Woes of a gourmand
Food.
I’ve been enormously spoiled (maybe a bad choice in words when speaking of food) by having lived the major portion of my life in California. California, being geographically positioned within walking distance of every other place on the face of the world has a fantastic array of restaurants, eateries, bistros, diners and greasy spoons serving just about any type of food one could desire as well as some questionable delicasies one might not (think: chicken sushi).
Come to think of it, one thing you don’t see too often in California is Grits, which in Georgia… well, my cup runneth over. Not that I’m doing much with this runnething-over cup, I don’t know what Grits really is, and considering the taint-o-the-South grits has, I will avoid it at all costs, or at until I start to develope a drawl which ever comes first.
Within 40 minutes of my various residences in California I could have had any of the following to delite my tongue:
Sushi
Chinese and Dim Sum
Thai
Indian
Vietnamese
Korean
Lebanese (Not Lesbian, but there are enough Lesbians to go around as well)
Armenian
This list could go on for days really. Unfortunately my experience with any type of food here in Georgia has been anything but inspiring.
I can get waffles any time I want to… from any of the 16 Waffle Houses within walking distance of where I live.
There’s plenty of BBQ places, but the kind of BBQ places I would visit back home were small, one room places where the walls were yellowed by the smoking of the various meats and all the pictures of famous people who had been there last week to check out the ribs had been artificially aged to an artificial 40 year vintage by said smoke. By contrast, the BBQ place I’ve visited near where I live has, instead of pictures, dead animals hanging on the wall… well their heads at least. I’m not yet sure if its supposed to be like those seafood places where you pick the lobster, “Yes… I’ll have that Doe up there… no the one to the left, by the gazelle. Yes, thank you.” I don’t think gazelle are native to Georgia.
Did I mention the Waffle Houses?
Chinese restaurants have been a particular disapointment. My Jewish mother says the way to tell if the food was authentic in a Chinese restaurant was to see who else was seated. If the other patrons were Asian you were in good company. If Jewish you were good to go as well. Here, on the other hand, a quick perusal of the ingredient list on the packets of “Soy” sauce handed out with any take-out order will illustrate my dillema. There doesn’t happen to be any soy in the soy sauce. Sure its the right color, but would you use ketchup made without tomatos even if it was red, Grey Poupon that didn’t have Grey in it?
One visit to a “Mexican” restaurant resulted in the worst Chile Rellano experience I’ve ever had. For those who care, usually one expects a pablano chile to be used, not a Bell Pepper. The previously used analogies work for this situation as well… though maybe expecting Kielbasa and being given a Ballpark Frank is closer. Sure, they’re both sausages, well nevermind, I guess Ballpark Franks don’t really count as sausages either. You get the idea.