04 December 06

Food makes me cry

This weekend, amidst that craziness that was craft-fair weekend, Andrew and I made it to a friend’s house for dinner. They made an absolutely delightful, delicious, and heavenly pozole rojo. Imagine a stew made with shredded pork or beef with hominy and I don’t even know what else.

I knew we were in for a delicious dinner when we showed up and there was a smell that knocked my boots off as soon as the door opened. I honestly thought my stomach was going to climb up my throat and sit at the table by itself, it smelled so good. Our friend credited the heavenly taste on her new red LeCreuset dutch oven. I think its because she is phenomenal in the kitchen.

And I do mean phenomenal. I started to cry. Just thinking about that first taste, I’m welling up again.

It’s this crazy thing that food does to me. Every once in a while I’ll take a bite of something and it will be so perfect, so exactly perfect, that I’ll well up and cry a bit. And this wonderful friend made me cry with her dinner. As I sat there waving at my face with my hands, she and her husband looked aghast. “Is it too hot?” “Oh! It’s too spicy?” Andrew just smirked and said, “No. She’s just crying.”

And I was, because the food was SOOO good.

Let me recount for you the other times that dishes have made me cry. In a rough chronological order:

1997: February: I’m eating sushi with an old friend and Andrew at a restaraunt on the north side of Columbus, OH. It is the first time I’ve had sushi. My friend has me eat wasabi. And I cried. But then, later on, I’m handed my first piece of tuna. I look at it squeamishly but then eat it and OH MY WORD! Tears of joy, not pain, this time.

1999: Spring: Andrew, Brandon, and I are eating at a sushi restaraunt in the burbs. Kompaii is the name. (Andrew could give you directions.) The sushi is on little plates on a moat. You just remove the plates of what you want and eat it. Your server tallies up your plates to get your totals. Brandon has this thing where he loves the idea of salmon. He loves how it looks. But he rarely can choke it down. So he picked up a plate of salmon pieces. Andrew and I roll our eyes at each other knowing one of us would finish it. (We rolled our eyes at each other a lot that year.) But we don’t. Instead, Brandon throws his head back, makes a growling sound, and begins to slap the counter. I’m convinced he’s choking. But he’s not. He’s pulling a Harry Met Sally over the salmon. He grabs the next two plates, unable to speak, and makes Andrew and I eat them. Not sure if he’s dying and taking us with him, we do it. And it had the consistency of butter and I swear! I swear I could taste kelp, brine, lemon, and even notes of cream. I have never had a more complex bite of fish in my entire life and don’t know if I will again. I start to cry and Brandon looks at me nodding emphatically and saying “YES!”

1999: June: Andrew, Brandon, and I head to New Orleans for a three day vacation via Amtrak (not recommended). The trip is wonderful, for the most part, but we’re kinda broke and food in the French Quarter is expensive. I really, really, really, really wanted to go to NOLA. I knew it was pricey, but I’d been saving up. I knew it would be cheaper for lunch so on our last full day I beg, whine, cry, kick, and scream and convince Andrew and Brandon to go with me. Brandon is understandably balking at the price. Andrew is tired and doubts it will be worth and fears I’ll be disappointed and my trip will be ruined. I convince them to let me pay for lunch (Brandon begins to pout saying it isn’t fair, that he didn’t mean for me to pay, and he really would be happy with a muffaletta instead). Andrew is done arguing and is just hoping it doesn’t suck. We each order an appetizer and are mostly silent while we roll our eyes at each other. But then one bite into each of our appetizers and we all stop, mouths agape, eyes wide and begin pointing at our food and smiling and our entire dispostions changed. I was crying, Brandon thought my crawfish pie was too spicy, Andrew was too busy eating his food to notice, and I swore I would never be that happy again. It was phenomenal!

2004: Winter: Andrew and I decide to go to Katsu, a traditional sushi restaraunt in Chicago. Very traditionally Japanese. We see a dish of sea cucumbers marinated in orange oil and I don’t even remember what else and decide to order it. The server tries to talk us out of it saying it is a very traditional dish that Americans usually don’t like. We get it anyway. As the dish is carried to our table, the sushi chef/owner puts his knife on the counter, crosses his arms and watches us timidly take a piece of meat from the bowl. We smile at each other, put it in our mouths. The server stands near the chef and looks worriedly from him to us. Andrew says “This is really good” and then notices that I have tears in my eyes. I begin waving my hands in my face to dry the tears because of course I wore mascara. The chef looks angry, the server comes up to us. “Is it not to your liking, miss?” I reply, “Oh no! NO. Its delicious. I’m crying because it is so delicious.” He nods, bows and walks to the chef. Mutters something to him and walks away. I look the chef in the eye, he smiles slyly on one side of his face, his chest puffs up and he bows with his hands folded. I close my eyes and bow my head in return.

2004: Christmas Eve: Andrew and I are unable to make it to Ohio for Christmas Eve because the weather is so bad. We decide to pop into Tanoshii on N. Clark St. for a sushi dinner instead. Sushi Mike greets us and makes us a few rolls. They’re phenomenal, as always, and we decide to get one last roll. Mike slices and arranges in a ring on top of each other: white tuna, paper-thin tomato, avocado, and thin slices of very fresh white onion. He drizzles this sauce that I know has grapeseed, rosemary, pickled garlic and 4000 other flavors that are phenomenal. I roll one of each into a pile and place them into my mouth with chopsticks. The flavor explosion is so freaking fantastic that I’m unable to talk and I have a tear running down each cheek. Andrew is bouncing up and down, nodding vigorously and agreeing with me. Mike comes back our way and asks how we are. He sees the tears on my face and looks worried and maybe a little angry. I honestly can’t speak. I just can’t. I’m still chewing and savoring and I can’t say anything. Andrew says “She cries sometimes when she eats really good food.” He looks very skeptical and says “That’s ridiculous. Seriously, if you don’t like it that’s okay.” I blurt out “This is the best thing I’ve ever, ever eaten. I never will eat anything better.” Mike looks sheepish and awkward and walks away not sure what to say. He comes back later and says “Really, its okay?” I told him that I could count the number of times that food has made me cry on one hand. He looks a little surprised, a little pleased. He repeated the experience a year later when he gave us lobster sashimi that was out of this world. He waited for me to react and when I got misty, he smiled nodded and even gave his other chef a high five. Sushi Mike and Emeril Lagasse are the only people who have made me cry twice.

Then,
2006: December: Emily’s Pozole Rojo caused the same reaction. I swear she should start her own underground restaraunt. It would be great. I wish I had the leftovers.

Comments

  1. dude, i love this entry. but is it coincidence that most of the food that makes you cry is sushi related? maybe sushi is magic! :)

    — carolyn on Dec 7, 08:01 am

  2. that is so great! i know it's a spontaneous thing but i really want to see this happen now! anyhow, thanks for sharing, this was great late night reading!

    — laura on Dec 10, 01:13 am

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