The Tartar Sauce Incident

When I knew Otto Warburge in the late 1980’s, he was a fifty year old cigar smoking moderately retarded male whose body failed him by middle age. Although still categorized as an elopement risk, Otto was almost too old to be considered a runaway threat by the institution that housed him. No matter what his chart chronicled, Otto's creative use of vocabulary could put a wide smile on any face.

In the dining area, meals were served family style. To a varying degree of success, clients passed large bowls and plates of food around the busy table. I drew the assignment of helping to supervise the lunch meal. Make no mistake about the aroma, the fare of the day consisted of fish sticks and tater tots.

I overheard Otto make a simple request to his peers sitting at the other end of the table. “Pass the retarder sauce.”

“The what?” I asked.

“The retarder sauce for the fish sticks.” repeated Otto.

I picked up the small bowl of what I thought he was looking for. “Do you mean the tarter sauce, Otto?”

“That is what I said stupid, the retarder sauce.”

The English language may never have been more self-incriminating.