During my brief two-year stay in Sioux Falls, SD, I developed a real affinity for a restaurant called Hu Hot Mongolian Grill. If you’re familiar with Hu Hot, or any other eatery of the same pedigree, you understand the carnival of gluttony that a trip to one entails. To illustrate this simply, I’ll tell you that there literally is not another restaurant I’ve ever experienced capable of eliciting the same feeling, which can best be described as equal parts intense satisfaction and physical pain. I can recall nary a trip to Hu Hot – and I’ve had many – where I left the establishment minus that post-coital sense of contentment, coupled with a fecal wolverine percolating in my bowels. I know, I’ve probably already said too much to make this even readable, but I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t share the rest.
In the year and a half since I’ve left Sioux Falls, my travels have taken me to parts of the world devoid of these Mongolian feasts. I’ve tried every Chinese restaurant I can find and combed the yellow pages for something of Hu Hot’s ilk, but never have been able to reach that same heightened level of satisfaction. That is, my friends, until this past Friday. With my lovely - and more sensible - wife out of town, and a long work week under my belt, I agreed to meet my parents at a local bistro by the name of “The Emperor’s Wok.” Certain that it could never parallel Hu Hot, I entered the restaurant with low expectations, like a scorn woman approaching a relationship cautiously, fearful of being hurt yet again.
When our apron-clad server Pablo approached our table, I opened my ears and mind and took mental notes of everything he laid before me. A Mongolian grill, a Chinese buffet, all-you-can-eat crab legs, and an American cuisine to boot? What kind of victual utopia was this? Upon taking in the lay of the land and plotting my feeding strategy from all angles, I decided to take a chance. I would let my guard down and dare to believe that this palatial establishment could somehow equal the status of the legendary Hu Hot.
I’ll tell you one thing: it felt good to love again. You know that totally vulnerable feeling you get when you let yourself fall for something? Well, I let it engulf me, and damn it, it felt great. I strolled through those culinary mazes, seamlessly weaving my way between wide-eyed patrons like the great Gayle Sayers in his prime. And if there is one thing I can say for sure, it’s that I left it all out on the battlefield that day. I left that restaurant without a single regret, certain I had given every fiber of my soul in dominating that restaurant. And here’s the best part: I wasn’t disappointed. I tore through those crab legs like a mad man and ravished the fried wonton like Gilligan finally getting a shot at Ginger after all those years. It was midway through my second bowl of Mongolian meat when I began to daydream. I imagined I was a Viking, using my teeth to tear the meat off the bones of the Kodiak bear I had just killed with my bare hands. Yes, this is how real men should eat.
While I know this sounds like a tale cut from the same cloth as Casablanca or Love Story, I’m sad to say the honeymoon would not last forever. It was shortly after the aforementioned bowl of meat had been vanquished that I first felt it. Originating from the furthest depths of my being, a faint, guttural wail withered its way up my esophagus, escaping from my mouth, foreshadowing the doom that was to come. Like a dog feverishly wagging its tale moments before a tornado strikes, this rumbling served as a warning that the party was winding down.
Eyes dancing wildly in search of the unlucky restroom that would be soon forced to accommodate my inevitable onslaught, a striking and ironic comparison came to me. My trip to the Emperor’s Wok had begun to personify an angry drunk. Like Whiskey Sours to your old college roommate or the guy in the tank-top at the Black Jack table, the Emperor’s Wok is pleasant and fun when taken in moderation. But moderation had clearly yielded to excess, and the results would not be pretty. I had greedily taken in countless edible pleasures with little to no regard for my own well-being, patiently taking the time to devour anything that crossed my path. The consequences, however, were swift and fierce.
With the intensity of a stockbroker and somewhere between a brisk walk and a sprint, I shoved off in the direction I imagined the bathroom would be. Waddling aimlessly about the restaurant, it was Pablo that came through again when I needed him the most, saving me precious seconds. Clutching his shoulder with what I’m sure amounted to a white-knuckled, G.I. Joe Kung Fu grip, I uttered a barely audible inquiry as to the direction of the facilities. Pablo, having probably gone through this routine with at least one frightened patron every night of his career, coolly delivered a clear and concise account of the shortest and quickest path to the lavatory. I couldn’t have asked for more from Mapquest. In hindsight, Pablo’s grace under pressure probably ranked just behind my decision not to steer my car into a bridge embankment as the best thing to happen to me that day.
For those of you who are faint of heart, I will go against my gut - pardon the pun - and abstain from regaling you with the gory details of what happened next. Let’s just say that what took nearly an hour to go in, took just seconds to come out. Let me also say that if my sphincter were my employee, I would send him and Mrs. Sphincter to the Cayman Islands on an all-expense-paid vacation in honor of the hard work he put in. Being able to hold off the Herculean burst that would soon emerge while I decorated the toilet seat with toilet paper was worthy of a medal of honor.
You may wonder why I chose to commit this experience to paper instead of merely forgetting the savagery, never telling another soul. The reason is simply this: to make sure it doesn’t happen to you. Let me conclude by drawing again from the alcohol comparison. Mongolian Grill is like booze - you must build up a tolerance before binging. No one in their right mind would slam ten gin and tonics after remaining dry for the previous two years, and the same should go for the Mongolian barbecue. So next time your bravado gets the best of you and you think you can take on the Emperor’s Wok, remember what happened to me. If I save just one, it’ll be all worth it.
