them?" he asked. I clenched as hard as I could and told him, "Yes, trim the eyebrows". I figured that wouldn't take too long. Poof, again the smock rippled in the wind. This time I think the guy had figured out what was happening. He put down his clippers, whipped the apron/smock off of me, and announced that he was done. I felt bad for the guy, but I did give him a good tip with a little extra gas tax added on.