Market Street

On Saturday, we met up with two of our friends who were also visiting San Francisco for dinner. Charlie and I tried to make reservations for The Slanted Door, a spot on the bay, looking out at the Bay Bridge with lots of vegetarian options for our friends. But tragedy struck early, and there were no reservations for Saturday night. Because I’m a planner and feel irrationally responsible for when things go wrong, I started to panic.

We walked all the way down Market Street amid lots of rainbow flags and scantily clad men and women, which only increased my anxiety because they were all having so much fun and I wanted to have a fun dinner and what if we couldn’t get a table? Neither Charlie nor I had any idea of where else to go, being newbies in the city.

We got to the restaurant and found out that we had to wait until 5:30, and then we could speak to the concierge and see if there were any tables available. I worried immediately that we weren’t dressed fancy enough. But we weren’t going to let our plans be foiled, so we hung around the pier until five, and got in line. We were third from the front. I stood with my elbows out to keep anyone from cutting. Our friends joined us right before 5:30, and, when we said “Four please,” as cool as can be, they showed us right to a table. I’d like to thank my new hipster glasses and my friend Nicole’s fancy shoes for our street cred.

The view

The food was Vietnamese with all sorts of interesting ingredients, like mint and peanut butter. It was served family-style, so we each got several dishes and shared. Everything was incredible, although I didn’t like having to cut the heads off the shrimp, which I guess were actually prawns. As it turned out, The Slanted Door is sort of a thing.

All of a sudden, the boys were whispering and discreetly pointing. “What?” I asked, and started to turn around. “Don’t,” they both hissed. Apparently, Heather Graham was sitting behind us being extremely friendly with the man next to her. I’m proud to say that we got nowhere near as giddy as the men did, but we’d definitely chosen a legit restaurant, especially when I went to the bathroom and an attendant wiped the seat off and opened the door for me. Opening doors has always been something I struggle with.

The next day, Charlie took me to lunch at an Indian place in downtown San Mateo called CurryUpNow (cute, right?). They used to operate out of carts but became so popular that they opened up a restaurant.

Charlie was raving about their tikka masala burritos, so I ordered a chicken one, no onions. My choices were regular, spicy, and extra spicy. Charlie ordered spicy, and I like spicy food, so I didn’t want to be shown up. I ordered spicy too.

A few bites in, and I was sweating. How could anyone ever sit out in the hot sun and eat this from a cart? I was having trouble sitting down and eating it. I once had a burrito in London, of all places, that was so spicy it brought tears to my eyes. This was spicier. I had to keep getting up to get more napkins to dab at my forehead and upper lip, and to blow my nose. If you are sick and need to clear out your sinuses, I recommend some spicy tikka masala.

Note: can stand on its own.

But it was like some sort of masochistic delight, with rice and chickpeas and Jill-approved (read: not fatty) chicken. I wanted to stop eating and stop sweating but I just couldn’t. Halfway through Charlie got up and ordered a mango lassi, a beverage made with yogurt. It was a balm on my tongue, but didn’t do much for my esophagus. BUT I DIDN’T CARE. I was determined. And it was so delicious, I wanted to keep eating. Near the end, I took a break and let Charlie have a few bites. I took a last swig of lassi, then attacked the rest. Whoever thought to put tikka masala in a burrito is a freaking genius.

I toweled off, and we went for a short walk around the neighborhood. We both thought it was too hot even though it couldn’t have been more than 75 degrees. Instead of acting like fun, responsible adults, we came home and immediately fell asleep on the couch.

This can only bode well for eating and drinking my way through California.

1. Get someone else to cook. Writing a food column that people I know read means that people are always suggesting food-related activities. It’s a blessing and a curse.

