Iyow - in your own words

My friends Tom and Helen were visiting from England. They had never been to the Bay Area. They posed in front of the Golden Gate, bought a book a poetry from City Lights, but when it came time for dinner I didn’t want them to just settle for soup served in a bowl of bread.

“This restaurant is something you won’t see in England,” my friend Joe said. He was right.

It was called Café Gratitude. More than just a raw, vegan restaurant, it was a self-actualization seminar. The staff all had that ethereal, slightly unhinged look of the unconditionally loving, their eyes wide and innocent like herbivores without prior consciousness of their natural predators. Their motto was: ‘Our food and people are a celebration of our aliveness.’

Brightly lit, the walls were decorated with posters executed in the flat style of Sunday school primers. One featured a maiden looking into a reflective river amid pastel mountains. The caption read, ‘Can you surrender to how beautiful you are?’ The one next to us had two children playing at a swimming hole. A girl laughed with abandon on the bank. A boy was swinging on a rope over the water. Joe said, “Look closely.” The boy only had one arm, the other just a stump. The text said, ‘Can you just let go and accept what is?’

All the dishes are affirmations; whenever you order, you self-actualize: I Am Lovely. I Am Creative. I Am Aloha. I Am Great. I Am Plenty Great (the I Am Great, only with fruit). I Am Passionate and I Am Sensational are the pizzas. I Am Cheerful is the burger. I Am Extra-Giving is sea vegetables. I Am Thrilled is ‘live cinnamon bun.’ The ‘live’ alarmed me.

For drinks you can order, or affirm, I Am Worthy (a nice kale juice), I am Eternally Blessed, I Am Luscious, I Am Lusciously Awake (an I Am Luscious, only with coffee). Or an I Am All Of It, when too much is not enough. I Am Vivid and I Am Red Hot are cocktails, if self-medication rather than self-actualization seems more necessary.

Tom ordered an I Am Accepting and an I Am Grace. The waiter smiled. “You ARE Accepting and Grace!” He moved on to Helen who ordered an I Am Flourishing and a water. The waiter said, “You ARE Flourishing …” ...and moist? But the waiter left it at that.

Personal affirmations are nothing to make light of. I ordered an I Am Fulfilled with an I Am Effervescent to wash it down. The waiter took my menu: “You are Fulfilled and Effervescent.” Did he say that half-heartedly? This place brought out my insecurities. What would happen if I couldn’t get loved even in a place where the corporate policy was to love everyone? Perhaps I should have ordered the I Am Adored. Forced him to say it.

The waiter gave us the question-of-the-day to discuss over the meal: “What do your family and friends love about you?” Tom and Helen looked away. I went to the bathroom. Painted on the mirror were the words ‘You are adoring who you are. Can you accept that?’

Our drinks arrived. Tom’s Grace was made coconut milk. “The coconut milk is fresh! We have a team working crushing coconuts and scooping them out from midnight to eight in morning.” Employing your own sweatshop of husk-crackers doesn’t sound too Compassionate (although, to be fair, that one was made of orange juice). Helen whispered, “I Am Mexican, I Am Tired, and I Smell Of Coconuts.”

The waiter brought over our meals. “You are Flourishing,” he said to Helen and put her plate down.

He turned to Tom. “Are you Elated?”

“No. I’m Accepting.”

“You’re not Elated? Well,” he said to Joe, “you must be Elated.”

“I don’t think so,” Joe said, “I know I’m a side of Generous.”

“Well, who’s Elated?”

“I’m Fulfilled,” I said.

“Yeah, I know you’re Fulfilled,” he snapped.

“And Efferverscent.”

“So you’re not Elated?” he said to Joe. “You’re not Insightful, are you?”

“No,” Joe said, “I think I’m Celebrating.”

“You wanna be Elated?”

“Okay. I’ll be Elated.”

“Whatever. Or I can take it back to the kitchen and I’ll be Elated.”

Can you just let go and accept what is?

Tom had just about finished his Grace. Unfortunately it contained some I Am Brazil Nuts, to which he is dramatically allergic. He ran to the bathroom. ‘Try to visualize how beautiful you are.’

When he came back, his lips were distended, burning, purple. “You Are Swollen,” we said. “I Am Pissed Off,” he said. The waiter rushed over with I Am Pond Scum (his words), a shot of bluegreen algae and Mother/Father God knows what else. As his lips were turgid and immobile, and so large he couldn’t close them, bluegreen clotty ooze dripped out of the sides of his mouth. A waitress came over and rested her head on Tom’s. “Don’t worry,” she said, “we still love you.”

Still? Did she mean, even if you are somehow a defective?

On reflection, perhaps it wasn’t the Brazil nuts, perhaps Tom was just allergic to the unguarded emotions of the place. Being English and all. We thought it best to leave, to go put Tom’s lips on ice, so we reluctantly skipped desert.

Before we could leave the waiter asked us, “What are you grateful for?”

Tom didn’t have to answer.