Not once in my life have I ever received the compliment, “You’re a good eater.” That’s high praise in the South, but it’s also praise that is reserved for people who will eat just about anything put in front of them. That certainly doesn’t describe me. I’m what Southerners call “a picky eater.” That means I don’t seek out food I can’t recognize or pronounce.
For years I thought I was a “picky eater” because I was picked on by others at the table for my refusal to try new things or old things cooked a new way.
“You don’t know what you’re missing!” my Mother would admonish.
“How do you know you won’t like it if you won’t try it?” I heard that almost every day.
“What are you gonna do when you’re at somebody else’s house and they serve this?” my Grandmother would sometimes ask. I never said it out loud, but I always thought, “I don’t have friends whose family would eat this sort of thing.”
The one good thing about being a “picky eater” is that it was easy for me to determine, without even tasting a food, whether or not I would like it. If I didn’t like the color, texture, smell, size, or name I could dismiss it without a second thought. For years my motto was, “If you can’t fry it, I won’t try it.”
Oatmeal and Cream of Wheat were about the only meals I ate on a regular basis that weren’t fried. Good thing we always had bacon on the side!
My love of simple food caught up with me once I left the South. I was 25 and newly married the first time I left Georgia to live in another state. Although it was neighboring Florida, it was South Florida, which is practically its own country.
The entire time we were driving there I worried about whether or not I’d starve in a land where they don’t cover everything in gravy. I had heard rumors that spices were not only common, but encouraged. I didn’t see why anybody needed more than pepper to give their food a real “kick.”
Ralph wasn’t nearly as nervous about the move as I was, but then he’s a “good eater” and had even been to Europe as a teenager.
Shortly after our move, I made my first business trip outside the South. I went to New York City for a week-long IBM-sponsored class. I was so excited! I couldn’t wait to experience a real city with yellow cabs and brown air.
My excitement lasted until supper the first evening. I went with several classmates to an upscale restaurant near Central Park. As soon as I opened the menu, I knew I was in trouble. I didn’t recognize anything. They had fish, and though the double name – Mahi-Mahi – made me smile, I was pretty sure it wasn’t as good as catfish. They didn’t even offer it fried.
Other menu items included what I call “vowel foods” (linguini, manicotti, oreganata, bruschetta). In the world where I grew up, all the best foods ended in consonants: chickeN, corN, roasT beeF, shrimP, beanS, squasH and even haM. I was skeptical that the food in this place would be edible. I became instantly nervous. Here I was staring at a menu that might as well have been in another language and the only thing I knew for sure was that every item was expensive. My daddy would have said, “They’re mighty proud of their food, aren’t they?”
Things continued to go downhill as soon as the waiter arrived to take our order. He suggested we start with “a delightful radicchio and arugula salad with a citrus vinaigrette.” Huh?
I recognized the word “salad” so I had some idea of what he was recommending, but until that moment, I didn’t know that salad came in more than one variety. Iceberg lettuce was the only kind of salad I had ever eaten and it was always topped with cucumbers, carrots, tomatoes and Thousand Island dressing, which my mother made using mayonnaise and ketchup.
Radicchio sounded like something you’d have surgically removed. Afterwards, you could go to Arugula to rest up. How I longed for fat-laden iceberg!
It’s easy to feel intimidated when faced with an unfamiliar situation. Here I was with strangers in a strange city in a strange restaurant ordering from a menu of strange choices. (I have always suspected that the guy who created the television show, “Fear Factor” once found himself in a similar situation and decided to capitalize on it.)
I truly feared that my tablemates might see me as unsophisticated, or worse yet, “a picky eater,” so I smiled at the waiter and said, “Oh yes, that does sound delicious! I’ll have the salad.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I felt I had betrayed my Southernness.
Soon, I was faced with a plate of mixed greens that came in shades of green and red, with tiny corn cobs and sprouts. It looked like something my father would have weeded out of the garden and fed to the horses. I knew I wouldn’t like it. No salad should look like it’s made by Crayola.
I managed to choke it down before my fish with two names arrived. To my surprise, the Mahi-Mahi was actually good even without a crunchy batter. It was also the first time I had eaten fish without hushpuppies, though I wouldn’t recommend going that far in the future just to save a reputation. The steamed beans could have used another hour or two in the water or at the very least a little bacon fat, but I managed to keep them down.
As I lay in bed that night, I felt a wave of emotions. Excitement because I was finally in “the big city” I had dreamt of visiting. Pride because I conquered my fear of eating strange food in front of strange people. Wistfulness because I wanted to be back on the farm eating mushy vegetables with fried chicken. Anticipation because I wondered what other strange foods or customs I might encounter while traveling. Relief that I could try new and different things and live to tell about it.
Since that trip, I’ve traveled extensively and have eaten all kinds of foreign foods. I can’t say that I have enjoyed every meal, but I do know this: those who aren’t “picky eaters” will probably never have the same sense of accomplishment that I feel simply from trying to be a “good eater.”
