My family thinks I am an adventurous diner. This is not remotely true but they are all so extremely cautious that compared to them I am a veritable daredevil. And so, because I have been known to put Tabasco Sauce on my chili, my family has come to regard me as a daring, if not actually reckless, diner.
My reputation as a foolhardy foodie reared its ugly head recently when my partner and my two sisters and I took a weekend trip to New York City. Choosing a restaurant in New York with this group is always dicey because my partner will only eat Italian food and my older sister hates anything “spicy” and my middle sister will not eat in any restaurant that looks “disreputable.” If you put these three criteria together the lowest common denominator becomes the Olive Garden in Times Square, which I always veto. “I am not going to Manhattan to eat in a restaurant that I avoid at home,” I always say.
We had spent a crisp springtime Saturday exploring a street fair in Union Square but by late afternoon we had not had lunch and I was starving. “It’s too late for lunch,” said my older sister. ”It’s too early for dinner,” said my partner. “Everything around here looks dirty,” said my middle sister.
“Fine,” I said, “but I have to eat; you know when I get low blood sugar I get testy.”
“He has low blood sugar 24/7,” my partner told my sister, sotto voce.
“I heard that,” I said.
I decided to be a team player. “I’ll wait til dinner, “ I said, “but I need a snack now to hold me over.” I looked around; there were street vendors and food trucks everywhere: finding a quick snack would not be a problem.
First I headed for the Korean Taco truck across the street, but my partner held me back. “Don’t,” he said, “that’s playing with fire.”
I decided not to fight him, because right next door was the guy selling Halal chicken with rice, and my mouth was watering from the aroma. My older sister went pale. “Those exotic spices can’t be good for you,” she said, “and I left the Imodium back at the hotel.”
I sighed, but didn’t say anything because the empanada vendor was a few feet away and his empanadas were filled to bursting with a savory meat stuffing. My middle sister physically restrained me. “What are you trying to prove?” she said. “That guy,” she said, indicating the cook, “has not washed his hands since before Hurricane Sandy.”
Now I was about to get testy. “Do you all approve of a chicken sandwich?” I asked. There was a Peruvian sandwich vendor across the street, but now my older sister was irate. “They eat guinea pigs!” she told me.
“I don’t think it’s mandatory,” I told her.
In the end, despite their disapproval, I walked across the street to buy a hotdog from a vendor at a push cart. “Too risky,” said my older sister. “You’ll regret this,” said my middle sister. “You see what I have to put up with?” said my partner and both sisters nodded.
Away from my family’s disapproval I paid for my hotdog and took a big bite. A second later, after a shocked realization, I removed a shard of bone roughly the size of a femur from my mouth. Wisely deciding to say nothing to my family, I threw the shard of bone and the hotdog in a garbage can and rejoined the group.
“Happy?” said my sister unkindly.
“Delirious,” I answered.