A Food-borne Phobia
I love the restaurant experience. The room bustling with waiters clad in black and white, and animated diners laughing, arguing and spooning food into babiesâ mouths while they shovel forkfuls into their own. I never refuse a breadbasket. I never turn down a juicy filet. And Iâm always the first to accept the offer of the dessert menu. But when it comes time to order my meal, a wave of panic picks me up, tosses me around, and lands me face down in the thick sands of Fickle Island. The excitement of the room slows to an agonizing display of chewing, swallowing, and lip-licking, all flaunting the thorough satisfaction I anticipate being denied.
           After a scrupulous examination of the surrounding tablesâ plates, I turn to my fellow diners and ask everyone at the table what theyâre ordering, if theyâve eaten it before, and lastly if they think I myself would enjoy it. I look through every item on the menu as if Iâll be quizzed at the end of the meal. While many diners are eager to put in their order, excitedly awaiting the arrival of the meal they are sure to enjoy, my own ordering experience is characterized by doubt, skepticism and regret.
           I usually have a first instinct as to what Iâll enjoy. But it is inevitable that something else catch my eye, something that upon reflection would quite obviously be the wrong choice, and the doubt begins to boil. It blurs my vision and sprinkles sand on my taste buds. And upon the first bite of my meal, I always arrive at the same destination: disappointment.
But there was one time during Spring Break in Sarasota, Florida, a time that I will never forget, that I ordered perfectly. The meal didnât have me peering at other tables, envious of the love between diner and dish. Instead I was completely present, proud to be partnered with the bowl in front of me. It was the best meal I ever ate.
This best meal was grilled Red Snapper over linguini tossed in marinara sauce. The fish was tender and fresh, plucked that very same day from the bay the Florida restaurant overlooked. The noodles were perfectly al dente. And the marinara sauce was the tomatoâs proudest moment, sweet and rich with juicy slices of whole tomatoes. I ate the dish slowly, tasting every bite until its fateful slide down my throat. My family watched me in awe, as if the baby of the family was walking for the first time, mindful of every step. When it was over, the shiny white bowl was just barely marked with the leftover marinara I would have licked clean had we not been in public. Upon finishing my meal, each member of my family raised our glasses and toasted to my absolute satisfaction. In my 20 years of living, this meal was no doubt, a milestone.
Since then Iâve had a handful of other lip-licking experiences-- a porchetta sandwich in Florence, braided bacon at Friend of a Farmer, a secret vegetable soup the chef at my restaurant slips me in the kitchen when he can tell Iâm fading at the host stand. I really savor those meals and, despite my continual complications with the restaurant experience, I like to believe there are many more ahead. Only time- and taste buds- will tell.Â



















