I grew up in a restaurant family.
While other kids got to have play dates and scheduled outings with their moms and dads, I enjoyed an absentee relationship with mine; 2 of 3 being terminally addicted to their kitchens. In the years that my parents were together I barely saw my mom because she’d leave for work while I was still at pre-school and not return until 2 or 3 in the morning. After my parents separated, my mom and stepdad were too busy chasing their restaurant dreams to worry about things like family all that much, so I lived with my dad and only saw them a couple times a year.
Despite many wonderful things I learned and was inspired by during my time in their restaurants, the one thing that continues to irk me to this day is the overly critical nature that they’ve imbued in me. It was never more evident in them than on the rare occasions when we would go out to eat as a family. Rather than enjoying the brief time we had together, they would categorically pick apart whatever we were eating, regardless of whether it was a cheap trattoria or a fancy French bistro. They’d then move on to analyzing whether they could make a particular dish better, and consequently discuss how to do so.
It drove me nuts. Had I been older it probably would have driven me to drink, but at that young age all I could muster was a withering roll of the eyes. I didn’t see them often, so all I wanted was to make the most of our time, but they never let up. For years I vowed I would never be like them, determined to be happy with whatever was set before me, instead.
But, over the last few years I’ve found their somewhat unsavoury trait rearing its ugly head more and more in my demeanour.
Between working in their kitchens and stints at culinary school I’ve had plenty of time to develop an overly picky palate. In a lot of ways it’s been for the best; I’ve gained a certain level of disdain for junk, fast and pre-packaged food-like substances in favour of slow (or what I like to call real) food. On the flip side, it also makes friends and lovers (unnecessarily) nervous wrecks when feeding me, and coworkers assume I’m some sort of snob because I choose not to eat their hydrogenated oil filled crap or corn syrup laden goodies. Even though I’m relatively quiet about my beliefs and standpoints on food (preferring to internalize rather than proselytize) most people assume I’m some sort of elitist crank or cow hugging moon maiden, anyhow. That I don’t care what anyone thinks of me or my habits seems to stymie them all the more.
I often try to rationalize that I’ve only taken on the best parts of this annoying habit from my parents. Instead of critiquing things for how bad they might be, I strive to only indulge in tastes of ridiculously good food because I think it satisfies your body, soul and cravings more. Of course, that’s a mantra that’s easier said than done…
