Be Polite, But Don't Gag Over It

I'm not Anthony Bourdain, God Rest His Wicked Soul, but I've been around food long enough to make some observations. There are some people out there who have the weirdest neurosis about food. Hell, it probably goes back to childhood. It seems some of them go into a near panic if their sandwich is cut at a 45 degree angle and NOT 180 like their Mom used to do it. But wait, you're 39 years old now! Time to grow up! No matter. They won't eat it and treat it as if was soaked in urine.

I can sorrrrrt of understand it. As a kid, there were a ton of things I'd never eat. Most veggies reminded me of freshly cut grass and that was gross. Eggs in any manner? Ugh! I couldn't get past that sulfur reek to them. Mushrooms were the ghouls of the veggie world. I knew they sucked nourishment off the DEAD. And will you believe this? Cheese. My brother thought I was nuts for disliking it. I hated the texture I felt in my mouth when I tried it. There's a ton of other things I wouldn't touch with a 10 foot pole then too.

I've become better! Honestly! In fact, I have turned into a Billy Goat that will pretty much eat anything if it holds still long enough...or survives the Five Second Rule if it should hit the floor. Except sushi. I've seen far too many times the parasites that live in fish. I don't want some creepy thing laying it's 4,000 young in my intestines. But, barring that, I'll eat most anything now, or at least try it once. I've grown up. I've also learned that bachelor trick of eating right out of the pan you cooked in. Why create more of a mess? Billy Goat Philosophy works well here too.

**

Emily Post (an original Miss Manners) once said:

“Eat Whatever the Host Serves You”

My Response? “Fuck YOU!”

Actually, I wasn't that bad. Anytime I was at someone else's house and food was served, I was lucky enough to be able to identify it and most other Mom's in the neighborhood were, at least, passing cooks with a few talents. I could sit there and eat, say “Thank you” and not burp or fart at the table. I knew enough to keep my mouth closed while eating too!

But...but...there were a few certain things I'd never eat and so what if the host was horribly insulted.

There was only one hot chocolate mix that I'd ever drink. It was called Quik and had a picture of a rabbit on the front. You'd heat up some milk, put far too much Quik into the liquid and hey presto! Great hot chocolate!

I once tried, and not by my choice the new Swiss Miss “Just Add Water” hot chocolate that came in a one serving pouch. You'd pour the dust and shrunken marshmallows into a mug, add hot water and wait till the marshmallows reconstituted themselves.

It was disgusting. I never finished it. Down the sink it went.

A few years later, Gail, Jim and I went door to door one pre Christmas week singing carols to the neighbors in the hopes of getting some money off them. I felt like a moron, at 13, singing “Oh Holy Night” to anyone but since there was a chance at a few bucks, I guess I can put up with the early teen embarrassment. It was pretty cold that night and after we had scored about three bucks a piece in change, we headed back to Gail's house to warm up.

Gail's Mom, trying to be nice to us all said she'd make some hot chocolate to “warm us up.” I then saw her open the cabinet to reach for the Swiss Miss.

“Oh fuck...” I thought to myself. Here I am in a friend's house and her Mom is going out of her way to serve us something in the Spirit of Christmas. This was a rare time when I panicked about food.

As I watched Gail's mom prepare this DuPont/Dow/3M chemical glorp, I began desperately trying to figure a way out of this situation. I wasn't coming up with any plausible reasons to scoot out in a nice, normal manner.

I kid you not, I was actually becoming nauseous at the sight and smell of that stuff. The major warning was the watering of my mouth, that saliva your body makes to protect your teeth when you heave a gallon of stomach acid past them. I looked at the kitchen floor and thought, “will I puke right here and now? God, that'll be embarrassing to hell!”

Since I had no nice reason to leave, I just said, “I have to go home now” and bolted right out their kitchen door without looking back.

About 30 minutes later, Gail and Jim come to my house an ask why I left. I still didn't tell the truth but did admit I felt “pretty sick” rather quick. It's been years but I can still sort of remember that weird smell the 70's Swiss Miss gave off.

**

At my old occupation of social work, there were times when we'd drop off the clients to visit their relatives for a day or two. One such relative was the Italian mom of S. DeNuncio. Her mom was a decent person and I had never had any problems with her till one day she INSISTED she feed me. That's Italian Mothers for you.

