This was a contest winner. I'm posting it here without discussion only because the original had a few serious issues that you voters charitably overlooked but it has always bugged me that I couldn't go back and fix them. 
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“You’ll never convince me cilantro doesn’t taste like soap. Who wants to eat soap tacos?”
“Just ask if they’ll hold it,” I tell him.
We’ve adjourned—recessed, whatever it’s called—for lunch at the nearest Mexican restaurant. His wife, packed off for her own safety, has been texting non-stop since he got his phone back. They put us at a tiny table facing outside with our knees almost touching but I’m man enough not to care how gay it looks. Cerveza for me, tequila for him, huevos rancheros extra mild, chiles rellenos and hold the cilantro. The waiter gives him a weird look and departs.
“I’m scared, Jimmy,” he says. “This thing’s bigger than I thought.”
“That’s what your mom said,” I reply, trying the humor angle.
“Would you be serious for just a friggin’ second?” he claps back, not appreciating it at all. “Everybody does it—that’s what I’d have told you two weeks ago. Everybody up and down the river fudges the numbers and calls them acceptable. Forever chemicals below 4 ppt? Acceptable. An unscheduled discharge of mercury—what’s the background anyway? Acceptable. Everybody does it, but everybody doesn’t get subpoenaed. Houston is pissed. Singapore wants answers. The Feds’ eyebrows are up. It’s not chemicals they smell in the water. It’s blood, and it’s mine.”
“Well, I’ve got your back,” I reassure him, weakly. His fingers alight on a line at the bottom of the menu: Quality of some drinks dependent on local water supply.
“Hey, that cilantro thing,” I say, changing the subject. “Did you know it’s genetic?”
He shakes his head.
“Really. There’s a gene that makes it taste funny. 20% of Europeans have it but only 3% of Mexicans. So for centuries they’ve been making delicious food that a fifth of the world’s white population can’t appreciate.”
“Huh.”
“And here’s a crazier story. There’s a completely different gene—2R-something-or-other—that makes you able to taste certain poisons. It can pass down to your kids too. Ancient kings figured it out and made the best tasters marry each other so they’d produce whole lines of poison testers.”
The waiter brings our drinks. Different waiter than last time for some reason. He leaves in a hurry. I take a sip of michelada—beer, clamato, lime, perfection.
“Where did you learn so much about the human genome?” he asks.
“Ancestry test. Birthday present from the wife.”
“Huh,” he says again—pounding back the shot.
The shot.
The waiter.
Houston is pissed.
I grab his shirt with both hands, knocking the table over, spattering beer against the plate-glass window, and give him a kiss—a full-on, tongue-thrusting, exploratory, tonsil-tickling teenage dream of a kiss. He grunts in surprise, shoving me away and knocking over both of our chairs.
“Jimmy! What the heck’s wrong with you!?” he exclaims.
“The tequila,” I choke, holding up a hand to silence him while trying to scrub the bitterness from my mouth. “You've been poisoned. We’re going to the ER.”
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“You’ll never convince me cilantro doesn’t taste like soap. Who wants to eat soap tacos?”
“Just ask if they’ll hold it,” I tell him.
We’ve adjourned—recessed, whatever it’s called—for lunch at the nearest Mexican restaurant. His wife, packed off for her own safety, has been texting non-stop since he got his phone back. They put us at a tiny table facing outside with our knees almost touching but I’m man enough not to care how gay it looks. Cerveza for me, tequila for him, huevos rancheros extra mild, chiles rellenos and hold the cilantro. The waiter gives him a weird look and departs.
“I’m scared, Jimmy,” he says. “This thing’s bigger than I thought.”
“That’s what your mom said,” I reply, trying the humor angle.
“Would you be serious for just a friggin’ second?” he claps back, not appreciating it at all. “Everybody does it—that’s what I’d have told you two weeks ago. Everybody up and down the river fudges the numbers and calls them acceptable. Forever chemicals below 4 ppt? Acceptable. An unscheduled discharge of mercury—what’s the background anyway? Acceptable. Everybody does it, but everybody doesn’t get subpoenaed. Houston is pissed. Singapore wants answers. The Feds’ eyebrows are up. It’s not chemicals they smell in the water. It’s blood, and it’s mine.”
“Well, I’ve got your back,” I reassure him, weakly. His fingers alight on a line at the bottom of the menu: Quality of some drinks dependent on local water supply.
“Hey, that cilantro thing,” I say, changing the subject. “Did you know it’s genetic?”
He shakes his head.
“Really. There’s a gene that makes it taste funny. 20% of Europeans have it but only 3% of Mexicans. So for centuries they’ve been making delicious food that a fifth of the world’s white population can’t appreciate.”
“Huh.”
“And here’s a crazier story. There’s a completely different gene—2R-something-or-other—that makes you able to taste certain poisons. It can pass down to your kids too. Ancient kings figured it out and made the best tasters marry each other so they’d produce whole lines of poison testers.”
The waiter brings our drinks. Different waiter than last time for some reason. He leaves in a hurry. I take a sip of michelada—beer, clamato, lime, perfection.
“Where did you learn so much about the human genome?” he asks.
“Ancestry test. Birthday present from the wife.”
“Huh,” he says again—pounding back the shot.
The shot.
The waiter.
Houston is pissed.
I grab his shirt with both hands, knocking the table over, spattering beer against the plate-glass window, and give him a kiss—a full-on, tongue-thrusting, exploratory, tonsil-tickling teenage dream of a kiss. He grunts in surprise, shoving me away and knocking over both of our chairs.
“Jimmy! What the heck’s wrong with you!?” he exclaims.
“The tequila,” I choke, holding up a hand to silence him while trying to scrub the bitterness from my mouth. “You've been poisoned. We’re going to the ER.”
