Food Rules

I am not the most adventurous of eaters. Growing up, I took PB&J or bologna sandwiches to school for lunch, and the bill of fare at home was most likely a roasted chicken or meatloaf. Every once in a while, my mother would get "creative" and make chicken smothered in cream of mushroom soup in the crockpot or some kind of casserole topped with crushed potato chips. Where was Bobby Flay when we needed him?

When I would be invited out to dinner with a friend of mine whose mother served such exotic things as chicken consomme or fillet mignon, I would be told to eat whatever I was given or order whatever my friend ordered. Apparently, my parents lived in fear that I would throw caution to the wind, and order the thirty pound lobster stuffed with caviar. Meanwhile, I was anxiously scanning the menu for fried chicken in a basket and praying I could telepathically transmit this wish to my friend.

Although I've gotten better as I've gotten older, and consomme no longer scares me, there are still things that contain a huge "ick factor" and I wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole.

Tim, despite his claims to the contrary, also has food rules. We can't help it. We both grew up in a town where meat is cooked until it's grey, veggies until they are limp and potatoes were the side dish. Sadly though, most of Tim's rules involve vegetables. Different rules, same deep, scarring, psychological issues.

And that is how, last Friday night, Tim and I ended up haggling over the seven-item antipasto platter we had decided to split for dinner.

We had stumbled upon a great little place near Lincoln Center, and had only about a half hour to wolf something down before the show there (South Pacific) started. The antipasto bar seemed like the perfect solution, and with over thirty million items to choose from, surely we could agree on a mere seven. Not really.

I suggested eggplant Parmesan, he shuddered and countered with squid.

You mean the tentacle things with the suction cups still attached? Ick. I don't think so. Rule number one of my food rules clearly states: No food that looks like it did when it was alive. If it can wave at me from the plate, I don't eat it. Try again.

He pointed to a shellfish platter.

Um. Nooooo. That violates at least four food rules. In my experience, most seafood is either waving, staring or actively fighting you. If you need special "tools" to dismember your meal, or worse yet, if you simply ingest the entire animal, lock, stock and feet, it's pretty much a no-go for me, and he knows this.

But two can play the "I know you won't eat this, but I'm going to stupidly suggest it anyway" game. I pointed to the roasted asparagus.

He eyed the seafood longingly, but wisely held his tongue.

I briefly considered the snow peas, but didn't have the heart to even point in their direction.

After a series of negotiations that would have made Winston Churchill proud, we each selected one item just for us and compromised on the remaining five (and by compromise, I mean I mostly got to choose).

Of course, the food rules had to be strictly adhered to . For example, rule number two: no raw food (we both have that rule). I don't care how trendy it is or how cute and artsy they make it look, it is still basically bait. I can't look at sushi without thinking of the scene in Jaws when Roy Scheider is throwing bucketsfull of chum over the side of the boat to attract the shark. I may be odd, but really nothing about that scene made me hungry.

A few years ago, someone sent us a complementary appetizer: ahi tuna tartare. Dismayed, we both poked at it to see if we could revive it enough to swim back off the plate under its own steam and relieve us of the pressure to choke some of it down. When the CPR failed, we tried the age-old trick of moving it around the plate and trying to hide it under the seaweed accompaniment (double ick--chum and ocean weeds).

And then there is rule number five: No food that has absolutely, positively no taste by itself, like tofu, especially when I could be ordering chocolate cake instead. I might just as well drench my wicker porch set in balsamic vinegar. The taste would be the same and I know it would have better texture.

Conversely, there is rule number eight: Nothing too spicy. Hot flashes and hot food are not a good combo. I generally like to avoid ending my meal with a trip to the emergency room to treat dehydration.

Tim has avoided certain spices since two episodes years ago. One involved half a teaspoon of curry in an entire pan of chicken divan that I made before we set out on a four-hour car trip. The trip actually took three and a half hours, but that was only because we went ninety miles an hour between rest stops and didn't come to a complete stop before Tim was off and running. Had I known the effect, I would have bought stock in Charmin.

The second was when Tim, mistaking the deadly kim-chee for a harmless pig in a blanket, took a big 'ole bite...and then his head exploded. The other people in the restaurant loved the show, but not one of them volunteered the helpful info that he should be eating bread or rice to put out the fire instead of shoving the fire hose down his throat.

