Today I’ve been thinking about how food can affect not only people’s moods but also their behavior.
My father was a heavily decorated World War II hero. He was also a very picky eater, and it seemed he had to fight for good food. His coffee had to be boiling hot, his meat had to be cooked to perfection, and his cold drinks had to be well chilled. Life is full of ironies, and it seems almost comical that in a restaurant he was always the one to receive the soup that had been left sitting on the counter, now cold; the fork that was caked with food; the glass with red lipstick on it; the overcooked steak.
At times I was embarrassed when I went with my father to a fancy Beverly Hills restaurant, only to have him inspect the silverware, send back fish that smelled too fishy, or ask for a new coffee because the first one was too cold or too strong or too weak. It was almost always something, but the waitresses loved him—he would make up for it with tips that were more than the cost of the dinner.
When I went to restaurants later in life, it came as no surprise that I would be the one who ended up with the dirty knife, the cold soup, the burned meat, the dried-out, moldy bread. And it followed that my children became embarrassed when I carefully checked my silverware and glasses, and when I asked for my food to be cooked a little differently than it was on the menu—for example, “May I please have extra dressing (or sauce) on the side,” “Please don’t let any of my foods touch,” “I’d like my latte in-between a cappuccino and a latte,” meaning less milky than a latte but more milky than a cappuccino and extra hot.
My kids even put on a skit where one pretended to be a waiter and the other impersonated me. “May I have your order, please?” “Yes, what kind of salad dressing do you have? Is it homemade or bottled? Is it organic? I’ll have a salad with dressing on the side, extra avocado and cheese. And then I’ll have salmon, but cooked only with olive oil, not vegetable oil. And only if it’s wild.” As I was cracking up at my kids’ parody, I realized how much I am my father’s daughter. And it occurred to me that my sisters do the same thing in their own ways.
When I talked with a cousin upon our first meeting, we quickly realized that our fathers were identical in their behavior around food. She told me stories of how her father insisted his soup be boiling hot and his drinks icy cold, and I teased her, saying, “Your father is my father!” We playfully discussed whether this tendency could have been passed down as a learning behavior or transmitted through the genes. It seems only natural that we both would inherit similar expectations about food and the ability to express our discontent when it didn’t meet our standards.
It’s interesting to observe how restaurants respond to people who bring these things to their attention. Some are apologetic and others become defensive and belligerent.
I’m thinking in particular about a local vegan restaurant that served me a salad on a plate with old food stuck to it. I asked the waitress to take it back. The owner came out yelling at me. He held up the plate and shook it, saying, “This plate is clean—it went through the dishwasher!” I stayed away from there for six months and only returned because I love their masala chai. But after a similar event I learned how to make my own masala chai so I wouldn’t have to go back. As it turned out, it’s even better than theirs.
Many people would not complain, no matter what. They would eat the meal and then go home and call their friends to complain. They would be embarrassed to send anything back or mention it at the table. They would feel intimidated and would not have the confidence to assert themselves. Some people don’t think it’s nice to do that. They would rather eat what is presented, even if it is cooked incorrectly, than to “make a fuss.”
“Not speaking up when you find problems with your food can be a self-esteem issue,” says my psychologist friend, Wendy. “Perhaps the person fears making a scene or being humiliated by either the server or the people sharing the meal. They come to believe that their opinions don’t count or won’t be well received.”
What about the ones who do speak up, even at the slightest blunder? Depending upon their attitude or tone of voice when telling the server, the comment could be well received or the customer could become the most hated person in the restaurant. Any server can tell you eye-opening stories about how customers talk to them when the food is bad. One waitress friend told me a customer actually threw his food at her.
Some say cooks might retaliate if you return your food. The waitress might think you’re a nut or get angry. Perhaps your companion would see a side to you he or she doesn’t like. Your kids might not want to go out to eat with you as much. My sister tells me her kids and some of her friends became embarrassed when she asked to return a dish because it was not what she had ordered. I am willing to pay whatever it costs for the dish I choose, but if the wrong food is delivered I think I should get what I am paying for. And I know many people who would feel the same way, especially my father!
