#754 In-digestion

“It all goes down the same pipe,” my mom used to say.
And now the food fashionistas have sided with my mom—what’s “in” in digestion. We’ve entered the era of “pile on presentation.”
The last couple of fancy banquet affairs I’ve gone to tell the story. First they put down your starch—potatoes, rice, risotto, whatever. Then they lay on your vegetable. Asparagus spears seem to be favorites, so they can criss-cross them artistically, and only manage to give you four or so. French cut green beans work as well.
Next comes your entrée. A chicken cutlet perhaps, although I doubt the pedestrian word cutlet even occurs to the master chef. In any event, it’s a slab of chicken, or a couple of slices of London broil or perhaps a filet if it’s a really fancy occasion, with a couple of shrimp orbiting the accreted food pile like aquatic electrons.
But a pile it is. All heaped up in the middle of a vast plate. Then the immense empty space between the pile and the plate edge is sprinkled with colorful spices, like a Jackson Pollack artistic tribute to spasticity.
And I hate it.
I’m well aware food should look pleasant if we wish it to taste pleasant. Give me a peeled shrimp, breaded into anonymity, anytime over the unpeeled variety—legs and feelers poking out everywhere to remind us we are eating insects of the sea.
But don’t serve me what you are trying to pass off as a food sculpture, especially when it’s really just a pile. Sticking a couple of asparagus spears between my taters and meat is not art; it’s like a kid playing with his food.
Maybe I don’t want my hollandaise touching my potato. Maybe I want to savor the delicate flavor of each dish without burdening it with the taste of its plate-mate.
“It all goes down the same pipe,” my mom used to say.
“Yeah,” I’d sass back, “but I don’t have to taste it down there.”
America, ya gotta love it.