Korčula, Croatia
To say I was a picky eater as a child would be kind of like stating that Bill Gates has a little bit of money. I dreaded meal times. Whatever was being served, I did not like.
In an effort to prevent me from starving to death, my parents made me eat, which I resented them greatly for. Sunday afternoon always seemed to be tuna day. I'm not sure why, but lunch on Sundays was nearly always tuna sandwiches.
Please note (even though this has nothing to do with where I am going with this) that I did not say "tuna fish sandwiches." I have never understood why people have the need to refer to tuna as "tuna fish." We do not do this with other fish. We do not say "trout fish" or "salmon fish" or "mahi mahi fish." Nor is there any kind of tuna that is not fish. There is no such thing as a tuna cow, or a tuna cat, or a tuna walrus.
But I digress.
Sunday afternoons seemed to bring a higher likelihood that tuna sandwiches would be served for lunch. And while I did not like any food very much, tuna was a food that I especially did not like.
My parents would ask me if I wanted lettuce on my sandwich. I would say yes because the lettuce would provide a bit of relief from the tuna-ness of the sandwich, and it made the sandwich a little bit crunchy, which made it more aesthetically pleasing. Then one day, I had a brainstorm. I discovered that if I put Doritos on my sandwich – lifted up the top layer of Wonder Bread and stuck a Dorito or two right in the sandwich – that it made the tuna extra crunchy, and then it became almost tasty.
What does any of this have to do with the fact that I am currently on vacation on an island in Croatia? Excellent question. Thank you for asking.
Now that I am an adult (or at least can fake it at times), I have gotten over my picky eater ways. I spend about three months each year working overseas, and I have had to learn to eat many different things, sometimes not even knowing what they are.
The other night at dinner, a basket of bread was brought to my table, along with a small bread plate that contained a goopy sort of spread. I did not order the goop. It just came, compliments of the chef. I am nowhere near the picky eater I was at age seven, but every now and then, I find myself confronted with something I do not want to eat, and I experience childhood flashbacks.
So, there I was, staring at this mystery spread, thinking it was probably some sort of goose spleen paté or something. I did not want to eat it, but it was included with the meal, and I thought I should at least be polite and taste it. So I did. It did not taste good, but I got it down.
"This goose spleen paté isn't so bad," I told myself, and forced down another couple of bites.
That was two nights ago.
Tonight when I ordered dinner, a plate of the same mystery spread was put before me. I eyed it, thinking it hadn't exactly been enjoyable two nights earlier, but maybe that was all in my mind. Maybe it wasn't actually spleen of goose. If I knew that it wasn't, maybe I would enjoy it more.
"Tuna for your bread," the waiter said as he put the plate before me.
"Wow," I thought. "Tuna." I hadn't eaten tuna in years. I had never seen tuna so artistically presented. It was creamy – not because it had been mixed with globs of mayonnaise, as was the case back in my childhood Sunday afternoons, but because it had been whipped into a creaminess I did not know one could achieve with tuna.
Knowing what it was now, knowing that at least it was not spleen, I ate it all – on the little pieces of bread provided. It wasn't bad.
It wasn't good, but it wasn't bad, and I finished it out of politeness.
I'm thinking I might actually have enjoyed it, if only the restaurant had served Doritos.
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