I am a provincial fool when it comes to dining out. That may be because I spent most of my youth watching bad TV and eating either processed food at home or overcooked burgers at fast-food restaurants. When I went off to college and graduate school, I tried to catch up, but I lacked the money and guidance that might have enabled me to develop a more sophisticated palate.
Age has not improved me. Furthermore, I seem to invite public humiliation by striving to appear food savvy, despite my ignorance. As illustrations of the volatile mix of insecurity and obliviousness, consider three pathetic vignettes.
The Bento Box
With a colleague, I went to a hip, expensive Asian-fusion restaurant that boasted one of the best chefs in the Western United States. After being pressured by a dreadlocked waiter to order after only seconds of examining the menu, I awkwardly pointed to a cool-sounding item called “Bento Box.” When the server returned several minutes later and placed before me a propane burner the size of a small briefcase, I sensed I had made a mistake. In a patronizing tone, he explained that this was a portable stove top that I would use to cook my own meal.
During the ensuing wait, I tried to convince myself that this would be fun. But when our food arrived, it became fully clear that I’d made a disastrous choice. My colleague was presented with a piece of macadamia-nut-encrusted halibut, and I was given a small pot of broth and a cute wooden box not much larger than a deck of cards. It contained my entire meal: several anemic strips of raw beef and a scattering of mini-vegetables.
For the next 15 minutes, I played the part of an inept ninja, awkwardly wrestling with skewers, flames, and boiling liquid. In sum, I spent more than $70 to expend more calories than I consumed; to burn myself on both hand and tongue; and to eat a bland and meager meal in a restaurant famed for its progressive menu and creative chef.
New England Clambake
Before attending a conference in Boston, I asked friends for advice on where and what to eat. They gave vague recommendations — “try some seafood,” or “check out an Italian restaurant in the North End.” When I prodded for more specifics, they waved me off with “Oh, you can’t go wrong.”
On my first night out, however, the only eateries in sight were Chili’s, The Cheesecake Factory, and California Pizza Kitchen. So I retreated quickly to the hotel’s vaguely Italian-themed restaurant. After an officious waiter seated me at a conspicuous table, I anxiously surveyed the pricey menu. My panic rose at the prospect of once again making both a bad and expensive choice. But then my eye caught hold of the word “lobster” under the menu item “New England Clambake”; I knew instantly that this was my dish. I had never eaten lobster in my life, and here was the perfect chance to both remedy that embarrassing fact and fulfill my friends’ injunction to try some great seafood.
My confidence wavered slightly when the waiter raised his eyebrows and hesitated before writing down the order, but I smiled and nodded firmly, as if I had ordered this fine dish dozens of times before. I passed the next hour impatiently devouring several baskets of bread. Eventually the waiter tried to appease me by prepping me for the meal, bringing out a large plate with various metal tools, and then tying a plastic bib around my neck. For another 10 minutes I sat there practically motionless, red-faced — a middle-aged man seated by himself who apparently needs special tools and a toddler’s protective gear when he dines.
When the waiter finally emerged with my dish, I was mortified. The size of the platter was enormous (apparently this was a meal to be shared by several people), and the contents created an outrageous spectacle: Dozens of open clams and mussels were arrayed as if in death throes around the platter; several whole, boiled potatoes squatted in their midst; and, elevated in the center, was a lobster, splayed out in all of its insectile glory.
The waiter must have noticed my look of distress when he placed the tray in front of me, for he gently tried to comfort me, squeezing my shoulder and whispering, “Good call, sir, good call.”
Within minutes I had eaten the shriveled pieces of mussel and clam — an amazingly minuscule amount of meat considering the original mass of shells. I had also taken a few bites of the lame potatoes. Disappointed, I hoped that the lobster would live up to its reputation. It didn’t. It was rubbery, bitter, and difficult to get at.
Dejected, I surveyed the carnage before me and wondered if I had somehow missed the best part of the crustacean; perhaps the choicest morsels were located under the large shell of its thorax. With determination, I began excavating. When I finally cracked its body open, I was horrified by what I saw: an array of mealy tendons, congealed green goo, and masses of connective tissue. Realizing that I had just done something foolish, I quickly covered the lobster’s shame. Looking up to make sure that no one had observed my mistake, I was startled to see that the waiter and one of his companions had been watching me closely, enjoying the tragicomic slapstick at my table. Tugging on my bib, I offered a pathetic wave.
Rabbit Loaf
A few years ago, I attended a conference in France with several colleagues. Because I had spent some time living there as a missionary in my young-adult years, my fellow Americans expected that I would be a knowledgeable guide when it came to ordering food. I probably should have mentioned to them that my knowledge of menu French was close to nil.
At our first dinner, we sat on the back deck of a quaint establishment in the Loire Valley that overlooked an idyllic pond in the shadow of a walled village. While my companions enjoyed the scene, I began to panic because I could not decipher any of the cryptic dish titles on the menu. Long minutes passed. The waitress became edgy; my colleagues grew restless. Then I spotted a word on the menu that I recognized: “lapin”! I had read somewhere that rabbit was a specialty in this region. Relieved, I ordered this dish for the entire table with imperial confidence.
We anticipated our meal in high spirits — and were perhaps a bit overly impressed with the bread that we munched while waiting for our entrees. Our excitement dissipated somewhat when the dishes arrived. What was this? Instead of identifiable rabbit shapes, there were several wedges of rolled meat product stacked against one another on our plates. It appeared to be some kind of loaf du lapin. Each of us prodded at the dark-brown chunks of gristly meat held together by a fatty-looking gelatin. Bits of fur (I’ll swear to it) poked out in random spots.
No one wanted to admit their horror, and thus everyone tried to utter convincing murmurs of pleasure with each excruciating bite. The occasional wince revealed that my companions, like me, could barely tolerate the taste and texture of the cursed loaves. We persisted through to the end of the meal without making eye contact.
It was only later, as we drove through the dark French countryside in silence, that someone tentatively admitted to a small amount of disappointment with the food. Then the floodgates of disgust opened, and, with a mix of hilarity and bitterness, my companions relived each frightful bite. All I could do was laugh sheepishly and try to ignore the persistent tickle of rabbit fur at the back of my throat.
Kerry Soper is an associate professor in the department of humanities, classics, and comparative literature at Brigham Young University.
http://chronicle.com Section: The Chronicle Review Volume 54, Issue 49, Page B20
