"Somewhere in the world," the speaker on population growth said, "a woman is giving birth every second."
"We must find that woman," someone shouted, "and stop her!"
Somewhere else in the world, someone is training restaurant servers to tell us what they like to eat. "Oh, that is my favorite sandwich!", one enthused. "I had three of them for lunch!" Or, "I just love that soup!" Another: "Our special today is the Spicy Southwestern Blackened Chicken Salad with Avacados and Peppers! It really isn't too spicy, at all!"
I don't care what any passing waiter or waitress likes to eat. I don't care whether Lori loves alligator bacon, or Curtis has the Chef's Special Broiled Right Rubber Boot for lunch almost every day.
I might care what the specialty of the restaurant is, or whether Cities Magazine has given it an award. More often, I want to know whether the restaurant has any hot sauces other than Tabasco, or whether there are any anchovies in the kitchen.
We have to find whoever is training restaurant employees to tell us what they like; they now having turned their backs on Big Macs and Triple-Cheese Burgers. Maybe they could tell us the salads are especially good, or that there is a new menu item; maybe learn that "turmeric" is not pronounced, "toomerick", and that "bruschetta" is pronounced, "broo-skett-a".
There is a culinary school here, in our fair and balanced town. Carloads of uniformed, budding cooks eat at Taco Bell, where they think outside the bun. I suppose that, someday, they will tell their wait-staff to push one of the four creamy soups on the menu by telling us it is their favorite, or allow the French Onion, as an alternative for those who won't learn.
It is entirely arrogant of me--long past "maturity"--to complain about nineteen- or twenty-year-olds telling me what they like to eat. What they like is as legitimate as what my generation--the gray moss and fungi generation--likes to eat. The difference is that I have learned to love anchovies, and Southwestern spices and sauces, and even here in the Upper Midwest, I recall the delight, whether or not the server likes it.
I grew up as a Scandinavian-American. I know, in my heart, that the three basic spices are sugar and salt and butter. I know, as surely as I know that God loves me (probably), that all sauces are white. But if I were a waiter--not then, but now--I should not be allowed to urge people to eat what I liked, but what the restaurant does best.
I appreciate almost all of the servers I meet in restaurants. They work incredibly hard, earn barely tolerable wages, are almost universally attentive and helpful, go at full speed, and must finish their shifts completely exhausted. But I don't care what they eat, unless they eat too much of it, in which case I don't want to know what it is.
They might say that they are best-known for steaks, or fish, or pasta, or sandwiches, or perhaps that they have a new item on the menu. And, especially, don't tell me that the Spicy Cajun Crayfish isn't too spicy!
No, maybe they should! It isn't Cajun, at all, is it? I love bland crawdads! They are my favorite!
"We must find that woman," someone shouted, "and stop her!"
I don't care what any passing waiter or waitress likes to eat. I don't care whether Lori loves alligator bacon, or Curtis has the Chef's Special Broiled Right Rubber Boot for lunch almost every day.
I might care what the specialty of the restaurant is, or whether Cities Magazine has given it an award. More often, I want to know whether the restaurant has any hot sauces other than Tabasco, or whether there are any anchovies in the kitchen.
We have to find whoever is training restaurant employees to tell us what they like; they now having turned their backs on Big Macs and Triple-Cheese Burgers. Maybe they could tell us the salads are especially good, or that there is a new menu item; maybe learn that "turmeric" is not pronounced, "toomerick", and that "bruschetta" is pronounced, "broo-skett-a".
There is a culinary school here, in our fair and balanced town. Carloads of uniformed, budding cooks eat at Taco Bell, where they think outside the bun. I suppose that, someday, they will tell their wait-staff to push one of the four creamy soups on the menu by telling us it is their favorite, or allow the French Onion, as an alternative for those who won't learn.
It is entirely arrogant of me--long past "maturity"--to complain about nineteen- or twenty-year-olds telling me what they like to eat. What they like is as legitimate as what my generation--the gray moss and fungi generation--likes to eat. The difference is that I have learned to love anchovies, and Southwestern spices and sauces, and even here in the Upper Midwest, I recall the delight, whether or not the server likes it.
I grew up as a Scandinavian-American. I know, in my heart, that the three basic spices are sugar and salt and butter. I know, as surely as I know that God loves me (probably), that all sauces are white. But if I were a waiter--not then, but now--I should not be allowed to urge people to eat what I liked, but what the restaurant does best.
I appreciate almost all of the servers I meet in restaurants. They work incredibly hard, earn barely tolerable wages, are almost universally attentive and helpful, go at full speed, and must finish their shifts completely exhausted. But I don't care what they eat, unless they eat too much of it, in which case I don't want to know what it is.
They might say that they are best-known for steaks, or fish, or pasta, or sandwiches, or perhaps that they have a new item on the menu. And, especially, don't tell me that the Spicy Cajun Crayfish isn't too spicy!
No, maybe they should! It isn't Cajun, at all, is it? I love bland crawdads! They are my favorite!
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