I only complain or return food if it is improperly cooked or is not what I ordered. I have discovered that some grocery stores like Whole Foods will let you pick your fish and grill it for you right there with any toppings you like. They even grill vegetables with it. Another healthy grocery store in my neighborhood will cook an omelet to perfection—but only if a certain cook named Tommy is there that day. Otherwise, forget it.
What if your dish were unpalatable? If you are inclined to send back unsatisfactory food, or if you are the opposite and would never send it back for any reason, I’d like to hear your stories and the reasons why. Here are some blatantly obvious scenarios from my own experience:
- An excellent neighborhood restaurant suddenly served low-quality pieces of overcooked, foul-smelling salmon. When I sent it back, the waitress returned with salmon so salty that it shocked my taste buds. It was obvious someone had deliberately poured an excessive amount of salt on it. It turned out that new owners were taking over the restaurant and this was the previous owners’ last day!
- My daughter and I went to a special fish restaurant, where she ordered white fish with lemon juice. After waiting half an hour, the waiter brought her fish drenched in cream sauce and disappeared. I took her plate to the owner, who was standing at the counter, and explained that it was the wrong sauce. He handed it to his worker, who, not knowing I could see him, picked up the fish with his hands and rinsed off the sauce under the tap. He put the fish on the plate and poured lemon juice on what was now soggy fish. Then he put the rice in his hand and rolled it into a ball, put it on her plate, and pushed it down into a pretty shape. No way was I going to let her eat that!
- With a friend, I went to high-end Italian restaurant that was always busy. The maître d’ took us to a table and I noticed my water glass had red lipstick on the edge. Then, to my chagrin, there was caked food on my fork. They moved us to a different table, and there again was a dirty knife. This evening was not starting out right! And it was no different when it came to the food.
- I went on a trip to a seaside town and stayed in a five-star hotel. The food was supposed to be great. We were the only ones in the restaurant on this rainy day, and at breakfast the waiter brought me a basket of bread. I ate one piece and, reaching for another, noticed green mold on the edges. I was disturbed and could not eat my breakfast.
- I ordered an omelet to be cooked through but not browned. I received an omelet that was raw and watery inside. When I asked for another, it came back overcooked throughout and burnt and crispy on the outside.
One thing I know for sure is that, as a result of being picky with food and our bad luck with restaurants, my dad and I became excellent cooks! I guess we held ourselves to the same high standards we expected of restaurants. My father ended up being the best cook I ever knew. When he passed away, my sisters and I went into his refrigerator, and in the freezer were some of his dishes. We defrosted them and ate together, for the last time, our father’s homemade food—it was the most delicious meal I ever ate and the saddest.
I never really cooked until my thirties, except for a few items that I would munch on. I was an extremely skinny kid, not at all interested in eating, and close friends called me Olive Oyl because of my skinny legs. So many hours passed that by the time I finally did eat, I was ravenous—then a salad was my choice of epicurean delight. Food was out of my realm of thought until much later, when I married a foodie who was also a health fanatic. He showed me the difference between healthy and unhealthy eating, and so began my journey into the delicious organic food experience and then into conscious cooking for twins. One of them became a real foodie and the other insists on eating healthy, organic meals.
And so the circle of life continued, even in the food space. I eventually wrote a cookbook with healthy recipes. And in the end, my dad got more than great lemon fettuccine and steak at his favorite Italian restaurant in Beverly Hills; he got the waitress whom he married years after my mother passed, and they lived happily together until the end of their lives.
What is it that causes us to have entirely different reactions to the same food episodes? Whether it’s learned or genetic, it got me to appreciate cooking and to write this blog.
Please write me. I’d love to hear your stories.
Buon appetito,
Sherry Plum
This recipe is very similar to the lemon fettuccine my father loved. I think he would have approved.