Despite all the rules though, we did manage to end up with enough to eat, and were both happy as clams (which I wouldn't eat since it violates rules three, four and six -- no whole animals and nothing slimy or chewier than a piece of bazooka).

Waiter Approved

This week, I visited my parents in Florida where we spent our days swimming, sunning and, of course, eating. The first two we somehow managed on our own. The third activity apparently needed guidance and approval...at least according to our waiters.

The first night, we went to a restaurant specializing in fish. Our waiter, an elderly German gentleman (and by elderly, I mean 110), eventually toddled over to give orders, I mean take our orders.

My dad and I opted for a fish which the menu suggested be served broiled. "Good choice," our waiter's head bobbled vigorously like one of those dolls glued on the dashboard of a runaway car as he scribbled busily in his pad. "But you want it pan seared; it is better that way."

"Also, you want the steamed vegetables with that," he directed without so much as glancing up at us. "Now, what kind of salad do you want?"

"Um, Caesar?" I ventured hesitantly, afraid that if I made a second wrong choice, I might be rapped on the knuckles with his pen, or worse, subjected to another head wagging, and I didn't want to be responsible for his chiropractic bill.

Thankfully, I got only a brief nod of approval before he moved on to my mom. Whew!

Not one to be easily intimidated, she opted for a steak (it's a bad habit of hers and we are staging an intervention over Christmas). Ah, but our waiter was prepared for this ruse. "How do you want it done?" he queried slyly.

"Rare," came the ready reply, teamed with direct eye contact (my mom is not from New York for nothing.

Bzzzzzz. Thank you for playing. "Medium rare," he corrected, dismissing her feeble attempt to maintain control of her diet. Apparently, being German trumps being a New Yorker. "And for a side? Also steamed vegetables?"

"I'll have a side of pasta," she threw him a curve ball. "And the house salad with thousand island dressing." I held my breath and watched him from under my lashes, but her choice of salad must have mollified him because he let the whole pasta issue go without comment.

The next day at lunch, we once again needed to seek the approval of the wait staff. My mom and dad got it immediately with their sandwiches, but mine was a bit harder to come by. I had opted for a chopped salad where I got to select the ingredients from a whole case of prepared choices. Fortunately, each choice was greeted with a hearty, "Good one," by the waiter/chef. Until I got to the dressing. As he listed the choices, I hesitated a moment, contemplating which of my two favorites I felt like, the balsamic vinaigrette or the raspberry vinaigrette.

I had barely pronounced the B-sound when the waiter jumped in, finishing the thought for me.

"Balsamic is, of course, the only one you would want with this kind of salad," he decreed, already scooping up a dripping ladleful. "Good choice." Okaaaa y. And for my beverage? How about dessert? Maybe you can advise me on which table to sit at so that the salad will be presented in the best light?

Dinner that night, lunch the next day and dinner my last night there proved to be more of the same. We got mildly chastised for all ordering chicken (albeit three different kinds) at the Italian place for dinner. We got beamed at and all but patted on the heads like good little boys and girls for ordering fish and chips and shrimp cocktail. Ordering a warm salad with beets and Gorgonzola cheese brought our server to a happy place, but trying to refuse the ice cream sundae that came with the meal at Friendly's was a real downer for our server there.

My father, who hasn't eaten sweets in about fifty years, finally caved and ordered a strawberry ice cream (which he palmed off on me) just to avoid the tears which were threatening to overflow from our waitresses eyes. I have never seen anyone work harder to push a topping either. "Nuts? Sauce(she then proceeded to list all eighty-seven choices)? Fresh strawberries? Whipped cream? Crumbled cookies? Anything? Everything? " How about nothing?

Dejected, but not totally defeated, she slumped away only to return with our sundaes: one plain strawberry ice cream, the other loaded to the gills with all the toppings we had refused. "See," her baleful glance said as she put my mom's down with a flourish, "all this could have been yours, had you chosen wisely."

I'm thinking that when we go back for Christmas, we may have to eat in more. I just can't take the pressure associated with ordering a meal down there. I don't want to be responsible for that much unhappiness during the holiday season.

Chicken, Dumplings and Goldfish

You know you're in trouble when you visit a country that has a KFC on every corner which the locals consider "five star dining at one star prices", and it is the go-to-place for the all important first date.

