Food, as my stepmother says, brings people together. It's the cornerstone for every holiday and family gathering, it's the basis of most great memories, and, more importantly, it gives people something to talk about. It can spur love, from a casual dinner at a sushi joint to a wedding announcement in Greenwich Village, or spin life into perpetual motion. Food is where we find every strange and abysmal character we've ever encountered in life and at the end of the day, it's where we rest our head when we simply need time to think. There's comfort food, soul food, greasy food and great food that keeps us coming back for more. Everyone, no matter where you're from, has a favorite restaurant that's the only place you can turn to when you've had a rough day. Sure, there's always romance for that, but romance can never keep you satisfied like food can.
Each restaurant is like a tiny blazing star far off in some uncharted part of the galaxy; no matter how similar they may seem, each one is uniquely different like snowflakes falling on a twenty degree day. Restaurants are homes, not just social outings, no matter what people tell you otherwise. I beg of you to enter your favorite restaurant on any given night and find someone who doesn't look at least the slightest bit happy.
Restaurants really do hold this captivating power over people, just like the food they serve, but the trouble arises when you realize that in a twenty five mile radius there are no real restaurants. To Northerners this may seem ridiculous, but those of us that thrive in the black-light that is Southern suburbs realize that culinary expeditions are extinct in the South. They expired along with the dinosaurs, and shortly thereafter weeds sprouted up in the place of Mom & Pop's and creative dining.
The only thing existing amongst the South's "wide lawns and narrow minds" is the TV dinner. And, of course, the dreaded Chain.
The concept of the chain restaurant has forever bothered me, but especially so when I began my search for every kind of new and interesting food I could gobble down. It was only then that I realized where I had been living. The independent restaurant had become virtually extinct, and those few left were hinged on the edge of demolition. The truth of the matter was that no one was interested in food anymore. They were simply interested in satisfaction. Food disintegrated from that edible centerpiece that brought us together into a marketable device used solely for profit. People didn't want to dine, people wanted to eat and be done with it.
Out of the dust of creative cuisine came the Olive Gardens and the Ruby Tuesdays and the Friendlys and the Outbacks. Shopping malls became the hub for dining experiences, people finding originality and solace in Too Jay's and food courts. The truth of the matter is that no one wants to eat anymore, they just want to eat.
I was about nine when I took my first trip to New York City. It was my birthday gift from my grandparents who packed up all my things, put three tickets to a Broadway show in my hand, and put me in the back of the car. As we drove through Midtown, though, I found something so stunning that I had never seen before. I found originality. I saw restaurant names I had never heard of and lights so vibrant that they were like tiny blazing suns. We drove past noodle stands in Chinatown and signs that bold proclaimed "Mangia qua!" in Little Italy. My eyes glazed over and I shoved my hands against the window, screaming at my grandparents to stop. To let me out. To park the car and explore the city instead of just passing it by. I was hungry. Not just for food, but for something new. Something that I saw in New York that I've yet to see in any other place.
That night, as a treat, they took me out to dinner. I remember shaking in my sneakers and they led me by the hand through Times Square, amidst the mess of people and noise. They wouldn't tell me where we were going, but my mind raced with every possibility as we passed them by. Asian fusion? Indian samosas? Cheeseburgers and chocolate shakes? What was I going to get to try?
My grandmother yanked me to a halt in front of a towering corner building. I remember standing there, staring up, and feeling something inside that I've still yet to put a finger on.
"Tah-dah!" She chirped, hands outstretched. All I could do was stare up at that huge red sign, larger than life itself, and stare. Even amongst all the noise that comes with Times Square, I could hear the buzz of that fluorescent sign. It hummed the exact same way that every other restaurant of it's type did all across the country. I knew this without ever needing to travel to another state.
From three stories up, it stared back down at me.
TGI Fridays.
I felt like crying, but I could never bring myself to do it. My grandmother never knew how I felt about that night, instead always assuming that feeling the rumble of the subway under our feet whilst dining was an experience enough. She still talks of it fondly, as though it weren't just like every other Fridays we had ever been to in our lifetimes. Now, I know better than to assume any sort of ingenuity when it comes to dining from my family. Birthdays and holidays spent out are divided between Longhorn Steakhouse, Outback, and Red Lobster. Anything else is simply out of the question.
Where has all the real food gone? I'm ashamed to say that off the top of my head I can only name three or four fantastic restaurants in South Florida that aren't in all fifty states. For gods sake, there's a fucking Starbucks in the Forbidden City! When did this happen? When did we lose track of our culinary identity? Asian food, Afghan food, Indian food, English food. Where is American food hiding? Is Mickey D's really the poster child of American cuisine?
It worries me that, like a burned recipe box, food is something we'll never be able to get back once it's gone. We can try and try again to remake that classic dish, but it will never be the same as it once was when we chased it out. Food keeps us together. If we start to lose our grip on food, does everything else follow?
