I’ll Have What She’s Having

A friend of mine in college told me he could never marry a vegetarian because he loved to explore different kinds of food too much. In his mind, someone who had restrictions in the food department just couldn’t be a match.

I on the other hand, had lots of restrictions. Growing up landlocked, seafood was definitely out. Though my parents ate fish every once in a while — usually in the form of shrimp cocktail at Christmas or trout when my dad would return from fishing the Snake River — I couldn’t stand the smell, taste or thought of it.

Remembering back, my dad took me as a pre-teen to the grocery store and said I could choose anything from the meat counter for Valentine’s Day. I stood there admiring all the freshly cut flesh searching for perfection. Suddenly, I rested my eyes on “shark.” I think it was as much about the idea of eating something so ferocious and powerful as it was the pristine white steaks, but I had made up my mind.

But served up on the big day, it was chewy and fishy and just not good. Filled with regret after trusting myself, I had really blown it. Not wanting to concede that my choices couldn’t be trusted, I faked it — but deep inside vowed “never again.” That’s when my palate retreated to the familiar and known, to hiding any flavor under a layer of ranch dressing so as not to be noticed and never to disappoint.

I went through pretty typical food stages — eating anything that was both white and carb intensive while avoiding anything green, always ordering a “side of Ranch” so I could douse my entire meal in it.   Even my decade of vegetarianism was dull, merely replacing the meat in a recipe with cheese and never even tasting tofu.

But somewhere between episodes of Top Chef and burn-out on the philly steak sub that didn’t even resemble anything in Philly, I got wistful. I realized how lame it was to travel all the way to the ocean to eat beef, to order a salad at the BBQ dive, and to always play it safe. Not brave enough to face new food on my own, I came up with a rule. Whenever I go to a new restaurant, I always ask the server what they’re known for, and I always pick at least an appetizer from the list.

Now things like grouper, alligator, oysters and wahoo have passed these lips. Can’t claim them as favorites, but there is a sense of adventure whenever doing something as small as trying a new restaurant. And the successes are enough to make my mouth water: bread pudding with whiskey sauce or sausage meatballs stuffed with roasted tomatoes and dates just to name a few.

Not everything recommended actually tastes good, but I don’t fake it anymore. Being disappointed isn’t nearly as bad as fearing the disappointment, at the restaurant or anywhere else in life. My eating habits have shown me the other places in life I’m so worried about making a disappointing choice that I won’t try something new. In the end, an entrée not enjoyed is not the end of the world, but another side of ranch might be.

What are your restaurant habits? Are you a “I’ll have the Chicken Caesar Salad”-er, a certifiable foodie snob or somewhere in between?