Our first night in Xi'an (she-an), Beth and I ate at House O'Dumplings (a.k.a. Defachang Restaurant) which boasted 180 different kinds of dumplings shaped like everything from porky pig to Buddha.

The meal started innocently enough with four small appetizer dishes of tofu, peanuts, beans and corn. Then they brought four steamer trays of dumplings...then four more trays...and four more after that. Would the madness never end?!

There were walnut dumplings (China is not the place you want to be if you have a nut allergy), fried rice dumplings, spinach dumplings, chicken, beef and pork dumplings (remind anyone else of Forest Gump?) and some with fillings we could only guess at, but which we suspected might contain the turtle that had been swimming in the tank by the reception desk. Of course they swore that anything unidentifiable was chicken, but that turtle had looked scared. Real scared. Like he knew something we didn't.

The steamed dumplings courses were followed by, surprise...dumpling soup! It was only when the watermelon came (the Chinese idea of dessert...have they never heard of Entemen's or Pepperidge Farm?) that we knew were were finally saved from the relentless parade of dumplings. (FYI, you do not want to go to bed too soon after eating your body weight in dumplings. It is not pretty)

Our first meal in Beijing, at a place called the Green T, proved just as interesting, but for different reasons. Walking through floor to ceiling white curtains which billowed constantly despite the fact that there was no breeze, we found ourselves transported to a black and white version of Hogworts where candles hung in midair over long tables whose chairs had backs reaching halfway to the twenty foot ceiling and purple boa feather pillows. Flute music was provided by a young woman perched atop of what looked like an ice sculpture set on top of the bar. (for someone who turns on their heated car seat in July, my bottom grew numb just looking at her!)

Even the bathrooms provided entertainment for us with clear glass walls that magically clouded up as you entered("okay, you stand our here and yell when you can't see me any more." --Tim can kiss that ambassadorship good-bye!) and stalls completely lined with mirrors--inside. ( I definitely could have done with a little less entertainment there.)

As for the food, we all steered clear of anything that sounded suspicious including the green chicken and something that still had feet and various innards. We found that nothing was completely safe, however, when the woman sitting next to me ordered a vegetarian dish only to have it served with a wineglass containing a live goldfish. We weren't sure if he was a garnish or for downing like a chaser, but we named him Larry and debated flushing him to freedom. (He actually looked even more scared than the turtle, and I think I saw him mouthing,"Help me!", at one point during dinner)

After several more days of meals involving many courses of things that may have previously barked or meowed (and not a fortune cookie or piece of chocolate in sight), we celebrated our last night in China with a trip to (another) funky restaurant that looked like it had been designed by the Picasso, Poe and Addams Family firm. (This time, the floor to ceiling bathroom mirrors were tinged green. And I thought the clear glass was bad?).

Despite things like Shark lip soup (who knew Jaws had lips?) and oysters the size of my head, (can you say mutant, boys and girls?) the meal was good. All eighteen courses (How do these people not weigh 1000 lbs.?) Even the watermelon dessert.

Surf and Turf...and eyeballs

A beach vacation for us means three things: surf, sand and surf and turf.

We begin our day by applying the first layer of sunblock fifty, the primer coat, before we head out to the beach (Hey, we're Irish. Our skin color choices are white or red!).

Once we have our chairs, towels and the largest beach umbrella we can find, we hit the water, coming out only long enough to eat lunch and apply coats two through twenty of the sunblck.

After a full day of paddling and floating (no water sports or hugging sea mammals for us; that would require actual effort), we head out to dinner where we try to eat our body weight in rich food.

Fortunately, after our first soggy day in the Bahamas, the weather decided to cooperate with our plan.

Since this was our anniversary celebration, Tim asked the concierge at our hotel for some dinner recommendations. He had three stipulations: 1. great food, 2. romantic atmosphere, and 3. no more than fifteen minutes away by cab.

Day one was perfect. A mansion built by a pirate in the 1700's complete with snowy white tableclothes, soft candlilight and a piano playing softly in the background.

Day two was a little less than perfect: Fish in a Bucket, or The Poop Deck. Whatever. Yes, it was close, but picnic tables, family style service and people dressed up as Shamu didn't really scream romance, at least not for us. I can't answer for the concierge, but to each his own. Needless to say, we opted out of this one.

Her alternate recommendation (why were we still listening to this woman?) was a place called Provence. It boasted a veranda with water views and fresh fish. We should have stuck with the Poop Deck.

