The only people who appreciate my taste in food are those
under the age of 12, who have not yet hit puberty and who consider pizza with pepperoni and mushrooms to be a vegetable. While hordes of my friends are
blogging about their latest fine dining discoveries, I’m eating a Big Mac while
silently daydreaming about a Jr. Whopper with cheese. Reading posts on Facebook
about sustainable, locally grown organic artisanal tomatoes, I nod and continue
shoveling Sponge Bob shaped Easy Mac into my gaping mouth, cursing Kraft for
making the bowl so small. Who are they making this for?? A 5-year old??
Probably.
So it always surprises me when a friend- presumably someone
who knows me and has, in fact, met me before, suggests we go somewhere fancy.
“Like where? Olive Garden?” I will inevitably ask. This question is frequently
met with a horrified expression, as if I’d just asked, “Where should I poop? Is
the sink okay?”
It certainly doesn’t help that I live a short drive away
from what some people consider to be the food mecca of the world- San
Francisco. San Francisco has more restaurants per capita (39.3 per 10,000
households) than any other city in America. This means nothing to me because I
still can’t find anywhere I actually want to eat.
It almost goes without saying that there really are not very
many chain restaurants in San Francisco. The only one I can think of is The
Cheesecake Factory, and I have been there no less than 587 times. I usually end
up there after wandering around aimlessly for hours, in search of something
resembling “food” on the “menus” posted outside of “restaurants.” I don’t even
like The Cheesecake Factory- it just so happens that there is no Taco Bell
close by and that, even if there was, my “friends” complain that it “gives them
diarrhea.”
I was in the midst of a personal crisis when an out of town
friend arrived and a local mutual friend asked me where we should meet for
dinner. “I don’t care, pick something and let me know when to show up,” was my
hasty reply. Assuming this must be some kind of a joke or trap, he hesitated
and then asked, “Are you sure?” Realizing the control I’d given up, I knew I
had to at least throw down some ground rules. “Yes- but no seafood. And nothing
ethnic!” “So, American?” he asked. “Come
on,” I chuckled, “ I’m not THAT picky. Italian would also be okay.” I somehow
ended up agreeing to go somewhere new, modern and exciting- which in my mind,
means terrible, scary, and disgusting. A little elbow to my side and my friends
assured me it would be fine. “Come on! You’ll like it!” they said, with
encouraging grins, “It’s not ethnic!” I scowled and made a mental note to never
allow this to happen to me ever again. I reassured myself that I would not go
hungry. I assumed I’d be able to dissect my meal or pig out on appetizers. At
the very least, I knew there was a 24 hour Jack in the Box fairly close
by.
We ended up somewhere with “Chop” or “Bistro” in the name
and I knew I was doomed the second we stepped in the door. Dim lights, tables
propped up on old barrels, mismatched chairs, drinks served in mason jars with
handles- things that just scream “MEGHAN. YOU DO NOT BELONG HERE.” We stood in
a teeny tiny alcove that was their waiting area and waited roughly 45 minutes
past our reservation time for our table.
A thin man with hipster glasses and a ponytail escorted us
to our table- a misshapen piece of wood nailed to a shipping crate- and we were
seated 2 by 2 on hard plastic benches. He asked if he could get us anything.
“Chairs?” I joked. He didn’t seem to find that humorous, so I took that as my
queue to just go ahead and pretend to be an adult for the rest of the evening.
He handed me a menu with a smirk and the look on his face said “You’re going
hungry tonight, bitch.”
I quickly skimmed the menu, looking for something familiar,
or at least something I could recognize as food. “I’m pretty sure I have those
in my garage… I think I learned about that in astronomy… Nothing about this is
in a language I understand… There we go. I’m pretty sure that’s a pork chop
with some shit on the side. I can just ask them to hold the shit… or I’ll push
it away from the things I actually want to eat.”
Our drinks arrived. My friend’s beer had a straw and ice in
it. My Diet Coke tasted funny, so I asked the waiter if had alcohol in it. “Oh,
no,” he told me, “We make our own carbonated water to mix with the syrup.”
“That’s not even legal!” I insisted to my friends, once the
waiter was out of earshot, “I mean… it’s Diet Coke… they have their own
carbonated water! That is part of their formula! That’s what makes it Diet
Coke!” I was suddenly an expert on all things Diet Coke, and I was furious with
this establishment for infringing on the rights of this multi bazillion dollar
company.
It was finally time for us to place our order. I casually
asked the waiter to “please, hold the bone marrow,” and crossed my fingers that
I would end up with something edible.
Some appetizers showed up- none of which I had ordered,
because I didn’t know what “taro chips with yuzu aioli” meant, and I certainly
wasn’t about to pay $13 to find out. Something was placed on the table that
looked halfway edible so I asked my friend what he had ordered. “Oh, those are
the blistered peppers,” he replied, like some asshole who knows what he’s
talking about, “Did you want to try one?” I hastily shook my head, “No… umm…
aren’t blisters universally bad?” He shrugged and bit into one. I gagged and
took a sip of my fraudulent Diet Coke.
Finally, it was game time- the meals arrived. My marrow-less
pork chop was placed before me and I immediately began scraping things off of
it. My plate was split into two sides: edible vs
non-edible, food vs decoration, me vs the world. I consumed the 3 edible bites
of my dish and declared, “I just can’t eat anymore!” To my friends, that meant
I was full. No, I was starving, but there was nothing left on that plate that I
could physically put into my mouth, chew and swallow without vomiting.
I don’t even have anything clever to say about the dessert
menu. I thought that maybe I’d find something on there that could fill me up,
but I stopped reading after I saw “avocado and chive sorbet.”
Later, as I was sitting in bed eating a Cup O’Noodles, I got
a text from my friend saying, “See, it wasn’t that bad!” Au contraire, my dear
friend, it was exactly as terrible as I predicted it would be the second we
walked through that door.
If you want to go out to dinner with me…
prepare to be underwhelmed by your boringly delicious general food options. I
don’t know what this new craze of putting nonsensical words onto menus is, but
I’m old school. I want my steak with potatoes on the side, my spaghetti with
meatballs (from COWS, not from Australian lamb that has been massaged and
basted in a red wine reduction), and my burger with a melted slice of American
cheese on top. What’s the word for the opposite of a foodie? A normal? That’s
what I am. I’m normal.
ACCUSATION: I'm an immature and picky eater
VERDICT: It's not me, it's you.
