Recently I had a "get to know you" coffee with a potential freelance client. This woman and I had chatted about our shared love of macaroons from Miette, an incredible French bakery at the Ferry Building, so we met there and got a cookie to nibble with our hot drinks.
The macaroon was delicious, and I had to force myself to eat it politely, in small bites instead of one big gulp. I was about to gleefully confess this to my new acquaintance when she said, "The one cookie is perfect! It's all I need for the whole day!"
No wonder she's so damn skinny, I thought.
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Here's why I normally eschew having snacks in the house: I'm a drunk eater.
Today at the schmancy grocery store up the street, Mr. Butcher did not wash up after wrapping my boneless, skinless chicken breasts.
He took my money, and as I watched him turn away to make change, it dawned on me that he hadn't crossed over to the sink. He was making change with raw chicken essence all over his hands.
I frowned, worried that effluvia of chicken-sickness was going to rub off on my change. Little did I suspect that it was going to be even worse.
This starts with Kahlua Pork.
For Chief's birthday we brought in Hawaiian food. Our big plan was to get it all from Hukilau, on the corner of Masonic and Geary, but at the last minute I found out they were busy with a giant poke-fest the day of our party. I needed a Plan B, pronto.
Fortunately we are in SF and there are several Hawaiian places. Unfortunately, some of them suck. After polling my food expert friends, Ono Hawaiian Grill was deemed acceptable. This was a relief because by now it was Party Day Minus Two.
Ono Hawaiian Grill was a good Plan B because it fit into my bigger strategy, in terms of location. I was able to:
Perfection! Oh, except for one thing.
OK. This may be far too personal for our viewing audience, but I had to share. Apparently my freakishly low cholesterol levels and tendency to get bruises from office furniture is NOT some terrible medical condition, but, alas, a lack of broccoli. Why are our mothers always right!
Did you know about this? Apparently Irish Egg Rolls are a common way to deal with corned beef and cabbage left overs. You add some swiss cheese to the left overs and wrap them up in egg roll wrappers. Drop the little package in hot oil until crispy and golden. That's all there is to it. I mean, some people add other stuff like seasoning, but then it's fancy food, like the French eat.
I consider this further proof that anything is edible if you deep fry it.
Every now and again we all come across something that we don't like to do, or simply cannot do. Maybe it was a childhood trauma, fear of commitment or a slight case of autism that creates the deepest of fear in me - the cry "let's order pizza!" just brings dread to me.
Now, you would think that I'm a silent type and don't talk on the phone. The absurdity of it all is that my most cherished object is my phone, and I pretty much talk on it all day. So, you would think that I just can't order stuff and hate that pesky method of placing orders on the phone. Well, considering on any given day I spend thousands of dollars with simple "do it" or can locate the rarest of decorative ribbon leftover from last year's holiday season in some forgotten Michaels store in Flint, Michigan, kinda debunks THAT whole notion.
I guess that is what makes it a phobia as defined as "an uncontrollable, irrational, and persistent fear of a specific object, situation, or activity."
The upside to all of this is that I have learned to make pizza and I can easily recycle all those pizza delivery flyers without a moment of regret!
I get free stuff at restaurants. I trace the advent of this phenomena to just after my last break-up, when I started eating alone about once a week, mostly looking sad and pathetic. I had dark undereye circles; I lost weight. I needed that free app. At the intersection of pity and flattery, you will find comped food.
This week it was free anchovies (sick!). Free dessert is junior varsity. Only experts get a free bottle of wine. I've had only one.
At some restaurants I interface only with the waiter, who usually knows my name. I prefer places where I can sit at the bar and talk to the cook or wine steward. At one particular restaurant, I'm fond of two cooks whose recommendations are always spot-on. They don't know my name and I don't know theirs, but I get a nod, advice and sometimes free food when I see them.
Maybe they wonder who I like? I like them both, I love their pity, and I adore their free anchovies.
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