Congratulations on Eating All the Potato Pancakes!

You and your wife are miserable at dinner conversation. Just appallingly bad at it. So when you’re invited out it’s kind of a big deal, and it usually means the person likes you and doesn’t mind how socially inept the two of you are. And sometimes it’s just because they know you’re a bumbling asshat who’s going to misstep in some hilarious ways.

That’s why your friend Dave invited you to be here tonight at his “way past Passover” dinner, which combines drinking of weeknights with delicious Jewish food, two of your favorite things. See, Dave genuinely likes you and he loves it when you start talking about the laws government rape and their variance from state to state and the way it makes his guests uncomfortable. He especially likes it when you discuss the disciplinary hearings at the University of Arizona from years ago like they’re news and people get appalled like you’re the one that beat and raped a young woman and then counted on the administration to cover it up so you wouldn’t lose your scholarship. It’s almost as good as when your wife starts in with the holocaust jokes to “lighten things up.”

So while Dave and his wife counted on your almost Dadaist conversation to make their evening entertaining for them rather than just their mooching, assaholic guests, they didn’t count on the various other things you’d do as a result of being in front of a large crowd. Things like eating all their fucking potato pancakes.

You’ll hand Dave’s wife your coat and follow Dave into the kitchen, where he’ll hand you a beer and tell you to have some food. You’ll nod sullenly, looking about as if you expect to be set upon by unseen combatants at any moment, before settling down and eating a bite of potato pancake. The food will instantly relax you, its delicious savory flavor and crisp, delicate texture making you think of a better version of hashbrowns.

“Is there anything Jews aren’t good at?” you’ll mumble to yourself as you pick up an entire pancake and start munching on it. When you finish that one you’ll start another, then another, then another until you look around and there aren’t any latkes left. You’ll panic. While you know Dave loves your inability to be normal for five god damn minutes you’ll worry that he’ll be upset over you eating all of his food. But since you have no idea how to make more potato pancakes you’ll be at an impasse.

You’ll rip through his kitchen, leaving a trail of destruction in your wake as you desperately search for some appropriate substitute. You’ll consider throwing some potato chips into a pan but then you’ll remember that those probably don’t have real potatoes. Your perceived salvation will come in the form of a ten pound sack of russets, already open, underneath Dave’s sink.

You’ll pull the russets out one by one and place them inside of Dave’s oven, heating it to 450 degrees. Then you’ll pound your beer, along with two others, just for good measure, and go out and mingle. As you depart Dave will come into the kitchen to check on you, having grown tired of your wife’s tirade about Mumia Abu Jamal.

“How’s it going, bud?” he’ll ask, surveying the kitchen.

“Good,” you’ll say, your breath reeking of latke. He’ll wave his hand in front of his face.

“Jesus. You enjoyed the pancakes, eh?” he’ll say, wandering over to survey the kitchen. You’ll look around for something heavy to hit him with but there won’t be anything hand. You’ll consider stabbing him, but stabbing normally causes death, not short term memory loss, so you’ll decide against it.

After a moment he’ll turn to you. “Did you eat all of the latkes?” he’ll ask, incredulously.

“I can explain,” you’ll shout. Dave will look at you, perplexed. You’ll quickly slap together a tale of a gun wielding madman who forced you, upon pain of death, to devour every single delicious potato pancake in the kitchen. You’ll then show him your ingenious solution: non-pancaked potatoes, enough for all the party guests. About halfway through Dave will just burst out laughing uncontrollably. He’ll call his wife in and have you tell her the story too, removing the potatoes from the oven and shredding them into a bowl to prepare more pancakes. His wife, drunk beyond belief, won’t be able to stand up when you get to the part where the gunman told you about his childhood. She’ll fall to the floor, laughing, occasionally sipping her wine as she looks between you and her husband and shakes her head.

It will be at this moment that she decides she wants to have a foursome with you and your wife.

Congratulations on Eating All the Potato Pancakes!