Once upon a time, I was a very picky eater. If you want to hear the full story on how that changed, you should ask Igi about the day he made me eat foie gras on toast for the first time (he'll give you the full low-down, complete with funny facial expressions and a falsetto imitation of my voice). To make a long story short - I was a typical stick-thin fusspot who didn't eat anything intestinal/offal-ish, overly meaty, unidentifiable, or grey. This meant that a lot of mockery came my way from the boys in the kitchen, and Igi being who he is decided that it was all folly on my part (he was right, but don't tell him I told you so) and that it needed to change. Within weeks I was eating fish heads and what-have-you with delight. The delight wore off slightly after I discovered that I'd gained a couple of pounds, but that's another story (I learnt how to balance food-delight and jogging, thank you A for getting me back in my running shoes). So, all well and good, eh?
I'm blessed beyond what I deserve with a husband who isn't even remotely fussy about what he eats. He'll try everything once, and if he didn't like it the first time chances are he'll give it a second shot just to make sure. However, I have sympathy with all the unlucky souls I've met throughout my career who are partnered up with picky eaters. You know the type: when the food arrives, they bark "what's this?" and then, regardless of what they're told they dissect every little item on the plate until it resembles some kind of chef-accident on a plate. I've never seen anyone successfully manage to convince a picky eater to eat what's "suspicious" on their plate, so when I read Florence Fabricant's dining Q&A at Diners Journal I fell over laughing: she managed to convince her husband to eat chicken kidneys and coxcombs by telling him it was all mushrooms. Good on you, Florence.
(image from google.com)
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