"Chatty Cathy" > wrote in message
...
> Been thinking about picky eaters again....
>
> --
> Cheers
> Chatty Cathy - just curious about other people's experiences.

Okay, I'll bite.

True story 1): I'm walking down the street in Portland, OR, about six
months after after Sept, 11th. It's 10:30 in the morning and I'm on-foot in
an industrial section of the town on the east side of the Columbia river. A
small, dark man - who I can only describe as 'swarthy' (ie, he had a 5
o'clock shadow at 10 in the morning) steps-out of a door wearing a white
apron and a fold-open signboard. He sets it up as I walk past and I see
'Syrian restaurant' and a bunch of squiggly arabic writing. I take about
five steps, turn around and walk into this little hole-in-wall on the heels
of the swarthy fellow.

He looks startled to have large white guy in his restaurant. I reach
behind me. He looks suddenly afraid. I take out my wallet and lay a twenty
dollar bill on the counter. The conversation goes sort of like this:

"What you want?"
"Lunch"
"You know syrian food"
"Nope?"
"Babba-ganush?"
"Nope?"
"What you want?"
"You pick."

He brings tea. He brings these little square, crumbly white cookies that
reek of anise - a spice I'm not fond of, but eat 'em anyway. They're okay
with tea, which is strong and very aromatic with a spice I am not familar
with. Then he brings out a platter on a little fold-up table. It's quite
literally stacked with food - and I have no idea what it is. He's
chattering non-stop, pointing-out this and pointing-out that and I'm
catching none of it. I know the flatbread and I know the cucumber / yogurty
sauce and the tasty pieces of grilled lamb. The rest - not a clue. But I
eat it all. He's watching me and I grin and occassionally give a big
'thumbs-up' and he grins back. Then when, I'm finished, he clears the table
and lays my bill on the table, along with the ubiquitous peppermint candy
wrapped in cellaphane. I start gathering my stuff - it's still winter in
Portland, so you get wet, especially if your on foot.

The swarthy fellow is back. He's got a platter, with two tiny white cups,
two little plates and a covered pot with elaborate floral patterns on it.
He sits down in the booth with me and put a little cup in front of me. One
cup of what turns-out to be incredibly strong and bitter expresso for me
and one cup form him. The he starts spooning-up what I can only assume are
stuffed figs. They are lemony and dripping with honey and incredibly,
incredibly sweet. We eat these little things and sip our expresso in this
empty restaurant. We don't say a word. Just sip expresso and eat figs.
When we're finished, he clears the table and leaves.

I gather-up my raingear and stuff and approach the counter, wallet in hand.
No expresso or tasty little treats was on the bill. He just waves me off
with a satisfied smile. I nod, thank the swarthy little man and leave.

True story 2): I've been self-employed since 1994, so my hours are my own.
Which means I'm free a lot of the time other people are at work. It's
Portland, OR again - my home for almost sixteen years. I'm at a bus-stop
and I look across the street and notice that a mexican restaurant I'd eaten
at a couple of weeks ago is closed. But a banner across the top of the
building announces a Thai restaurant has just opened. And I haven't eaten
lunch yet and I've never eaten thai food in my life. So I figure 'what the
hell' and walk across the street.

The place is empty. The mexican decour is still in-place. Same tables,
same fixtures, same dancing red and green peppers on the walls. Only later
did I learn just how appropriate those peppers were to be. There is just a
young waitress and a wrinkly looking guy in a white t-shirt with no sleeves
and a paper hat who peers at me from around the corner of the kitchen. I
sit at a booth and the young waitress brings me a glass of ice water and a
menu. The menu is in Thai with really bad english descriptions - at that
time I couldn't tell Pad Thai from crying tiger from drunken noodle and I'd
never eaten a curry - indian or otherwise - in my life. So I look it over
and then lay it on the table. The waitress approaches.

"You like?"
I shrug. She tries again.
"You like... chicken?"
I wait.
"Maybe... duck?"
I nod. I've never eaten any duck I didn't kill with my own shotgun.
"in curry? You like red curry?"
I nod. Much later I've learned the significance of this decision. I now
prefer green thai curry, but red curry was a good place to start.
"You like hot?"
I wait.
"Medium?"
I nod.

The young waitress brings a covered ceramic bowl with a spoon sticking-out
of the lid and a covered bowl of rice. I spoon out fragrant, sticky rice
into a bowl. I spoon a glistening, creamy red-sauce with huge chunks of
falling-apart meat and bright green leaves and some root vegtables over the
rice. And I eat.

With tears streaming down my face, with all my senses exploding with the
firey heat of the chili and the amazing sweetness of the coconut milk and
the taste of the chinese roasted duck, The divine talked to me that
afternoon. I saw the face of god in a plate of thai red-curry duck and I
knew that this white boy from Montana had just been born-again and as God as
my witness, I'd never eat Chinese again!

<grin>

As I sat there in the booth, people started walking by and looking-in to
this restaurant where the only customer was weeping, wiping his brow and
eating like a glutton. I pointed at my plate and mouthed 'It's very, very
good." and then people started walking-in. Shortly the place was full and
the waitress looked frazzled but grateful. I came back the next week and
there were three waitresses and two cooks in the kitchen. And the old guy
in the sleveless tee-shirt grinned his toothless grin when he saw me and
waved.

True Story 3): I'm shopping in my favorite Oriental market in Portland, OR.
All the produce is market in oriental characters so I don't have a clue to
what the hell I'm buying. I pick-up this huge bag of green 'stuff' - it's
got thick stalks and wide, thick leaves. I go to the check-out counter. I
hold-up the bag of leafy greens to the clerk.

"Is this spinach?"
"Not spinach."
"What is it?"
"NOT SPINACH!"

I take my huge sack of 'not spinach' home with me. I eat not spinach raw in
a salad. I eat not spinach braised in a stir-fry with chicken. I eat not
spinach in a soup with noodles. I eat all the not-spinach, ever stalk, ever
flat, bitterish leaf. And to this day I don't know what it was I ate.
Except that is was NOT spinach.

<grin>

And people wonder why'd I risk eating an mushroom I found growing in my lawn
and that I identifed with a key.

--
MJB

Mr. Tin's Miniature Painting Workshop:
http://web.newsguy.com/Mrtinsworkshop/