Just kidding—that’s what people say, but really it’s only been awesome because people send me recipes, recommend restaurants, and best of all, they sometimes cook for me. (The only potential problem is that I’ll get enormously fat.) Last week, after reading my first vegetable challenge column, my friend Deepa offered to make me dinner wherein she would force let me try her Brussels sprouts. After grilling me about why exactly I hate all the vegetables I hate, Deepa was positive I’d like them. My first reaction was wondering what could possibly be done to Brussels sprouts to make them palatable. My second reaction was to remind myself to not behave like an asshole, because Brussels sprouts are one of those vegetables I hate offhand without ever having tried them. My third reaction was that I couldn’t refuse because I know Deepa’s a good cook and also we’d planned on rewatching the miniseries of Battlestar Galactica. There’s no saying no to that.

I stood in her kitchen and watched her pour the Brussels sprouts into the pan. “Now, how are these different from the other Brussels sprouts?” I asked.

Brussels sprouts. Like the cute babies that heads of lettuce would make if they could.

She looked at me blankly. “What are you talking about?”

“You know,” I explained, “the long stringy ones.” Something in my brain clicked and I realized that this was one of those childhood misunderstandings that you hold onto far too long, like when you realize, ten years later, that your dog didn’t actually go to live on a farm.

Definitely not Brussels sprouts.

Deepa started laughing. Apparently, though they share the sameish name, the stringy sprouts and the oddly cute Brussels sprouts have nothing to do with each other. After a little research, I discovered that the stringy sprouts are actually alfalfa. WHAT. Isn’t that what we feed, like, rabbits? This adds another dimension to my vegetable challenge: vegetable lore. I’d best start studying up so I don’t make any more vegetable related faux-pas (other than spitting out that chunk of onion).

As it turns out, I think Brussels sprouts are actually pretty tasty. (After hearing that many people think they taste like cabbage, which I also hate, I may have to rethink everything. I have experience eating and smelling the trash that is cabbage, all the while keeping my mouth shut because that’s what good Polish girls do. But maybe I’ll have to rethink cabbage. My grandparents would be so proud.) That may be because Deepa cut them in half and cooked them in a little butter, so the bottoms were slightly caramelized, and then added a little cheese on top. I went back for seconds.

2. Travel home.

Easy. An excuse to eat some Wendy’s and to let your mom cook you a gigantic dinner.

3. Takeout.
Previously I’ve been too much of a cheapass to order takeout. But I’ve acquired some cash recently, and I’ve been busy and it’s been raining. All great reasons to get into bed and not go outside again once you get home.

On Friday night, I had a spinach and avocado salad and a personal chicken pesto thin-crust pizza from Stone Hearth Pizza. On Saturday, I found a sushi deal at Genki Ya that was two kinds of sushi rolls, soup, and a salad for $10. But you had to have more than $10 to deliver. So I ordered an edamame appetizer. Then followed a delicious four-course meal in front of my computer while I watched Glee in sweatpants.

Why don’t I order in more often? I’m dangerously close to falling off the cooking-for-myself wagon. Grocery stores are for squares. The fear of getting obese and of going broke won’t stand in the way of eating a dinner I didn’t have to cook. And I never have to put on pants.

It occurs to me that I may be too busy. In the meantime, send me your takeout menus in lieu of your recipes.

Even thinking about it makes the place between my heart and my ribcage tight with anxiety. I have a bit of social anxiety that comes from chronic shyness that I pretend to hide but can’t quite get rid of. I don’t send back food at restaurants for fear of upsetting the waiter/waitress/cooks/bystanders. I don’t like calling people I don’t know, even to order pizza or make a doctor’s appointment. I never raise my hand in class, and if I do, I blush the entire time I speak. I sometimes plan conversations ahead of time to keep from saying something stupid. Most of the time, this is something I handle and don’t let affect my life. But sometimes the anxiety grips vicelike around my throat and becomes something I have to run from.

Going to Spain helped me to mostly silence the constant thrumming voice in my head saying “You’re going to make a fool of yourself.” In Spain, I was forced to make an ass of myself. I had to figure out all over again how to do simple things like buy milk, order food, ask for the check, and ask for help. One of my first days there, I was to catch a bus downtown and meet my friends at the plaza. My friend Amanda told me to take any bus to a certain stop downtown. But while I looked at the map, I got confused. None of the routes seemed to go in the right direction. I couldn’t even locate where I was on the map. I knew from an earlier trip that bus stops weren’t announced. It was dark, and I doubted I’d be able to recognize the stop I needed from the window. “Just ask the bus driver,” Amanda said on the phone. By then, my hands were shaking so hard I could barely hold onto the phone. I knew I was going to get lost, and I knew everyone would make fun of me. What kind of moron can’t manage to take a bus downtown?

