THE SEXY FOOD ISSUE

tomato

Wet, the Appetite

Confessions of a picky eater.

by Daniel McQuade

Both of these statements are obviously lies. I love food. I love pizza and fries, apples and string cheese. I love ravioli and pancakes, rye bread and French toast. Recently I’ve been eating a lot of carrots.

Problem is, the above list pretty much comprises the only things I eat, or at least a pretty good cross-section of my personal food groups. Truth is, I love to eat. Just ask my rapidly expanding waistline.

So I’m finally ready to admit: I’m a picky eater.

Okay, it’s not exactly, “I am not a crook” or “I am a gay American.” But it’s a tough truth nonetheless. There aren’t any support groups for picky eaters. Nearly every result on Google for “picky eater” is some sort of advice column about how to get your toddler to eat more food.

Google didn’t exist when I was little, so my parents weren’t able to research tricks to get me to eat. Although they tried, I’m more stubborn with my eating habits than our current president is with the war in Iraq. I’ve expanded my diet a few times—I began eating ketchup in 2001, and I’ve recently had a few salads—but it’s a marathon, not a sprint. Also, I have a bad gag reflex, which could make any already awkward situation even worse.

For a while I came up with lies just to get people off my back. When you don’t eat, you piss people off. Family gatherings turn into passive-aggressive stare-fests simply because I don’t eat, say, ham. At Thanksgiving dinner I usually have chicken noodle soup.

With time, I’ve figured out how to make it through a meal without feeling too out of place. But these days there’s a bigger problem: the dinner date.

It wasn’t much of a problem when I dated in high school. Back in Northeast Philadelphia, the nicest place we ever had dinner was probably the Olive Garden on the Boulevard. Sure, I didn’t eat at my senior prom, but all was forgotten by the time we were slow dancing to “I Knew I Loved You.”

Once we all got to college, though, and sane people discovered there was a world outside the Italian Bistro, things got a little dicey.

One sophomore-year girlfriend spoke to a college newspaper about our meals: “It’s kind of a pain in the ass when you want to go to a restaurant,” she said. (This being my college paper, they printed it.) And she was right: She ran all over the East Village looking for a place where we could both have a nice meal.

I don’t mean to imply my taste buds reject everything but carbs. (Had I ever met Dr. Atkins, I probably would’ve kicked him in the shins.) But where do I go from here?

There are dating sites for Jews, people in the military, deaf people, Catholics, pet lovers, people with HIV, BBWs, bodybuilders and people with herpes. But there’s no dating site for people whose idea of hell is Le Bec-Fin.

But that’s okay. Things are looking up. In addition to my recent salad excursions, I’ve begun eating hamburgers and cucumbers. (Baby steps, people. Baby steps.) I promised a friend of mine I’d get a steak with him. Perhaps one day I’ll even be able to walk into Brasserie Perrier and order … well, whatever it is they serve there.

In the meantime, does anyone like the Olive Garden? My treat.