I love it when someone blows a stereotype into smithereens.
On Independence Day I was standing in line for food at a picnic. The procedure was that you filled your plate from the buffet set out in the garage and then, carrying your plate, returned to the backyard seating area past the people still waiting in line. By pure chance, I happened to be standing next to a burly, heavily tattooed stranger who, according to a patch on his denim vest, was the vice president of a motorcycle club.
We were making pleasant small talk about how hungry we were and how hot it was standing in the sun -- I was perspiring through my little summer frock and he kept wiping his brow with a red bandana -- when a fellow guest passed by carrying a plate full of sushi.
"Ooh!" my new friend exclaimed. "Aww, man! There's sushi!"
He went on to describe his love for sushi in vivid language. But when we finally reached the buffet table, I noticed he skipped the tray of seaweed-wrapped rolls and dug into the bowl of tortellini salad instead.
"What?!" I asked him. "Weren't you just saying you loved sushi?"
He explained that yes, he was -- but he was also very particular about what kind he liked, and this just didn't meet his standards.