You know you're in trouble when the cab driver hasn't even heard of the place (our first clue that we should have just ordered up a movie and raided the mini-bar).

However, based on directions from the doorman, we headed out. To Miami. I'm pretty sure that's where this restaurant was, because half an hour and three bridges later, we still werent't there (three lousy stipulations! How hard should it be to at least hit two of them!).

The time went by quickly though as our chatty driver regaled us with the gory details of Bahamian fish specialties. Personally, I stopped listening after the description of deep fried eyeballs, but I'm pretty sure it got worse judging by the shade of green Tim was turning (the mini-bar even had Famous Amos cookies!).

At last, we arrived at Provence. We were actually around the back of the building, but the waiter assured us that it was simply through the archway behind him. Weak from hunger and slightly nauseaus from the conversation (and we were going to a fish place?!), we followed him around front to...Villa d'el something-or-other.

Villa...Provence. Yeah. They sound exactly alike. How bad was this place that the waiters had to waylay unsuspecting tourists?

Luckily (for the waiter), we managed to catch our driver, who was still circling the lot trying to get out, and insisted he take us to the correct restaurant (or back to the hotel, whichever came first).

This time, he wisely kept silent. Of course, that could have had something to do with Tim muttering about things like disembowelment and drawing and quartering.

We eventually did arrive at Provence and, while it wasn't really worth the journey, at least there were no eyeballs, fried of otherwise in the food. At least I hope not.

Another First

Until I was in high school, I had never cooked anything except in my Easy Bake Oven. As best I can remember, it had two settings: crack your teeth on it overdone or ooey gooey waiting for salmanila to strike underdone. My mom did all the cooking because, well, that's what mom's did. My job was to eat the food that magically appeared on the table each night and then try and skate out of doing the dishes because that's what kids did.
So it was with mingled fear and disbelief that I accepted the news one Saturday morning at work that my coworker and I ( think Lucy and Ehtel) would have to cook a hot lunch for eight people. (we were the cleaning ladies, by the way and I didn't even want that job....it's a long story).
After searching for the candid camera crew (this was before Punk'd), we decided that if our employers were desperate enough to turn us loose in the kitchen when there was a McDonald's right down the street, we would give it a try. How hard could it really be?
Naturally, we decided on hamburgers and fries. Okay, so we didn't so much decide on them as it seemed to be the consensus of everyone we called that that was probably the safest way to go for the people who would have to eat this meal. We had frozen hamburgers, an oven with a broiler and those fries that you put on a baking sheet and pop into the oven. Even we could handle that.
Or not. Upon opening the bag of fries, we discovered that there weren't enough for eight people. That is when the brainstorm hit......or the great kitchen disaster of '79 as it came to be known.
We had seen the weekday cook make homemade fries dozens of times. There was nothing to it...just peel the potatoes, slice them and drop them in oil until they are a beautiful golden brown. What a coup this would be! How amazed all our friends and family would be!
They were amazed all right. They were amazed that we didn't get fired.
The peeling and slicing went fine. It was the actual cooking that destroyed the kitchen. We had put a big pot of oil on the stove and turned it on high in order to bring it to a boil. We peeled the potatoes and checked the oil. It wasn't boiling. No problem. We sliced the potatoes and checked the oil. It still wasn't boiling. No problem. We slid the burgers under then broiler and checked the oil. It still wasn't boiling. Now we had a problem.
Lunch was supposed to be ready within the next few minutes and the oil was not even forming those little bubbles at the bottom of the pot. What were we to do? We couldn't mess up hamburgers and french fries! How pathetic did you have to be not to be able to make the easiest hot lunch in the world? After all, McDonald's did it billions of times. A day.
In desperation, we did the only thing we could do...we took off the lid, grabbed handfulls of sliced potatoes and threw them into the oil hoping for the best.
The stream of oil that shot up into the air made Old Faithful look like a defective squirtgun by contrast. Thick black smoke filled the air, and even as we rushed to open a window, someone came running up the stairs toward the kitchen yelling, "Fire! Fire!" We groped our way to the door, hastily assuring everyone that despite the thick coating of grease all over the ceiling, walls and floor, the gag-inducing smell, and dense smoke, all was well. It wasn't a fire. It was their lunch.
We began getting cooking lessons the following Monday.