Footloose in Paris on a gorgeous fall day, my wife and I decided to phone friends from California, also on vacation, to join us for dinner.
”We`re all set,” said Pamela, stepping from a phone booth near St. Germain. ”They said we should pick the restaurant, and that Tim wants to eat Italian if possible.”
Something clutched at my heart. My wife knew the look of spreading angst on my face. ”He said he`s tired of French,” she explained. ”He`s not that particular, he just wants something spicy. Don`t get upset. You can talk him out of it.”
Twitchy reaction
My twitchy reaction didn`t mean I was dying to eat French or that I don`t like Italian. Would that it were so simple. I happen to be blessed (or is it fated?) with a sort of gastronomic Geiger counter. While it encourages me to be adventurous, to sample the local fare, it also warns against exotic forays into the wrong kitchen.
In Paris, this built-in mechanism warned: If you want to eat spicy or foreign, try Vietnamese, Moroccan or something else colonial and save Italian, not well entrenched in France, for Manhattan or (in my case) northern New Jersey.
My rabbit-earred sensitivity to foreign food did not develop overnight. It took years of trial and nausea. One of the hardest lessons I learned was how to avoid eating the rare native dish that transcends adventure without hurting the host`s feelings.
In Bali, an artist I met took me to his village to have a meal with the chieftain. I wasn`t sure what was on the table, but I knew bat, rat and cat were eaten in that part of the world. I didn`t have the heart to say no. I picked at thefood, and survived, but from thenon decided that when in doubt I`d hide behind the unassailable line:”It`s against my religion.”
In Japan, which has probably sent us more sushi chefs than Toyotas, I remain wary about any dish served before noon. In a ryokan in Kyoto, having enjoyed a variety of raw fish and cultured seaweed the night before, I woke up on my straw mat and ordered the Japanese breakfast. The sight of a small, sauced-up fish, mounds of tofu and spiced vegetables left me pining for my Wheaties. On subsequent mornings, I chose the American menu.
Start the day with fish
In Norway, it`s the opposite. I gladly start the day with fish-the assorted pickled herrings that are only a small part of the groaning breakfast buffet-but don`t always hold out much hope for dinner.
Admittedly this is more the case at country hotels and resorts than in downtown Oslo. I load up at breakfast on cheeses and meats, hot and cold cereals, breads and crackers and, alas, runny orange juice, knowing that if I miss the even heftier luncheon smorgasbord, I will likely be faced with a supper of boiled cod, skinless potatoes and steamed vegetables.
Sometimes my culinary divining rod is slow to act. For years, I didn`t drink coffee abroad, a serious social void in Italy and France. I`ve seldom touched the stuff at home, in deference I suppose to blood pressure and sleep habits.
One day I found I could handle even the blackest of brews over there, indeed seemed to need the added kick to beat jag lag and stay afloat. My
(cafe) life has never been the same. Somehow it just didn`t do to sit down in the Deux Magots in Paris, open the Herald-Tribune, and ask the harried waiter, ”Avez-vous le decaf?”
Other warnings from the gastronomic Geiger counter: In London, be sure to eat Indian. You may not do better anywhere, India included. Italian is a better bet in London than in Paris. London Chinese I am wary of. It tends either to ersatz chic or early Chop Suey. If the place doesn`t have chopsticks, move on.
In Paris, don`t necessarily blow it all on a chic restaurant.
Besides, it`s the corner cafe or bistro where French food really scores. You can`t get a bad omelet, salade Nicoise or beef burgundy. And the pommes frites will change the taste of french fries forever.
Just don`t ask the waiter, ”Avez-vous le ketchup?”
