Help: sometimes the menu feels like advanced topography
Adeline (nickname: Eddie) loves food, lots of it and often, both at home and out. She runs on double espressos, is addicted to ice lollies and considers joining Ik Vertrek every week to open a B&B with an honesty bar somewhere in the world. But this week, she just has to talk about the menu, which sometimes feels like an elaborated geography lesson.
I love travelling, I love food, I love fun little sentences on paper. You’d think I’d get short of breath at the sight of a menu full of destinations, coordinates and topographical references and names. I do, just not in an excited, convivial way. Sometimes the menu bears a suspicious resemblance to a topographical map and, honestly, topography simply wasn’t my favourite subject at secondary school.
Completely lost
Look, I can still follow bread from the baker around the corner. Even I know where exactly I’m eating that evening. But when the Munster cheese comes from the Vosges, the mirabelles are fresh from Alsace, the maple syrup comes from a sugar shack in Quebec, the oregano has been freshly picked from a mountain inland in Greece and the Iberico comes from a pig in Spain, I simply get a little lost.
Not that you’re not allowed to mention where things come from. I love it when a menu says that a chef works only with local seasonal produce. I can be that kind of oat-milk millennial too. But I don’t need to know straight away that everything comes from somewhere when I place my order. I simply take that for granted. I also trust the chefs at the gas burners enough to expect a certain amount of quality without the street and house number of the braised meat on my plate being mentioned.
Local indulgence
What do I absolutely looooove enjoying? Wandering around a city, country or mountain village, when a local merchant pulls you inside and suddenly starts slicing all sorts of things for you. The cheesemonger around the corner said yesterday that he’d spoil me sometime. Thankfully, he then gave me a freshly cut slice topped with a mixture of pesto and aged cheese; otherwise, things would have become awkward.
But take that local winemaker who is making Retsina in his shed in Greece. Even though I find it utterly undrinkable, I’ll still enthusiastically buy a bottle. For home. And of course I’ll tell my friends who come over for dinner where the wine comes from. That’s just the kind of person I am.
Read also:
- Eddie’s food annoyances: that impossible crockery to eat from
- Tough luck: that wakame salad isn’t healthy at all
- Tips for the best, easiest pasta salad
