CHAPTER 2


My favorite food is Indian.

Can't say it's always been because it hasn't, but it is now. I love cooking it, and I love eating it. And we're talking about the regional stuff here. Weird curries you never heard of , semi-greasy nan bread, tandooried everything. I love a spicy food that's equally enjoyable in the winter and in the summer, and both for the same reasons. It's as simple as that.

What I really can't resist in Indian restaurants is the abundance of delicious safron rice. when it's good it's really great. And luckily for everyone it's the kind of thing that's pretty hard to fuck up.

No, for fucked up Rice, you have to go to Iran.

I recently had McFadden slither in to do an analysis of Iranian rice, and what it discovered was chilling. A rare eastern element, identified only as DFAR, permeates the stuff. What it does exactly remains a mystery, except that it tastes great. Disarmingly great. Frighteningly great.

Now, a bit of background.

The year before the year of McFadden was the year I started my second degree in digital arts. I was a fair bit older than the other students, but far from being a problem, it actually made things a lot easier.

So I'm waiting for the first class to begin, sitting outside the classroom. This small latino boy strolls up and sits down across from me. He looks scared and vulnerable, so I reach out a hand and introduce myself.

"Hey man. Name's Rice," he says to me.

"Rice?"

"Y'know, like in Iran."

I just look at him.

"Omigod. You never had Iranian food? That's messed up."

"Iranian food?"

"It's the craziest stuff man. Ahh you never had anything else like it."

"You're Iranian homes?"

"Yeah. Well my family is."

I blink at him.

"I was born on a beach in Puerto Rico. My family found me there while they were wandering across the country."

"I need a cigarette homes."

"Nah. Here, put this in your mouth instead."

He hands me a tupperware. I open it and the thing is filled to the brim with rice. I look at him.

"Pretty crazy, yeah. I scored 200 points in basketball yesterday."

I blink again and look back at the rice. I dip my fingers in the tupperware and blast a clump of the stuff in my mouth.

Colors. sounds. Suddenly I'm salsa dancing in a turban and chopper pilot shades. I grab the first person that comes by and hold her wrist in place while I spin around and around.

I come to with a jolt. Rice had thrown a clump of rice at me as hard as he could and snapped me out of my fantasy. I can see how he scored 200 points in one game.

"Thanks man." He helps me up.

I look at the girl I'd been dancing with. "Sorry about that."

"How'd you do that?" she asks. "Was that software? Was it VRML?"

"Rice."

Rice slides in front of her with the tupperware.

"Yeah! You want some? It's the craziest thing."

Next: Rice's true pectoral powers and the anti-everything power of the socialite.