The Art of Eating In - Cathy Erway [140]
Several months later, after I had begun eating in restaurants again, I would have dinner with my mom and uncle in Chinatown one night. Over our meal, I suddenly thought to ask them a question that for some reason I had never thought of before.
“Did you guys eat in restaurants growing up?”
My mom and uncle looked at each other. “Yes,” my mom said, nonchalantly. “Only on the weekends, usually. We would go for dumplings.”
“With Gong-Gong?” I asked.
“Yes,” my mom said. “Especially on days when he got paid. He would want to spend the money by going out with us to eat.” The whole family would pile into a rickshaw, my mom and uncle went on to explain. They had a few favorite dumpling places, which required the ride.
“Always it was dumplings, for some reason,” my mom said, turning to Jo-Jo, who nodded in agreement.
“See, dumplings are northerners’ food,” my mom said, referring to people from northern China. “We’re southerners, so we don’t eat many dumplings at home. So it’s something special.”
“I see,” I said.
I decided that I liked that way of treating a restaurant meal: as something special. A special occasion, or a special dish you couldn’t easily make at home. Something to savor, a rare treat. Not the normal, de facto eating routine. I had a feeling that many New Yorkers had it the other way around—cooking at home was the special occasion.
On one of the first weekend nights in September, just before my blog and eating adventure would turn two years old, I told Jordan and Dan over beers about my decision to stop not eating out. Oddly enough, we were at an outdoor beer garden in Brooklyn again, though not the same one where I’d sat two summers ago with Erin and her friend Sergio. This place had recently opened in Crown Heights and quickly became one of my favorite local watering holes. We sat at a small square table on a blacktop patio. It was nighttime, and there was a votive candle on the table that made the last few sips in my pint glass glow amber. Jordan had her leg propped up on a spare chair next to mine. Her crutches were resting against the table. Since the accident, she and Dan had become a steady couple, and I couldn’t have been happier for them.
“Guys,” I said, “I think I’m going to stop not eating out.”
Jordan’s eyes widened. “Really?” she said.
“Are you going to keep writing the blog?” Dan asked.
“Yup,” I said, nodding. “It’ll still focus on recipes, home cooking, cook-offs, and whatever. But I just won’t be not eating out all the time.”
“Wow,” Dan said. “What made you decide on that?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess a lot of little things.”
Jordan looked thoughtful for a moment. “You’ve been doing it for such a long time,” she said. “I’ll bet half the people who read your blog don’t even realize that it’s this strict diet thing anyway.”
I agreed. Many people, I’d come to learn from their comments and e-mails, simply read my site for the recipes and “food porn.” But still others were actively engaged in my unconventional fast. Those were the people whom I still felt nauseatingly nervous about making this announcement to.
“I think that’s a smart decision,” Jordan said after I explained a little bit about the doubts I’d been mulling over lately. “I think it’s a good time for you to do this,” she said.
“So . . . what are you going to do for your first restaurant meal?” Dan asked.
I grinned widely. During my decision making over the last week, I’d hatched another plan. That, I couldn’t wait to tell them and the rest of my friends about.
“Oh—me first!” Karol cried the next day when I told her I was going to need some restaurant dates.
“Oh, my God, there