Declaration of the Picky Foodie

One of the highlights of my recent trip to Chicago was a food tour. We walked, we chatted, we admired the architecture, and we nibbled liberally on all sorts of delicious tidbits. I had had my very first Ruben sandwich, followed by samples of imported tea, exotic spices, handmade chocolate, and a slab of the miraculous, deep-dish pizza for which the city is famous. While exploring the city on our own, we noticed that literally every third building was some sort of market or eating establishment. Here, sustenance was serious business, and it came in every shape, form, size and flavour imaginable. This was a city that took its palate seriously.

Keen to get in on the action, we found a nearby Gastro-Pub, a place which was supposed to serve down-to-earth, comforting fare with a gourmet twist. Our hearts sunk as we read the menu, which boasted inflated prices, and options that looked like the chefs were trying entirely too hard. Evidently, using young (aka small) chickens, pureed liver and a few sprinkles of exotic pink salt was all that was needed to elevate their cuisine to a higher level. We left the restaurant hungry and discouraged.

Hope returned the next day in a tiny Thai cafe, with a plate of steaming, spicy noodles. We gobbled as fast as our chopsticks would allow us to. Later in the week, we tucked hungrily into a savoury steak sandwich so greasy that the bun disintegrated before we could eat all of it. I decided one morning to have fresh mini donuts and hot chocolate for breakfast. Heaven.

I think I've given up on the notion of fancy food. Intellectually, I get the subtle nuances of adding a wee sprig of this or that rare herb, or essence of something or other, or stuffing this food with that food. I appreciate when things taste different, or when someone has gone to the trouble of inventing an entirely new dish. Haute cuisine has indeed become a modern art and for this, I praise it. I just don't like eating it.

When I think back on Chicago, I'm going to remember that slice of pizza. When I think Austin, Texas, giant gingerbread pancakes from Magnolia Cafe will spring to mind. Honolulu will conjure images of Cocoa Puffs from Lilha Bakery. Barcelona will be about Churros con chocolate, and Paris will be about lemon tarts, and Tokyo will be about humble buckwheat noodles with soy sauce. The most memorable things I've ever eaten have been on park benches, or while hovering over the kitchen sink. I may be a right little cretin, as far as my culinary aspirations go, but I'm a cretin with a satisfied stomach.