Doggie Bags aka In the face of oppression

They say that America is the home of the free. For the most part though, most freedoms we have are shared by all western nations. In fact, compared to some nations like Holland, the US isn't even the most free of all nations. I now realize that I had taken my freedom for granted, for I have now been faced with my first taste of oppression.

We had all gone out to eat for Jess's birthday. I ordered a steak, that being the most recommended item on the menu. Dinner was offered with a salad bar and a choice of vegetables. Like any American, I loaded up on some soup, dinner rolls, a small salad and some fruit. Next came my steak, prepared just to my liking. After half the steak, I was quite stated. I set aside the remaining steak and munched on a few chips. Then Jess's grandmother turned to me and said, "Aaron, aren't you going to finish your steak?" I told her no, I'm quite satisfied with my food intake for the evening and would concede to having the rest on a sandwich the next day for lunch. Suddenly, half the table was staring at me in disbelief.

"That's illegal." Jess said.

I chuckled a little to my self. Illegal. Those Aussies are so full of bullshit. I waited for that "I got ya" smile, but after staring her down for a minute with a dopey grin, not such smile emerged. She was serious; it was illegal to take home the remainder of the meal.

"Why is it illegal?"

Diseases she explained. The food has been cooked and if I don't get it refrigerated soon, it could be a breeding ground for foodbourne illness. Aussies are paranoid of foodbourne illness? I asked. Aussies seemed so laid back about this stuff. I work at a restaurant here, yet I've not seen one rubber glove. Not one wash your hands sign. Few hand washing sinks. No fingernail brushes. No thermometers with clipboards for taking temperatures of everything two times a day. This is OK, because doggie bags are the real hazard.

I blew my top. "That is most idiotic thing I've ever heard."

"Well, you don't know where those containers have been."

"YES I DO, THE SAME PLACE AS EVERYTHING ELSE IN THE KITCHEN!" I replied. I went on a ten minute diatribe about how the containers are cleaner than the plates and how this food was purchased by me (actually, Les picked up the tab) and therefore it belongs to me. Renting food. Pah! I contemplated a sit-in, but I figured that would get me deported. Instead, I finished my steak.

I left the restaurant that night, filled with the feeling of a stuffed belly, but most of all, I was filled with a feeling that few young, white, American men ever experience: a lack of freedom, petty, yet still hurtful.