Confessions of a Call Center Gal - By Lisa Lim Page 0,51

voice. “It’s bhangra music.”

This particular song has a slight R&B feel to it, and every so often a female’s velvety vocals blend in with the catchy beats.

He darts me a glance. “So, what do you think of bhangra?”

Listening raptly, I say, “I think if Mary J Blige were to cut an Indian record, this is what it would sound like.”

This elicits a smile from Mika. “What about you? What do you listen to?”

“I tune in to NPR most of the time. As for music, it’s a hodgepodge, but Jack Johnson is probably my favorite.”

When I listen to Johnson’s drifting chords, the strum of his ukulele and his laidback acoustics, I’m magically transported to a paradisal beach in the Maldives where coconut trees sway lazily in the wind, and I inhale the salty island breeze.

Needless to say, it’s nothing like the Panjabi Hit Squad. But bhangra is pretty catchy. Sinking back onto the worn out leather seat, I chill to the music for the rest of the ride.

Papa’s Pizzeria is empty for a Friday night. Tiny tables and chairs are crammed into a minuscule space.

Holy Ravioli! This place is a dive. It’s a hole in the wall. In fact, it’s so small that it’s a hole in the hole in the wall.

A rat hole, to be precise.

Mika instantly reads my mind. “Don’t worry, Maddy. This is the town’s best kept secret. They make the best pizzas.”

At the register, Mika turns to me. “So, should we get a whole pizza or just individual slices?”

“A whole one!”

“A whole pizza it is,” he declares. “What kind?”

“Is ham and pineapple okay with you?”

He approves. “Drink?”

“7 Up with lots of ice.”

“My treat,” he insists and shoos me off.

I pick a dimly lit booth, remove my coat and slide in.

My ears perk up when I hear Mika conversing with an elderly man behind the register—in French!

Minutes later, Mika strides over and carefully sets our drinks on the table. “Our pizza should be ready in about ten minutes.”

“Sweet,” I say airily and remove the plastic lid from my cup.

He shrugs off his navy bomber jacket. “You hungry?”

I spoon an ice cube into my mouth. “Ravenous!”

“Good!” he exclaims and scoots into the booth. “You won’t be disappointed. The owner of this pizzeria, Giuseppe, he’s Italian; his family immigrated to France twelve years ago and they just moved to Pocatello last year. Giuseppe was just telling me that he finally got his green card today.”

I crunch on an ice cube. “I heard you speaking to him in French. Is that what most Belgians speak?”

He pokes a straw through the plastic lid. “Well in the north, the Flemish or the Flanders speak Dutch. And in the south, the Walloons speak French. In Brussels, they speak both languages.” He takes a sip of his Coke. “Near the German border, some speak German; and most of the younger crowd can speak English.” Half-smiling, he adds, “Some people make fun of us; they say we can speak three languages, but none of them intelligibly.” He laughs. “Of course I don’t agree with that.”

“So are you Flemish or are you a Walloonian?” I ask cheekily.

I can’t help it; but every time I hear that word, an unpleasant image of a chesty cough comes to mind. An image of phlegm. Flemish phlegm, to be precise.

And Walloon? Is that a wandering tribe of baboons?

Mika chuckles heartily. “I’m a Wallonie.”

“Oh. Parlez Vous Francais?”

“Oui. I’m what you’d call a Francophone.”

I rest my chin on my hands. “Say something in French.”

Just then, our pizza arrives at the table.

“Jambon et ananas pizza,” he says with a flourish.

“What does that mean?” I ask breathlessly.

“It means ham and pineapple pizza.”

I snicker. “Say something else.”

“S'il vous plaît permet de manger.”

Ah, it all sounds so romantic. In fact, I think anything said in French sounds dreamy, lovely and complimentary. You can say you want to murder someone in French, saw his neck off with a blunt pocket knife and scalp the skin off his head, and it’d still sound romantic...like waxing poetic in my ear.

Actually, French is considered a Romance language because it is derived from Roman, and deeply rooted in Latin (which was the primary language used by the Romans), so it sounds romantic because it is a Romance language after all.

I release a dreamy sigh. “Oooh, what did you just say?”

His mouth twitches. “It means ‘please, let’s eat’.”

“Bon Appétit!” I exclaim Julia Child-style.

We eat in companionable silence for a while, sharing in the growing comfort of warm dough and mozzarella cheese filling our