Each restaurant is like a tiny blazing star far off in some uncharted part of the galaxy; no matter how similar they may seem, each one is uniquely different like snowflakes falling on a twenty degree day. Restaurants are homes, not just social outings, no matter what people tell you otherwise. I beg of you to enter your favorite restaurant on any given night and find someone who doesn't look at least the slightest bit happy.
Restaurants really do hold this captivating power over people, just like the food they serve, but the trouble arises when you realize that in a twenty five mile radius there are no real restaurants. To Northerners this may seem ridiculous, but those of us that thrive in the black-light that is Southern suburbs realize that culinary expeditions are extinct in the South. They expired along with the dinosaurs, and shortly thereafter weeds sprouted up in the place of Mom & Pop's and creative dining.
The only thing existing amongst the South's "wide lawns and narrow minds" is the TV dinner. And, of course, the dreaded Chain.
The concept of the chain restaurant has forever bothered me, but especially so when I began my search for every kind of new and interesting food I could gobble down. It was only then that I realized where I had been living. The independent restaurant had become virtually extinct, and those few left were hinged on the edge of demolition. The truth of the matter was that no one was interested in food anymore. They were simply interested in satisfaction. Food disintegrated from that edible centerpiece that brought us together into a marketable device used solely for profit. People didn't want to dine, people wanted to eat and be done with it.
Out of the dust of creative cuisine came the Olive Gardens and the Ruby Tuesdays and the Friendlys and the Outbacks. Shopping malls became the hub for dining experiences, people finding originality and solace in Too Jay's and food courts. The truth of the matter is that no one wants to eat anymore, they just want to eat.
I was about nine when I took my first trip to New York City. It was my birthday gift from my grandparents who packed up all my things, put three tickets to a Broadway show in my hand, and put me in the back of the car. As we drove through Midtown, though, I found something so stunning that I had never seen before. I found originality. I saw restaurant names I had never heard of and lights so vibrant that they were like tiny blazing suns. We drove past noodle stands in Chinatown and signs that bold proclaimed "Mangia qua!" in Little Italy. My eyes glazed over and I shoved my hands against the window, screaming at my grandparents to stop. To let me out. To park the car and explore the city instead of just passing it by. I was hungry. Not just for food, but for something new. Something that I saw in New York that I've yet to see in any other place.
That night, as a treat, they took me out to dinner. I remember shaking in my sneakers and they led me by the hand through Times Square, amidst the mess of people and noise. They wouldn't tell me where we were going, but my mind raced with every possibility as we passed them by. Asian fusion? Indian samosas? Cheeseburgers and chocolate shakes? What was I going to get to try?
My grandmother yanked me to a halt in front of a towering corner building. I remember standing there, staring up, and feeling something inside that I've still yet to put a finger on.
"Tah-dah!" She chirped, hands outstretched. All I could do was stare up at that huge red sign, larger than life itself, and stare. Even amongst all the noise that comes with Times Square, I could hear the buzz of that fluorescent sign. It hummed the exact same way that every other restaurant of it's type did all across the country. I knew this without ever needing to travel to another state.
From three stories up, it stared back down at me.
TGI Fridays.
I felt like crying, but I could never bring myself to do it. My grandmother never knew how I felt about that night, instead always assuming that feeling the rumble of the subway under our feet whilst dining was an experience enough. She still talks of it fondly, as though it weren't just like every other Fridays we had ever been to in our lifetimes. Now, I know better than to assume any sort of ingenuity when it comes to dining from my family. Birthdays and holidays spent out are divided between Longhorn Steakhouse, Outback, and Red Lobster. Anything else is simply out of the question.
Where has all the real food gone? I'm ashamed to say that off the top of my head I can only name three or four fantastic restaurants in South Florida that aren't in all fifty states. For gods sake, there's a fucking Starbucks in the Forbidden City! When did this happen? When did we lose track of our culinary identity? Asian food, Afghan food, Indian food, English food. Where is American food hiding? Is Mickey D's really the poster child of American cuisine?
It worries me that, like a burned recipe box, food is something we'll never be able to get back once it's gone. We can try and try again to remake that classic dish, but it will never be the same as it once was when we chased it out. Food keeps us together. If we start to lose our grip on food, does everything else follow?
2 comments:
I'll leave a better and more articulate comment on this for your stepmother -- but she and I have made joke after snide joke about tourists who come all the way to New York City, only to eat like they were in, well, Lake Worth.
Comfort's one thing; I understand the feeling that sometimes it's good to go with what you know. I also can't abide the really snotty New Yorkers who think that there's no value whatsoever to be found in chain restaurants. (#1, that Indian place we took you guys to is looked down on here in NYC simply because there's more than one of it, and #2, everyone knows my strange weakness for Outback Steakhouse -- don't even ask.)
That said, this city -- and honestly, quite a few others these days -- offers some truly astonishing, adventurous eating. And when you consider the fact that even the prices at TGI-Fridays, Olive Gardens et al are jacked up to exorbitant amounts here, you're right: there's really no excuse for playing it safe.
Not anymore.
I enjoyed reading your post, especially liking the line, "Like a burned recipe box." Nice.
Just read "Last Night at the Lobster" which was better than I'd expected it to be. You might like it.
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