Sans salad

As much as food these days is somewhat of a social lubricant, or in my case, an opportunity for others to speak while the food interrupts me, it hasn't always been such an enhancer of my social life.


Argentinians are known to be a carnivorous bunch, having only recently relinquished a long held mantel of highest beef consumption per capita to Uruguay. But even in such good company, I stood out for my disdain towards fruit and vegetables, and in particular, the common salad. This side dish mostly made up of lettuce, tomato and onion, with a light dressing, has long tormented me and has impacted on my personality and quality of life far more than desirable.


As a young lad, I hesitated and desisted from going to my friends' houses for dinner and sleep-overs, as invariably "it" would be served at the table, and the shame I felt at having to ask for a dish with meat or pasta, but no salad, made the rest of the evening an exercise in self castigation. These became some of my earliest memories of anxiety, a feeling I still get every time I eat in public.


Unfortunately, my condition was not very well accepted by the community in the 80s, and there were certainly no support groups for it, so I suffered alone. The social isolation which ensued still lingers in my psyche. I can still smell the balsamic dressing in my nightmares. While the other children laughed and played, and happily rejoiced on the wonderful memory-making moments that slumber parties, school camps and outdoor picnics presented them, I was putting a down payment on my first box of Aropax.


As I grew older, I somewhat made peace with my eating disorder. I also vastly enlarged my range of consumables, but the social anxiety persists. Catered work lunches are a particular occasion when the cold sweats and enlarged pupils occur. No doubt in an attempt to justify the prices, caterers ensure that every sandwich on the table has at least three colours within the slices, and such artistry can only mean pain, suffering or starvation for the rest of my afternoon. Under such circumstances, which usually find one holding a sandwich with nothing but a napkin or a slight paper plate, not even Houdini could make the salad disappear without destroying the meal, or making a scene. Especially as one is usually simultaneously conversing, or 'networking', in close proximity with those who one is trying to impress, or in the very least, not disgust. And so, the torturous salad is once again consumed... bite by bite. Or more predictably, end up discarded untouched and hidden, amongst the rest of the over-catering, which no doubt occurred.


The backyard bbq provides the social equivalent to the work morning tea, with the added bonus that these events are not catered but rather a physical manifestation of your friends' effort, love and affection for each other. And so, as the makers of said salads mingle nearby, their leering so intense it could re-heat the fried onion, (which I certainly do partake in), the salad avoidance dance is taken to almost professional levels.


By my late twenties I had become a lot more adept at dealing with such situations, carefully avoiding the wrong queue at a buffet, purposely ensuring to be last serving oneself in order for the portions to have run out, or filling the plate with enough bread so the lack of salad doesn't raise much curios inquisition, but occasionally, when you least expect it, in a moment of distraction, someone selflessly hands you a plate with a whole side of it. And as I look down unto such a plate, almost with a balsamic-drowned resignation, I curse, "Oh salad, why hast thou forsaken me!"

I think I've stretched enough...

So for a while now I have made food a huge part of my life. Some call it a passion, others whisper obsession... I think it's more of a socially accepted addiction.


Much like others, I can remember the first time I realised I had a problem. Sure, I'd noticed that I ate on a daily basis, but it was only when I joined thousands around the Australia, raising money for the needy, in a selfless moment of teenage altruism, that a mere 6 hours into my first and only “40-hour famine” I realized I was an addict. And I have been dealing with it ever since.


Many years ago in an attempt to justify, or perhaps disguise my addiction, I made it work for me, or possibly more accurately, I worked for it. Hospitality fed me throughout my university life, as I hop-scotched my way through many versions of food and drink disposals: pizza joints, upper-middle class suburban bistros, student cafes, chic bars, the omnipresent tex-mex, and 24-hour casino eateries. I have worked my way around the various formations of what globally feeds those who won't feed themselves. But throughout this whole career, I never succeed in seducing (or working for) one of my life long loves: McDonald's. My unrequited relationship with the golden arches will always represent hope and regret, neatly wrapped up in a perfect happy meal.


So, towards the end of my hospitality careers, in an attempt to put all those moments of “I could do this better” which I had had into action, a mate and I decided to open a tidy little restaurant. And so we did. At the time we could both had been described as foodies, coffee wankers, pretentious gits, or perhaps just young and good looking, and so our restaurant reflected these qualities. The place tried to push a few boundaries, which back then in Brisbane it was not hard to do. Brisbane's restaurant scene was little more than an expanding food court: a carvery, fast-food in every shape and size, a couple (at most) of worldly options so assimilated, they made the white-Australia policy seem positively open minded; and the obligatory Coffee Club. (For non Queenslanders, The Coffee Club is to coffee what Nickelback is to music...) So, putting ingredients like saganaki, israeli couscous, kangaroo or chermoula on the menu was seen as risky and challenging, or dare I say it, unAustralian. Mind you, like many other restaurants, in times of trouble, insecurity or discomfort, one could always utter the safe-words... “I'll have the chicken, thanks.”


After leaving hospitality I moved to Melbourne and joined the many behind a desk. I ate out at some of the city's best and ordered aplenty. I made the most of what living in Australia's culinary capital has to offer: a combination of multiculturalism, amazing produce, and an exploding cultural desire to prop food up to the realms traditionally reserved for war heroes, film stars and sports-folk. But now, driven either by my contrary nature or my fiscal conservatism, I am moving further and further away from this world, and now struggle to justify or even enjoy all that jazzed-up grub.


So, I thought, in order to better understand my views on food, and my relationships with it, (I use the plural because I also have issues with commitment, and most dishes I've had would not have made it past a first date), I would start this and see where it goes. At this stage, I only have a vague idea of where that might be... There might be some introspection and autobiographical over-sharing, the occasional rant, reviews and praise for various places which I frequent; along with opinions on how either I, society, or the government, should challenge the status quo... There might be some research, or fiction based on something I wish had happened. But overall, it will be an exercise in embracing my online persona, which for so long I have kept conservatively quite, repressed and case sensitive.


I also hope not to get too hurt in the process.