Although I am on a cruise ship and eat in a specialty dining room that serves healthier food, I am engaged in a battle with the most wily of opponents -- a chef. I am losing this battle for I know not the rules of engagement or even how I entered the game.
I'll explain.
Our first night on the ship, I explained to the dining room manager, our waiter, and really anyone who would listen, my food restrictions -- no meat, fish only, no dairy, gluten free.
These lovely men with the most impeccable manners, listened carefully, nodded attentively, gave every indication they understood.
And I said, I prefer berries for dessert.
Little did I know I had issued a challenge. Unbeknownst to me a game began.
As expected, I explained my food restrictions the next evening, just to make sure we all understood. That evening, the assistant waiter said the chef had a surprise for me. Usually a "food surprise" equals I'm going feel really sick. I was hesitant.
Absolutely beaming with pride, our assistant waiter presented me with gluten-free berry pie. I started to doubt my sanity for I thought I requested berries.
R, a man who cannot bear to disappoint anyone, cheerfully said he would eat the pie. This I learned too late was my first strategic mistake. Never eat what you did not order.
The next evening berries arrived as well as a kind of carmel gluten-free pie. All the wait staff smiled at me and I felt less and less sure of my sanity. What was going on, I wondered?
A banana-chocolate-something appeared with a bowl of berries the following evening and then the night after, a small gluten free chocolate cake appeared, minus the bowl of berries.
Quickly, I reviewed what I knew-- I ordered berries only for dessert, each night the chef prepared a different dessert, and now the berries had disappeared. I was being out-maneuvered by the man paid to feed me. I was desperate. I had to stop the chef and his out-of-control dessert making. I took the tiniest of bites from the cake and forbade R from eating the rest. I defiantly left the dessert in the middle of the table, a sugary little gauntlet. Game on.
A sad faced head waiter inquired about the dessert.
"You don't like it?" (Boy is that a slippery question).
"I ordered berries." (Excellent move on my part).
"But the chef made this for you." (Guilt. An excellent move on his part).
"I remember saying I'll just have berries for dessert. And I don't eat dairy."
"Oh, you didn't tell me about the dairy."
At this point, I'm fairly certain I am insane or I'm suffering from advancing memory problems.
"Ok, well I'll just have berries each night."
Dejected, he agrees.
Leaving the dining room, I feel less crazy and optimistically tell R that I think the dessert issue is settled. I feel successful.
With the dessert battle behind me, I turn my attention to a burgeoning new failure -- my inability to order food that pleases the dining room manager.
Because I am celiac and dairy free, they ask that I place my order for the next day before I leave dinner. This means that the manager knows what I'm ordering.
Manager: What you ordered for tonight, it is too simple. You should order something else.
Me: I ordered pasta with tomato sauce and basil.
Manager: I know. It's not right.
Geez. Clearly, I'm a failure when ordering food.
Somehow my ordering mojo returns when I pair a smoked salmon appetizer with grilled fish. For this move, I am praised.
Manager: I like what you ordered tonight. It goes well together.
I feel like I'm in third grade and just received a gold star on my spelling test.
On succeeding nights, I do an equally good job of ordering, he praises me, and moves on, perhaps feeling my training is complete.
If only the dessert wars resolved as easily.
The game continues. Some nights two orders of berries arrive and out of guilt, I eat both. Some nights R is allowed to order dessert and some nights he is denied a dessert menu since he is an unwitting accomplice in my drama. We are both confused.
And the desserts continue to arrive. I give up and stop protesting. These guys are pros. In defeat, I take to documenting the confection, capturing each vision by photograph. One night, what might best be described as the innards of apple pie minus the pie are served in an artful arrangement. The next night, a beautifully presented rice pudding. My slippery opponent is upping his game, defeating me with chocolate and sugar and who knows what else.
This guy is good. And I think he missed his calling. This kind of cunning might be wasted in the kitchen. He could be a military general or a US politician.
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