Eat Italian food cooked by actual Italians. I know this seems self-evident, but let me tell you a little story about what happened when John and I went out to eat last week.
Gary story (sorry): So I had this job where I racked up around 45,000 miles flying every year. (I do not recommend.) Well, I saved up my miles and turned them in for a free round-trip ticket to Tahiti. Now, I have this thing where I unconsciously imitate the accents of people speaking to me. It's not deliberate, it just happens. So the first morning I go down to the cafe, the maître d' says "bon jour," and I say "bon jour" in return, and am handed a menu.
The menu is all in French. The only French I know are a few odd swear words. But I'm not upset. This is French Polynesia, and so things ought to be in French. So I order breakfast mostly by pointing, and everything is fine. This goes on for three days. On that third day, my order required my server to ask me something. She asks it in French, of course. So I finally have to apologize and say I don't understand. She gets a little bug-eyed staring at me, gently takes the menu out of my hand, turns it over TO THE SIDE WHERE IT IS ALL IN ENGLISH, and hands it back to me ...
Because I said "bon jour" convincingly, they assumed I was French.
We both know that had you been in Paris, they would have rolled their eyes at you, even though you absolutely could pass for French! Parisians will never forgive you for attempting to speak their language. Italians are infinitely patient with me, and I so so appreciate it.
I would LOVE to go to Tahiti. So glad you cashed in your miles and went there.
I can still remember when I was living in Cyprus in the mid-80s and discovering that there was a Dairy Queen in Limassol, a coastal town offering some truly amazing food of the non-American variety. Still, I was excited at the prospect of getting an actual, honest-to-God hamburger after being out of the States for lo, these many months. I ordered one, received it with some considerable excitement, ripped off the wrapping in the same way I'd remove a bra from a willing Danish supermodel...and discovered one of the worst, driest, non-hamburger-like pieces of pseudo-beef I'd ever encountered. It was...well, I'm not quite certain what it was, but it allegedly came from a cow. For all I knew, it could've been ground rectum...but it certainly wasn't USDA Grade A beef. Thankfully, at least the Dilly Bars were edible.
LOL! And what does this prove? That MOST of the time, the best and most authentic ethnic meals come from people who grew up enjoying that kind of cooking!
"If the menu’s in English, run."
Gary story (sorry): So I had this job where I racked up around 45,000 miles flying every year. (I do not recommend.) Well, I saved up my miles and turned them in for a free round-trip ticket to Tahiti. Now, I have this thing where I unconsciously imitate the accents of people speaking to me. It's not deliberate, it just happens. So the first morning I go down to the cafe, the maître d' says "bon jour," and I say "bon jour" in return, and am handed a menu.
The menu is all in French. The only French I know are a few odd swear words. But I'm not upset. This is French Polynesia, and so things ought to be in French. So I order breakfast mostly by pointing, and everything is fine. This goes on for three days. On that third day, my order required my server to ask me something. She asks it in French, of course. So I finally have to apologize and say I don't understand. She gets a little bug-eyed staring at me, gently takes the menu out of my hand, turns it over TO THE SIDE WHERE IT IS ALL IN ENGLISH, and hands it back to me ...
Because I said "bon jour" convincingly, they assumed I was French.
We both know that had you been in Paris, they would have rolled their eyes at you, even though you absolutely could pass for French! Parisians will never forgive you for attempting to speak their language. Italians are infinitely patient with me, and I so so appreciate it.
I would LOVE to go to Tahiti. So glad you cashed in your miles and went there.
I can still remember when I was living in Cyprus in the mid-80s and discovering that there was a Dairy Queen in Limassol, a coastal town offering some truly amazing food of the non-American variety. Still, I was excited at the prospect of getting an actual, honest-to-God hamburger after being out of the States for lo, these many months. I ordered one, received it with some considerable excitement, ripped off the wrapping in the same way I'd remove a bra from a willing Danish supermodel...and discovered one of the worst, driest, non-hamburger-like pieces of pseudo-beef I'd ever encountered. It was...well, I'm not quite certain what it was, but it allegedly came from a cow. For all I knew, it could've been ground rectum...but it certainly wasn't USDA Grade A beef. Thankfully, at least the Dilly Bars were edible.
LOL! And what does this prove? That MOST of the time, the best and most authentic ethnic meals come from people who grew up enjoying that kind of cooking!
Yep. Which is why, when I open my authentic Redneck Great White North restaurant, the only three spices available will be salt, pepper, and ketchup.
Wait. Isn't that called a Cracker Barrel?
🤬🤬🤬You mean someone beat me to it???
BAHAHAHAHAHA!