A few days ago, I was invited to attend a small, private tasting at a Spanish restaurant here in Miraflores. The four of us - the editor, food critic, and photographer of a website for which I've written a couple of articles, plus me - sat down to taste and critique about one PM.
The editor was a multilingual Dane, the photographer an obscenely well-traveled American, and the English food critic the type of woman I might have loved if I hadn't immediately despised for her effortless stylishness and wit. Right away, I felt inexplicably as if my fingernails were dirty and I was terrified an “ain't” might slip out. When the food began arriving, that vague feeling of unsophisticated-ness morphed into full-on shame.
I'm not a big food person. I already knew that, but I didn't realize how limited were my powers of description when it comes to gastronomy until those three helpfully pointed it out to me. The first red flag leaped into view when the editor asked me what was my favorite Peruvian dish. The deer-in-headlights feeling that seized me pulled a foolish "Um, I like yucas" out of my mouth and brought a fleeting look of pity to the editor's face.
The rest of the tasting was no better. I listened to them swap unfamiliar adjectives about each dish and watched the food critic, Yvonne, take notes while the chef described their preparation. With every new taste, the exclamations of amazement became more frequent and pronounced. I tried everything that was offered and attempted to keep a pleasant expression on my face, but - due to both my inexperience and desperation to be gone - I really was not all that impressed with the food. Every time someone asked my opinion, I would fumble for a suitable response, give up, and resort to the stock response I learned in Ukraine that describes everything neither extraordinarily good nor outrageously bad: "It's as normal."
I kept thinking about my mom and my grandfather. Give my grandfather a pair of socks or a million-dollar check for Christmas, and his response is the same: "That's real good, doll." My mom's the same, only even less (if that's possible) loquacious in some ways. How was your day, Mom? "Fine." And that Everest trek/presidential debate you did? "OK." But the one thing my mom can and frequently does describe, with shudderingly vivid detail, is food. Usually things she doesn't like. A few scathing gems: "Looks like someone already ate it"; "Tastes like dog mess"; "Made me want to vomit". In some situations, these are funny; in others, exasperating. But everywhere outside of Georgia and family? Completely inappropriate.
In the midst of all the poshness, however, her breathtaking directness was all I could think of, and I decided to emulate her just in time for the chef to bring out a plate of squid - "cooked in its own ink!" The squid looked revoltingly like five leeches covered in thick, black tar. If there's anything more unappetizing this side of bodily excretions, I would like to see it. The others dug in enthusiastically, and I knew I had to do the same. The editor placed one of the fat, worm-like pieces on my plate and spooned extra ink over it, and I fought down a wave of nausea as I forced myself to cut a small chunk with my fork. Every cell of my being was shrieking in protest as I put the foul-looking stuff in my mouth and chewed once, twice, three times.
To my astonishment, it was good. Delicious, in fact. The flavor was so surprisingly appealing that I must have smiled, because the editor leaned over and said, "You like it, eh? How is it?" Here it was - my chance to offer some articulate commentary. I thought a moment, remembered my yuca gaffe, and decided to stay in character and channel my mum.
"It's great," I enthused. "Would make your tongue slap your brains out."
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