I'm absolutely starving as we sit laughing and joking in the family-run Indian restaurant about 30 minutes outside of Salt Lake City, Utah. The group is adorable at best, but dorky is probably a better way to describe us. We are a bunch of English majors and professors, in town for a literature conference, so it makes sense that the lively conversation focuses on contemplating what one of our professor's tattoos could be. My pick is the current favorite: the entire text of Beowulf, written in old English.
Ordering in a restaurant is one of my biggest fears, and I feel like anyone with an anxiety disorder could agree. There is one best, most delicious, perfect item on that menu, and what if I don't choose it? Indian food, although ridiculously delicious, is particularly challenging because I usually default to my sister, who knows what I like. My aversion to spicy food turns the elaborate menu, written in Hindi and peppered with English, into a minefield, and I realize I have no idea what I'm doing. I go the safe route: rice, yogurt, and naan, my favorites. I take a risk, adding chicken tandoori even though I don't know exactly what it is because it seems mild.
We continue to laugh and joke, but we are all getting antsy with hunger. It's been awhile since I've eaten, and I jealously eye other people's appetizers, eagerly awaiting my own food. Finally, it comes out. We are in a huge group, and I wait while everyone's food is placed before them, trying not to appear overly-excited. Finally my rice, yoghurt and naan are all in place, a space is open for my main dish. The waitress puts it down last, and my eyes glance over the plate. There is a small salad, dusted with cumin, and orange chunks of chicken, heavily sprinkled with cilantro.
I freeze.
I cannot, under any circumstances, eat cilantro. This is for real, about 15% of the population
, or about 1/8 people, coincidentally the exact representation at the table, lacks an enzyme that allows them to properly taste cilantro. Instead it tastes like soap, but some people describe it as chewed up rubber bands. For me, it is incredibly, unbearably soapy. I cannot eat even one morsel of it. It ruins everything. One day my sister suggested I just eat around it. But if my dish is contaminated, this would be the logistical equivalent of eating around actual soap. The whole thing is ruined.
Looking at the dish, I start to panic and I don't know what to do. The paste-like orange mystery sauce on the chicken glued the cilantro down, and picking it off isn't an option. It took 20 minutes to cook my food, so recooking it won't work either. I also feel terrible sending it back to the kitchen because our group is so big, and I don't want to hold anyone up. I don't want to complain and ruin everyone's good time. But I cannot, cannot, cannot, eat this food.
I know I should have told the waitress that I couldn't eat cilantro, but I had carefully read the menu and assumed there wouldn't be an extra garnish added to the dish. I also silently regret never starting a green-ribbon campaign to set cilantro-intolerance awareness on the national stage. There really is no known cure.
I'm ready to cry. I'm so hungry, and my dish is ruined. I want to go to the bathroom to regroup and think of a good plan, but even in my panicky mind, I know that is ridiculous. What the hell am I going to do with this place of inedible food? I decide that regardless of how obnoxious this is, I have to send it back. I explain the situation to my friend, and I try to get the waitress's attention.
Before I can, my friend steps in to save me. She asks if she can try my food, and then she offers to switch. I'm immediately suspicious that she is just doing this to solve the problem to be nice. She is a mom after all. So I start to feel incredibly guilty. I really do love her food, though, and it would make everything easier. Finally, we make the switch, and I'm okay again.
For now.
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