To start with, this guy. I don’t even know how to describe him because to do so, at least in this day and age of everyone being offended about every little thing means to accurately describe him, would take some doing. Let’s start with his stylish clothing. He was dressed to the nines, almost like he was going on a date. Shoes? Impeccable Italian leather – at least, I assumed as much based on his Armani suit. He came to the door with two small salad-type plates, both containing small portions of what I could only imagine were samples of the food he had personally cooked. I’m unsure if he expected me, a random stranger, to taste-test these various food items or what. His walk was more of a sashay than a trot,  almost like he was dancing to the door in slow motion. I couldn’t figure out what he was doing or why he was coming to my house, but we were standing directly in front of each other.

               “Why, hello there, Mr. Kanga.” He held out both plates to me, waving them in a small flourish, the way a magician waves the flowers he pulled out of his sleeve a minute earlier. “What we have here is two different types of…” I stopped him midsentence.

               “I’m sorry, I’m going to stop you right there. First, who are you? I’ve never met you before. Second, why are you standing there with two plates of food?”

               I could tell I hurt his feelings, his face staring back at me in a pout. “Who am I?” He set down both plates on the sidewalk. With the flamboyance of Fosse, he crossed his arms and snapped at me. “Who am I? How dare you, Mr. Joshua. You don’t get to talk to me,” he strongly emphasized ‘me,’ “like that. I am the most excellent Chef in Cape Girardeau. Well, second to Chef Essmyer, that is. James. James Ballarchi.”

               I rolled my eyes. The arrogance of this man was killing me! “Well, Chef Ballarchi, why in the heck are you bringing me two very well-plated dishes? That’s not making much sense to me.”

               “You messaged me. On the Google. Don’t you remember?”

               “Googled you?” I laughed. “I don’t think so. I’d remember doing something like that. Besides, I’m into women. I don’t date guys.”

               “But you sent the message. I swear it!” He quickly pulled out his phone and showed me the text.

As I started reading it, my vision blurred. You might say my subconscious told me I didn’t need to read it. But whatever the case, I had apparently text-blasted the same message to multiple dating sites, specifically targeting men! I don’t know how it happened or what bot sent the news, but the text wasn’t mine. Even the language was choppy.

               Talk about freaking me out! Now, I was second-guessing myself. I had to retrace all the places this message was sent or take Facebook and Google down and start over. Ugh. The idea of that made me mad, and the mere fact that someone would take my name and associate me with this trash. It made me sick. I wondered about all the women who had guys bad mouth them online without provocation. Guys who thought it was okay to write untrue statements about all kinds of women because they didn’t get the attention they felt they deserved. Are men acting like babies? Yeah. Well, the reverse was true in my case. This was a bot, at least I thought so, that decided to send suggestive texts to random men, telling them that I would ‘put out’ with the offer of a good meal. At least, that’s what I gathered from the gentleman standing before me, pouting.

               The Chef covered his face with his hand and mumbled, “I’m so embarrassed. I knew I should’ve texted you to ensure it was a legitimate request.”

               “I wasn’t trying to be mean to you, Chef. I’m not into guys. I like women. That’s all.”

               “Oh, I know. You looked too straight to be into me anyway, and I saw your kids and your profile picture, and I assumed you lost your way. You know? So, I guess that’s something I need to work on. Figuring out who is and who isn’t gay, yeah?”

               He scrubbed away a few stray tears that streaked his cheeks. “I guess I have to throw this away now.” He picked up both plates and pushed them in my face. “Unless you’d like to try them both and tell me what you think?”

               Free food? Sure. Why the hell not? It’s free. Plus, it’s cooked by a man who knows Chef Lisa is the best Chef in Cape Girardeau. I’d be a fool to not try his food and give him my honest opinion of the dishes.

               The review I gave Chef Ballarchi got picked up by several foodie magazines, putting him on the map. Last I heard, he moved to New Orleans a few weeks ago, and his bistro is gaining traction. Glad I could help out the guy.