So, we think a lot about food in our house. While not the compulsive restaurant hounds many here are, we get out every now and then on gustatory adventures.
Which led this week to one of the weirdest foodie events I’ve ever heard about. The event, a charitable doo dah, featured a prix fixe menu with only two items. One option was a moderately appealing but not super-exciting meal—baked sole, boiled potatoes and carrots. The other was some experiment in conceptual macho cuisine— steak tartare, home cut fries and, god help us all, candied pork rinds.
Like so many of these affairs, there was a gimmick: if you didn’t want either choice, the kitchen would simply provide one of the choices, whether you wanted it or not. You couldn’t even gamely sit through the evening gnawing on rolls.
Naturally, there were more takers for the bland but comforting sole meal, which of course led the pragmatists in the kitchen to fly out a bunch of the macho meals to the Bartleby the Scriveners in the crowd. And the none-for-me-thanks crowd was not pleased.
Now, I agree it was a silly schtick, but I can’t for the life of me understand why anyone, knowing they’d be served one of the two dishes, wouldn’t order the one they disliked least. I mean, hell, poke at the potatoes, for god’s sake.
This is, of course, a parable. Not even the most spring-headed food freak would organize such a dinner. But, as fate would have it, our political system has done so.
Two dishes are offered. If you refuse to order, a meal will be chosen for you.
Sadly, it will also be provided for every man, woman and child in the world, even those with no seat at the table.
I truly, deeply wish those who’ve been invited to the dinner understood that, whatever their own, oh so refined tastes, they are ordering for everyone.
Bon apetit.