I love food. No secret about that. I love eating it, of course, but I also like looking at pictures of food in magazines, cookbooks, Facebook, Pinterest, billboards, you name it. I call this food porn. You know what I’m talking about!
In my humble opinion, food always tastes best when you didn’t cook it yourself. What makes book group fun? The books? No. The idle chit chat? Maybe. But where’s the food?
Then there’s going out to eat. What’s not to like about that? First off, you got your cocktails and bread basket, and if you’re lucky, some herbed butter. Or in an Italian restaurant: focaccia and olive oil. Then you get to pour over the menu and read the descriptions of all the dishes. Maybe there’s a specials menu or, even better, they recite the specials and describe each item in every tasty detail. This is where my beloved hubby gets bogged down: too many choices. Not me! I especially like it when they describe the desserts. Oh, baby!
Full disclosure, folks. In a restaurant, I will gladly split an appetizer or salad, okay? Maybe even an entrée, but dessert? Never. No siree bob. If someone wants dessert, they can order their own. And no, I don’t want two spoons. By bringing them, you make me look selfish if I don’t at least offer to share. Thankfully, Charlie has learned from experience to respectfully decline.
I have pretty much a photographic memory when it comes to menus. I know if they substitute goat cheese for blue cheese and if they’ve left off the candied walnuts. Oh, yeah. I remember what’s part of the special even when the cook somehow forgets. When the waitress doesn’t know what’s what, I’ll step in. “Yup,” I says, “that’s served with rice. It said so on page two of the menu, about halfway down.”
Charlie calls me “The Menu Whisperer,” and he’s not far from the mark. Poor fella, he’s not too gifted in this area. In fact, Charlie gets overwhelmed down to the Brew-Ha-Ha and they haven’t changed the menu since 1965. Maybe it’s from all those years of asking what’s for supper. More than one choice, he’s flummoxed.
Charlie’ll turn to me and ask, “What am I ordering?” And I know better than to give him multiple choices. I just tell him.
“I think you’d enjoy the scallops, hon,” Because he would and I never cook ‘em a home. Too stinky. “Get the baked potato, loaded. And when she asks about the dressing, just say ‘Thousand Island.”
That cinches it for Charlie. Done. He smiles, closes his menu and looks at me adoringly.
“I bet you know just what you want.”
“I do!”
“I bet you figured it out in the first thirty seconds.”
“I did! Know why?”
“Because you’re The Menu Whisperer.”
“You betcha!”
Bon Appetit! Catch you on the flip side!
Hear Ida Tell It: The Menu Whisperer