“Oh great, free food!” I thought to myself as I sat at her kitchen/playing card table.

I watched her as she cut up a bright, green pepper, toss it in a pan with some butter and fry it I sat there waiting for her to add something else but there was nothing else. I had to ask.

“What are you making?

“A fried pepper sandwich for you.”

I began to worry. I wasn't big on green peppers and was the kind of person who ate the insides out of a stuffed pepper, leaving the carcass behind. I didn't mind a trace of green pepper taste in the rice/hamburg mix but I really detested that overpowering green pepper assault should you eat that part too. The trick to destroying a green pepper's flavor is to cook it from 6 AM to around 11:30 AM.

Mrs DeNucio finishes up and places the sandwich before me and, being a good guest, I take the first bite of it.

“Auuuuuggggghhhh!” my brain yelled. I stopped chewing to prevent anymore of that taste from leaching out.

“What can I do? I have to spit this out!” I said to myself. “But you can't! She's still in the kitchen!”

So, each time she turned around to clean up, I quickly spit the mess into my hand and shoved it, without a napkin, into the pocket of my Navy Pea coat. I didn't care. I wasn't going to eat this gross thing any further.

I kept taking largish bites of the sandwich, waiting for her to turn the other way and dump it into my coat, until the sandwich was gone.

“Oh, you ate that quick...want another?” she asks.

“NO! Uh, no..thank you...that was enough!”

Driving down her street after we left the house, I dug up my pocket and heaved the mess onto the street.

**

This one is a bit different. It comes from when you refuse to return to a certain restaurant ever again.

In 1976, after twenty-five years of being a “company man” and working his way up the ladder, my Dad was elected the CEO of a small chain of banks. His dream realized. Work hard enough, ignore you family, be loyal to the company and they will in turn, repay the favor. This actually happened back then vs. the backstabbing you get routinely today for showing loyalty to a corporation.

I can remember many people congratulating my Dad over the position and there were also, some who grumbled about it, loud enough so you'd hear them from across the street.

Anyways...

Every Friday, for like a zillion years, we'd go the Friendly Tap on Beverage Hill ave for a dinner and then off to the Almacs in Seekonk to do the weekly shopping. This was like clockwork. The thing about any town in RI is that everyone know's everyone else's business and that restaurant was no different. My Dad was probably one of the very few in a suit vs the other blue collar workers there. I am sure the management, waitresses and a few customers had heard about Dad's elevation.

About a month before that though, when we went there, my Dad got on a kick of ordering Hero sandwiches there for supper, Friday after Friday. I had heard of them, never eaten one and didn't really care as I liked my pasta and meatballs instead. But one Friday, about a week after Dad's promotion, I had ordered one to try it out. My Dad had then ordered a veal cutlet type of thingy drowned in cafeteria brown gravy.

Flo the Waitress comes and gives us our plates. Now, being curious, I began to take the sandwich apart to see just what's in it and to scrape off anything I find disgusting (ie: too much lettuce, tomatoes, anything raw). It was then I saw it. A great, big GLOB of spit.

“Uh...Dad?” I said. “I ain't eating this no matter what you say!”

I show him the sandwich and he sort of sat bolt upright in the booth and looks straight head to the back wall, in a sort of shocked realization.

“That was intended for me...” he says.

It probably was. He had been ordering them constantly for weeks now.

He calls Flo over, shows her and a look of pure evil crossed her face. She snatches the plate and goes into the kitchen and the list of swears that came out of mouth to the cook should've been recorded for history.

“You SPIT in the kid's sandwich? You SPIT in it you dirty son of a bitch!!” What was great about that was that the entire restaurant became real quiet to listen in.

Dad slowly gets up, grabs his coat and motions for us to leave, leaving the unpaid items on the table.

“What did I DO to get that?” My 12 year old self said to everyone in the car as we left.

“NOTHING...You did NOTHING...That was aimed at ME” my Dad says. He looks at my Mom and admitted aloud that he had been getting some grief from some when they found out how he finally secured the Dream Job he had worked towards. He figured this cook was especially annoyed at him.

We never returned.

Instead, we started hitting up a new restaurant a week to try things out. 

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