food. part II.

If the food and food service-related woes one was subjected to were limited to the time and selections of food being available (see part I), I feel that we, as a society, would be doing alright. Sadly, it only seems to worsen from there. On the upside, it does give me considerably more things to gripe and whine about, but on the downside, it just seems to indicate that we’re that much further from achieving societal perfection. Today’s rambling series of complaints isn’t directed and the owners of eateries, but the consumers and the seemingly endless barrage of food-related faux pas to issue forth from their masticating mouths.

The range of faux pas is assuredly limitless, but as is often a deciding factor here, laziness dictates that there are two main groups of faux pas. First, unforgivable ignorance and stupidity regarding the actual content of the food. Second, things to avoid saying to offend your dining companions.

Once again, I’d like to reiterate that I certainly don’t consider myself a food-snob, or a gourmand. A snob in general, well sure. Sadly, my culinary prowess are non-existent enough that the words “food snob” have not yet found their way onto my curriculum vitae. Perhaps, someday. Until then, there are always the heinous faux pas of others to give my confidence a little stroking. (In all honesty, some of these aren’t even so much dining faux pas as simple, “when you’re honestly that dense and can’t keep your remarks confined to an internal monologue, you might want to consider not leaving the house without wearing a ball gag.”)

Before I moved to London, I spent a few months working as a temporary secretary in a rather questionable office. It was hell, to put it mildly. I’ve experienced migraines more pleasurable than some of the days spent answering phones and filing papers in that office. Doesn’t sound too bad, does it? It was. Suffice to say, it was not an isolated occasion when I was asked by a colleague to page her “right away when her baby daddy called”. Somehow, and I say that with no small degree of surprise, the office had performed quite well over the previous fiscal year and the corporate executives were treating all the staff to a dinner out at a nice local steakhouse. After much whining about the choice of a steakhouse, and the required advanced ordering from a prix fixe menu, it was decided that all the employees who liked beef would order the rib eye steak option from the menu, and those who preferred chicken would order the filet mignon.

Fortunately, I had quit and had moved to other side of the ocean before the dinner actually took place. I am sad, though, that I never got to see how the filet mignon was received by the poultry lovers. Although, from an entire staff who seemed to spend every waking moment of their days chain smoking some sort of low grade tobacco that smelled suspiciously like repurposed tires, my guess is that their tastebuds were sufficiently dulled to subtle nuances such as that apparent when eating a cow or a chicken.

Pure ignorance always has a bit of charm to it, in the sense that it’s pretty self-detrimental and only the speaker suffers any sort of cringing discomfort. The social blunders at the dining table directed outwardly always seem a little bit more regrettable. Even worse is when they happen to hit an innocent bystander or third party who’s been dragged along against her will. One of the marks of a brilliant friend is that they put up with these abuses, not only from their friends, but from the people their friends happen to be involved with and introduce them to. Unfortunately, the latter of the following two incidents occurred to one of my best friends while she was still smarting from the former.

We were pleasantly ensconced into the corner table of a little Italian bistro. As Italian restaurants go, this went beyond being Italian in name only. Every staff member in the place was Italian to the point of only speaking a few very halting phrases in English. A very charming little place, despite her and I feeling quite useless and leaving our male companions to communicate with the wait staff. I have never, and probably will never again, feel more like a Mafia princess then during that dinner. I should mention that my friend had spent the previous days making considerable allowances for a number of regrettably embarrassing incidences and flaws of character of one of our fellow diners, in no small part to appease me. As fate would have it, he had chosen to don an unfortunate pair of cargo pants (complete with dangling zipper pulls on the pockets) that evening. While through the rose-coloured lenses of love, that may not seem like a grievous offence, I’ll now admit that it was a fashion misstep akin to tripping over an untied shoelace on the edge of deep gorge.

Our food is served, in the form of pretty sizeable pizzas. While they initially appear quite large, it’s worth mentioning that they are paper-thin and each costing as much as a decent handbag. Being known for my bird-like tendencies to pick my way through food, it’s no surprise that I eat about a third of mine and pass the remainder off to a seemingly bottomless pit that is masquerading as one of the men at our table. My friend, being much more financially conscious than I, eats her whole plate. Not a big deal, considering it is paper thin, as well as obscenely overpriced. At this point, cargo pants turns to her and upon seeing her clean plate announces to the table, “Wow! I’ve never seen a girl eat an entire pizza before!” He turns to the other people at the table continuing to chatter excitedly about how big the pizza was. She turns to me and gives me a look that would not only melt lead, but bring it comfortably to a temperature that would enable you to dip little pieces of fruit into it and call it fondue.

I interpreted the look to say to me, “if you can’t be attracted to guys who aren’t jackasses, than I’m making you join a convent”. Later in the night she told me that it was directed at him and actually more along the lines of, “Well, I’ve never seen a XX year old man wearing pants with decorative zippers on them before”.

Sadly, our encounters with pizza and those of the male persuasion were not to end there. One night, a few months ago, we found ourselves out in Camden, and I found myself shaking in my little red shoes at the prospect of introducing her to The Boy. The night had not exactly gotten off to a stellar start. The Boy, had made some well-meaning but not necessarily equally well-chosen introductory remarks pertaining to her nose ring and the contents of her blog. By the time the night was drawing to a close, I had graduated from shaking in my little red shoes to wondering if I could fit somewhat comfortably under one of the bar’s little red velvet sofas to hide indefinitely.

Heading back to the tube, we happened upon a little pizza and hot dog vendor. I was about to break into a little dance complete with jazz hands to celebrate something being open after dark, so she and I grabbed pizza slices, and he (being the flagrant Anti-Cheese-ite that he is) opted for a hot dog. We wander into the tube, and in my usual fashion I continue to tear small pieces off the crust and pick away at my pizza working my way towards the tip. At this point, The Boy surveys us: me picking away at my crust, and her holding onto my arm with one arm, her purse with the other. “Damn, you ate that pizza fast!,” he exclaims, “Were you starving? She’s barely started and yours is totally gone!” I can’t quite fathom how he was expecting that commentary to be received, but I’m guessing it was a far cry from how it actually panned out. (Logically, one would think he would have connected the dots and realized since he was also done eating and knowing that I’m an exceptionally slow eater, that she was just eating at normal human speed). Alas, from that point, all pretences of polite mingling were quite far away, left behind in Camden, perhaps. I’ll never forget the look of terror in The Boy’s eyes as he sensed something was amiss. I’m sure I’ve seen deer illuminated in the headlights of speeding transport trucks who look more optimistic of a positive outcome.

Suffice to say, I’ve got some more work to do getting those two to warm up to each other. I’m thinking over drinks, rather than food this time. One more misdirected commentary on her eating from a boy I’ve introduced her to, and she’s going to stick an apple in my month and I’ll find myself slowly spinning around over hot coals in the middle of a luau.