When a bus pulled up, I stepped on and froze, staring at the bus driver. He made an impatient beckoning gesture and I found I couldn’t say a word. I stumbled backward off the bus. I ending up walking downtown instead, following the only route I knew—the curve of the bay. Gradually my heart slowed down and I walked with angry steps. It started to rain, and I was soaked by the time I found my friends. It took me almost two hours.

After that, I decided it was time to get a fucking grip. I made myself do things while my heart pounded so much I could feel it at my temples. A few nights after the bus incident, when some people asked me to go out, I made myself go with them, even though they were all strangers—something I never would have done before. Because of that, I made great friends for the rest of the trip. Even a few months ago, I went to a reading by myself for the new volume of Best American Essays. When the talk was over, a few people approached me to ask about a question I had asked. I got to talking with them and they were nice enough to invite me out to dinner. They all knew each other and were friends. To my surprise, I agreed to go. Halfway through dinner, I went outside and called Charlie to tell him what had happened and felt such a sense of buoyancy. I hadn’t realized how much my introversion weighed on me until it was gone.

But there are still some places where I draw the line. Eating out is one of them. I know I’m not supposed to care what other people think. But I do. Anyone who says they don’t is bullshitting. I couldn’t handle the thought of sitting at a table with everyone’s eyes flicking to me and flicking away, the whites of their eyes like a camera flash, wondering what my problem was. Why is she eating alone? Doesn’t she have any friends?

That makes me so disgusted with myself I can barely stand it. It doesn’t even make sense. So last week, when I was craving sushi, I told that little voice in my brain to go fuck itself and walked over to one of my favorite sushi places. This wasn’t the big leagues—it’s a small restaurant and I was eating early when it wouldn’t be busy, but it was something. I couldn’t believe it—I felt almost normal. For a half second, I actually missed being shy. Who am I, I wondered, if I’m not crippled by self-doubt? That’s so much of my identity I barely recognized myself without it.

I may or may not have been skipping up the stairs, a newly converted extrovert, when I felt the pull behind my ribcage. I was nervous. As I got closer to the restaurant, I could feel my feet dragging. Maybe I’ll just sit at the sushi bar, I told myself. Then I shook my head. No. That’s cheating. I took a deep breath and kept walking. When I got to the restaurant, I realized my hands were balled into tight fists. I unclenched my hands, and my nails had left little while crescents in my palms. “One for dinner?” the server said. I nodded once, a quick shake of the head. “Would you like to sit at the bar?” A temptation and I wanted so badly to say yes, but some other part of me was saying “No, a table please,” and following the hostess to a table near the window.

At first, I sat facing the restaurant, but then I felt intimidated and switched chairs, facing the street instead. The thought of people’s eyes on my back was much worse, so I switched chairs again. You don’t quite realize how much waiting is involved at a restaurant unless the service is terrible or unless you’re there alone. The worst was the wait between ordering and receiving my appetizer. I had a glass of wine, which helped, and I resisted the urge to get out a book. I could feel that my breathing was too quick, and I hoped no one could see how fast my chest was rising and falling. I took small sips of wine, focusing on the sweetness on my tongue and the burn in the back of my throat. I knew that as soon as the sushi came, I would have something else to focus on, and everything would be ok.

I’d like to tell you that those moments waiting by myself were transformational. I’d like to tell you that now I can call strangers with ease. But as I signed the check, I felt unchanged. The knot in my chest had gradually dissolved, leaving nothing much in its place. As I walked down the stairs I’d floated up earlier, I realized that eating alone wasn’t the thing at all. Eating alone is not what I was afraid of. What made the difference was when I chose to not be afraid.

