Those who know me know that I don’t like olives or cilantro. But there are also a few (a lot, my friend LKA would insist) other things I don’t like. First among these is celery. Let’s just say that regular celery is as unpleasant a prospect to me as the thought of vampire-enslaved zombie celery is to the highstrung cat Chester in the Bunnicula books.
While I will grudgingly dice a rib or two to make a mirepoix, I otherwise steer well clear of celery. And since discovering that Suzanne Goin, as revealed in her cookbook Sunday Suppers at Lucques, sometimes substitutes fennel for celery in a mirepoix, I have happily abandoned celery and its ribs all together.
Recently at a restaurant in Portland, the kind that only has two seatings a night and serves a six-course fixed menu, I was faced with an escarole salad that had celery in it. Maybe, I thought, escarole has some magical property that makes celery taste good.
It doesn’t.
So I ate the rest of the salad and left a neat pile of celery on the side of my plate. A perfectly logical course of action, except in the eyes of my fellow diners.
“You’re not eating your celery,” said G.
“I don’t like celery,” I said.
“How could you not like celery?” asked C.
And then we were off, discussing all the foods I didn’t like. The part that bothered me was that G. had been the one to point it out. Picky eaters should stick together, and he’s a much pickier eater than I am. (I should say here that G. has come a long, long way and is not nearly the picky eater he once was. But still.) He doesn’t like beans. He doesn’t like tomatoes. He doesn’t like vegetables as a category. The next night, when we were served chili with beans in it at a Halloween dinner party, did I point out that G. was picking all the beans out of his chili? No.
But then it occurred to me that G. had not only not had my back at dinner the night before, he had been the first to stick the knife—or celery stalk—in.
“You’re not eating your beans,” I said.
All heads at the table swiveled in his direction.
“You don’t like beans? How could you not like beans?”
Tags: celery, picky eaters
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Ah, Lynne, a fine post if ever I have read one. I agree on all counts of course: picky eaters should unite. We are a downtrodden, put-upon group. There are so many reasons not to like certain foods–the more omnivorous among us just lack the ability to understand.
Now, celery–it’s awful, I agree. For people who like it, they say it doesn’t taste like anything but there are so wrong: such a strong and terrible taste that affects everything within a one foot radius on a plate. I don’t even know what mirepoix is but there’s no way I’m ever trying it now that I know this main ingredient.
My intense dislike of eggs that aren’t fully beaten and mixed into something else like pancakes or other types of batter often raises other eyebrows. Can’t stand their texture, taste, or smell.
So keep fighting, but answer me this one question: how can you not like cilantro?
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Cilantro tastes like soap, Tom, and to my taste buds it has the same polluting properties as celery does for yours. But I’m willing to bet that you have eaten celery many times and not known it, because a mirepoix (diced onions, carrots, and celery, basically) is the base of almost every delicious braised, sauce-y dish. Somehow the horrible celery flavor goes away after you cook it down with everything else, plus the little tiny diced pieces somehow melt into the whole.
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I read this post with great interest. For someone with such a strong grasp of the English language, I am intrigued that you used the word “picky.” I can’t speak for others, but I think “discerning” would be more appropriate. At least in the context of suspect foods like beans, tomatoes, grapefruit, and a variety of vegetables. It was either James Beard or Thomas Keller who said, “Those foods are gross.” Now, in the case of something like celery, I think “picky” is the right word. I think “G” was in the right here and I applaud his courage and honesty.
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I am surprised that you are refusing to stand in solidarity with your brethren, Graham. Don’t look to us to defend you the next time you are confronted with a platter full of juicy, glistening heirloom tomato slices.
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