I’m afraid I’ve completely forgotten how to eat out
Adeline loves eating, a lot and often, both at home and out. Usually that goes well, but sometimes it doesn’t. In the series Sunday Roast, she shares her observations. This week, she thinks she’s forgotten how to do it.
The last time I did it properly was on a Greek island in September. I mean the old-fashioned way. Taking your time, not caring how long it takes, and, when you’re finished, simply sighing contentedly about how delicious it was. And repeating that several times a day. Well, all right, I cheated once more at the beginning of December. But that time wasn’t really allowed anymore and had been slotted into the schedule as a shift. And by now I’m afraid I’ve completely forgotten how to eat out. Admit it, eating at home just isn’t the same as eating out.
The top button
At home, I run my finger around the plate when my food comes close to divine, even if people are watching. You don’t do that in public. Behind closed doors, we simply eat dessert on the sofa, and perhaps the starter and main course too, if it’s a lazy weekend. Under my own roof, my trousers go on the food hook after the main course and we pull our sweaters over them; no one sees it or points. At home, I’m actually far too comfortable to eat out. But I’m so used to it that I fear how I’ll behave when it’s allowed again.
Shamelessly enjoying a burrata
What if I start pouring my own wine in a restaurant? Walk into the kitchen myself to quickly assemble the snack board? The chef then chases me out of the sanctuary with a ladle and serving cloth. And I no longer remember how to leisurely enjoy a divine burrata. At a table, with a napkin on my lap, in good company, where the food is neatly served by someone other than me. What if I suddenly think the top button can be undone?
Having something to complain about
I’ve almost forgotten how awful it is to have your glass of wine served after a course. How ridiculous it is when your waiter crouches down, head awkwardly above the table, and recites a three-course menu. How utterly crap it is when you’re served more bread than butter. Let alone whether I can remember the horrible feeling of a paper straw in a cocktail made by a bartender. Or when the house wine is undrinkable.
One thing I do know: I wouldn’t let myself in when it’s allowed again. What an incredible whiner I am. Even though I can’t wait to have something to complain about again.
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