If you’ve been afraid to eat out alone, don’t be. It’s uneventful. If you are someone who’s fearful, like me, it’s nothing to be afraid of. Forcing myself to go helped me see how much I need to get the hell out of my own way. I don’t want fear to continue keeping me from anything—especially sushi.

As it turns out, I’ve pretty much given up on wearing heels to work and sometimes forget to change out of my snow boots into flats. I wear long underwear underneath my work pants. I can’t afford new glasses. I bring breakfast, coffee, and lunch to work almost every day to save money. While most of my other coworkers do the same, I think I’m the one who does it the most, even in the new building with a relatively inexpensive cafeteria just one floor above.

Generally, it’s not a problem. We’re all on different eating schedules, and everyone is usually too busy to see straight anyway. But I notice that, in the city, people go out for lunch way more than I’m used to. I admit—it’s tempting. There are tons of good restaurants within walking distance. Packing your lunch and hauling it with you for your commute is not a fun time. I went out frequently for the first few weeks of work, and then I decided I wanted to be able to afford rent.

The problem was, I also wanted to make friends. Every now and then, I don’t mind saying that I brought lunch and am going to eat at my desk. And with the new cafeteria, it’s easy to bring my lunch and eat with the people who want to buy theirs. But what to do when you brought lunch, especially on a Friday, and everyone wants to go out? The salad I brought won’t be good the next day, so then I will have spent more on a lunch out and wasted money throwing out expensive produce. And I’ll probably choose a not-so-healthy option. (I don’t like going out to eat and getting a salad unless it’s a really amazing salad. Why would I pay someone to make something I could make at home with iceberg lettuce that has about as much nutritional value as water?) On the other hand, how many times of me saying, no thanks, I’m going to sit at my desk and eat, does it take before people stop inviting? I’m not sure I want to find out.

Here’s what I have discovered: people don’t like it when other people are eating healthy. I catch myself doing this all the time—at a birthday party, or at the bar. If someone says no to a piece of cake or another drink, I usually call them out. “Why not? Give yourself a treat! Live a little!” I selfishly need them to participate in the bad decision in order to validate my own. On the one hand, it’s a really sad life if you don’t ever let yourself eat cake. On the other, why does the other person’s decision need to reflect my own?

You think that I would be more understanding, because I’m a hypocrite: I don’t like when others do the same thing to me. If I say I brought a salad, I don’t like it when others roll their eyes or tell me that they know I went to the gym that morning, so why shouldn’t I come out now? I think the dilemma comes from the fact that eating is at the same time a very social activity and a deeply personal one. When you make plans to meet with a friend, isn’t it usually to eat or drink? Many people I know (myself included) don’t want to eat dinner at a restaurant by themselves. Yet, at the same time, food choices are immensely personal, reflecting individual tastes, things you love and things you can’t tolerate. And on top of everything else, what we eat is affected by social pressure. When I’m the only one at the table who orders dinner, or who orders chicken strips and fries instead of a salad, I feel the need to say that I did go to the gym this morning, or that I ate healthy all week. Or, the only girl who orders a salad needs to counter and say that she is trying to eat healthy. And then everyone either responds with a chorus of “Oh, I should be eating healthy, but I’m not!” and taking a bite of the hamburger, or “But you look great!”

As I’m writing this, it occurs to me that I’m only speaking about women. Men, I’m wondering: do you have this kind of tension when you’re eating? My guess is no, but perhaps you have just as many insecurities as we do.

So, I’m stuck with a catch-22 and lots of unanswered questions. Does eating lunch at my desk while others go out make me unsociable, or frugal? Is wasting a lunch to spend time with work friends really so bad? And, most of all, why do women (and maybe men too) feel they need excuses for the way they’re eating (whether it’s healthy or not so much)? While brown-bagging it to work might be more sensible, it makes it easier for me to read at my desk. Perhaps there is a reason why eating is our go-to social activity.

In the meantime, I am leaving the airport with a Dunkin’ Donuts breakfast sandwich for my dinner. And I will pretend not to care what you think.