A college student in Seattle, WA confronts food in its many forms - in restaurants, the quick bites in between classes and work, and, perhaps most importantly, she confronts the great puzzle of how to feed herself now that her mother doesn't make dinner...

Thursday, April 3, 2008

A Family Legend

There's a story that we always have to tell in my family. Actually, I'm sure we're all sick of it by now, but it just comes out of our mouths like vomit every time the word "mushroom" is uttered within earshot. And although everyone is sick of it, even the person telling the story, the silent code of our family states that we must sit and listen to this story all the way through, and smile, nod, and laugh as if it were the funniest thing we had ever heard.

I was perhaps 13 years old when the fabled event occured at a restaurant at the Washington Coast. The name of the place is the Ocean Crest, and it is a snooty, over-priced restaurant attached to a hotel of the same name, located about 30 miles outside of Ocean Shores. Being perched on a hill overlooking the beach, it was only appropriate that this restaurant served almost nothing but seafood. My father, redneck that he is, did not see this to be any excuse to order some delicate entre like seared halibut fillets drizzled with lemon aioli over a bed of fresh spinach with rice pilaf. No, he wanted a steak - a Man-Steak - and so he ordered the Portobello Mushroom Steak, with a heaping side of potatoes, and, ok, I guess it came with a vegetable too, though that was of little meaning.

When the entrees arrived, all seemed well - everything was beautifully presented and piping hot - so we dug in. Well, Mom, Nana, and I dug in... and Dad just stared at his food. For it was a rather odd-looking steak. It was very dark brown in color, almost black, and softly rounded in shape. What's more, there were no mushrooms to be seen. It seemed that the chef had forgotten the mushroom garnish, or mushroom sauce, or whatever mushroomy thing it was that gave this steak its name. But the mushrooms weren't that big a deal to Dad - as long as the meat was there, that was all he cared about. So he began to eat, and we all began to talk about things other than food. A short while later, Dad interrupted the conversation to say, "I think I know where the mushrooms are." He stabbed the steak with his fork and flipped it over to reveal a slimy, black substance clinging to the meat, and a portrusion from the center of the steak. For the steak was not a steak at all - at least, not a meat steak. The oddly colored circular meat my father had been eating was a gigantic portobello mushroom, grilled and served as a main course.

After a long minute of staring at the gigantic fungus, Mom looked at Nana, who looked at me, and we all slowly began to laugh... and laugh some more... throughout the rest of dinner we debated whether or not Dad should explain the mistake to the waiter and re-order. In the end, Dad's pride held out, and he poked the mushroom around on his plate for the rest of the night... and ate a peanut butter sandwich when we got back to the hotel.