Would I Ever Lie to You?

This isn’t going to feel like a bio, but just trust me. Would I ever lie to you?

I know a lot of big words, but I will always prefer the right word. Words like ostensibly and verisimilitude and pulchritudinous. Sometimes those are the right word, but sometimes the right word is kinda or almost or pretty. Sometimes, I will spend fifteen minutes searching for the correct word because this is all I have. Because no matter how long I write and edit, once I post or publish or send the email it’s out of my hands. I hope I picked all the right words.

When I was a server in fine dining, people would ask for recommendations. Sometimes the best things were the most expensive, sometimes the least expensive. The menu changed frequently. On rare occasions, the best small plates and wines and entrees and desserts and cocktails on the menu were the most expensive. If I recommended all of the most expensive things, they’re going to assume that I just want to rack up their bill. That’s a fair assumption! Sometimes servers are doing that! You mitigate this situation by building trust through honesty, expertise, and a little bit of charm.

In this situation, I would pick my battles. I recommend the $22 octopus. He tells me he’s never had octopus. It seems weird. He doesn’t like calamari. Is it worth $22? I’m pretend to be offended. “Would I ever lie to you?” The hint of a smile, the twinkle in my eye - obviously I am joking. At my core, I am a flirt. I believe everyone deserves to be flirted with once a day.

I don’t know this man, why would he trust me? I tell him about the octopus. I tell him about how careful you must be when cooking octopus. Cooked improperly, the tentacles become rubbery and tough. The culinary equivalent of chewing on a tire. But when cooked and prepared properly, it’s the best hybrid of crab and lobster. Soft and sweet from the sous vide contrasted with the smokiness from finishing it on the grill.

I ask them about wine. He asks what I recommend. I say that for this current preparation, Sauvignon Blanc. You tell me that you only drink red wine. You don’t like white wine. Whites are sweet, fruity, buttery, oaky. You’re not wrong. I tell you that I also prefer reds, which is true. I tell you that I don’t like most white wine, which is also true. I hate most California Chardonnay because I find they are often buttery, oaky, and heavy. This Sauvignon Blanc is different. It’s crisp and fresh. It’s well-balanced which to me means that there’s a little sweet, a little dry, a little sharp, a little smooth. It’s a crowdpleaser. People who love wine love it. People who know nothing about wine also love it.

There are two Sauvignon Blancs on our wine list. The first is $10/glass and the second is $15/glass. The Malbec you were about to order is $16. I suggest the $10/glass Sauvignon, which also happens to be the cheapest wine on the by-the-glass menu. You say, “Okay, I trust you,” Maybe I even bring the bottle by the table with a glass to let you try it. You like the wine. You tell me the octopus was not what you expected, and you might sometimes think about ordering white wine in the future. You tell me that I’m good at my job. “I know,” I say with a wink.

If you open your mind and heart and let curiosity and a lust for experience bound out of you - it changes your life. Touching and tasting and drinking and slurping and laughing - driving nearly an hour to sweat over a bowl of spicy, sour kimchi stew in a Super H Mart food court or trying pimento cheese ten years after you first saw your grandma make it and you were so grossed out but you totally get it now or white table cloths that still make you excited but a little nervous like you might get in trouble at some point or the smokiest Mezcal in all of Oaxaca served by a bartender as old as Methuselah who doesn’t speak very much English but it’s alright because your Spanish is rusty so you’re laughing and figuring it out and having a great time-

I don’t know everything, but I know a few things about food and wine and writing and that the best dinners are the ones that are so uncomfortable because we were running late and I was worried that we wouldn’t make our reservation. You reached over and placed your hand on my leg as you assured me that everything would be fine. But the only thing you assured me was that I would spend four courses and three glasses of wine plotting every way that I would reunite my thigh with your hand, your mouth, the weight of your body.

There is only so much of my time. I’m very selfish with it. I don’t spend time with people that I don’t want to. I would be more than happy to eat alone at the bar and flirt with the bartenders for the rest of my life.

But luckily there are people that I want to spend time with. If you’ve made it this far, you’re one of them. I want to know about you. All those thoughts and feelings and dreams you keep inside because you think no one cares? I care. I want to know. You have my attention.

Let’s share all the pleasures that satisfy our hunger and exist in a space without phones or emails or pretense and, when the duck is seared so perfectly, without words.