This blog has been a long time coming. Well, a year to be precise.
You see, for the first 22 years of my life, I was grossed out by just about anything that wasn’t pizza, a chicken nugget/finger/non-chicken shape, or pasta. I was a pain the ass go out with. Special arrangements had to be made for “plain buttered noodles” or “a plain hamburger, nothing on it.” To this day, I still have this reputation with some of my extended family.
In april of 2009, something wonderful happened.
It was, of course, a trip to Paris. It was supposed to be a family affair, but the renewal date on my mom’s passport came and went without her knowing, so it was my dad and I. I still can’t quite pinpoint the moment in time when the switch flipped, but all of sudden I wanted to eat everything. The first thing I ate in Paris was a whole quail, with the head still on. Mr Mcnugget was now eating food that stared him in the eye.
I couldn’t get enough of it. The reigning motto for that trip (and still to this day) is “why not?” The worst thing that can happen is that you won’t like it. But, alas, I’ve found that I like just about everything.
It was also in Paris that I gained an appreciation for fine dining. On our last night there, my dad and I ate at Michel Rostang, a two Michelin Star restaurant. It was the first time I encountered a “tasting menu,” wherein you have no choice of what you’re getting. It so happened that pigeon was on the menu that night, and I can still see my dad’s face when he watched me devouring everything on my plate, including the twig-like legs of the pigeon.
The meal felt like an event, a time to unwind and hand yourself over to the restaurant and the chef. I was drunk on good service and good food, not to mention wine.
When I came home, I wanted to go everywhere and eat everything.
How come no one ever told me food was so good?