Me? I eat other peoples' nachos.
It started when I was a kid. Grace, Idaho county fair. Rodeo time. For some inexplicable reason, someone dropped a yet-unfinished cardboard carton of nachos from the bleachers onto the ground below. I was about 6 years old, so naturally I was underneath the bleachers goofing around instead of watching the rodeo. I happened upon the nachos and did what seemed totally normal to me: spread the cheese sauce onto the hamburger that my uncle had bought for me (over my protests in preference of getting a CHEESEburger).
If you're one who eats other peoples' nachos, there are abundant opportunities to ply your craft. Junior high was a shangri-la of not-my-nachos eating. Seriously, it felt like my civic duty. It was the mid-80's, "there [were] people dying, and it [was] time to lend a hand", but kids were still leaving their partially-eaten nachos all over the cafeteria at the end of lunch. It was a no brainer: I honored the starving children of the world by eating the nachos.
A particularly memorable nachos-capade occurred at Jack Murphy Stadium in San Diego. Days before I got married, a couple of cousins and I took a road trip to San Diego to have some fun. At a Padres game one night, I watched a barely-touched tray of nachos sit on an armrest three rows in front of me - totally abandoned by their owner. Inning after painstaking inning the nachos sat there. What kind of respect is that to show a serving of nachos? None, and I for one was offended. So during the 7th-inning stretch I ambled down a few rows, nonchalantly picked up the orphaned dish, and returned to my seat. The cheese was cold and had that darkish film across the top layer but it didn't deter me one bit. They were some of the best free nachos I've ever had, if for nothing more than the feeling of rescue and closure I brought to the situation. My cousins still mention this incident fairly regularly.
Which brings me to tonight.
Eating other peoples' nachos might seem like something that a person would grow out of. You may consider it to be limited to childhood, or misguided adolescence, or at the most young adulthood when wild oats are sown.
Not with me. No ma'am. I proved tonight that a mid-30's, married with 4 kids, grown professional man can still eat other peoples' nachos. No doubt about it.
We're at Fat Cats, mid-way through our first game of bowling, when I notice that the group of college kids on the adjacent lane have put the plastic lid back onto their large order of chips with queso. Strange, I thought, that more than half of the order remained and yet the lid was back on. Surely they were only attempting to keep the cheese warm while they bowled.
Several frames passed. My own bowling score wobbled as my ability to concentrate waned. I wanted to focus on the pins, but I could only think about the chips. And the cheese. And the chips together with the cheese.
The group finished their game and began putting on their street shoes. I made my first public declaration. "If those guys leave those nachos there, I'm eating them." I had to plant the seed in our group's mind so as to avoid a counter-offensive from my own ranks when I made my move. They guffawed and made comments of disdain. They didn't believe me, but I knew what had to be done.
See, the key to eating other peoples' nachos is making sure that the nachos have been officially abandoned. A plate of nachos has a very long shelf life, so it's not unreasonable to think that an owner could put his nachos down and then come back for them much later. I would do it, if I had accidentally left my nachos behind.
So I didn't strike immediately after the group left their lane. I waited and watched. I saw them head towards the front doors and then out. I waited some more, but timing was critical because a new group could arrive at the adjacent lane at any time and clear the table, throwing the nachos in the trash.
I made my move during the second frame our our second game. It was a bold movement, straight for the container and straight back to my seat. I didn't ask for permission or for forgiveness. I simply removed the plastic lid, dipped a chip into the room-temperature cheese sauce in the cup, and savored it all.
Our friends on this outing - we'll call them the "Parks" - didn't say much. It was a polite avoidance, like the kind you employ when another couple gets in an argument in your company, or when someone else passes gas in a social setting. "Ignore it. Don't make a scene." I'm sure that's what they were thinking.
Well guess what? I ate the entire remains of that order of nachos and it was darn good. All of the cheese sauce was in a cup, so none of the chips had become soggy from direct prolonged exposure to it. The chips were crispy. The sauce was delightful. It was like a nice gaspacho, but instead of tomatoes it was just cheese. Delicious, cold, free cheese accompanied by a helping of delightful chips.
That's right. I ate other peoples' nachos tonight. And I'll do it again if you leave yours lying around.
