Food Fetish

I love food. Always have. (And the only reason I don’t weight 400 pounds is that I have the occasional fetish of using food creatively.)

Although I live in South Florida and have since the early 1970s, my fondest food memories are from Brooklyn, New York, where I grew up. Lundy’s was my first restaurant memory -- eating lobster with my parents and LOVING it. I remember watching fisherman bring in their fresh catch of the day in Sheepshead Bay and my dad knowing exactly which restaurant to eat at to get the exact fish he choose. I remember eating a table away from Woody Allen in Chinatown during the Chinese New Year celebration. And at other times stopping at what seemed liked every street vendor in Little Italy. As an aspiring foodie in New York, even at that young age, I was as familiar with the meat packing district as I was with the garment district.

My childhood is filled with Sunday morning memories of fresh bagels and appetizing, which meant lox (not the wimpy Nova everyone eats today), chubs aka smoked whitefish, herring, bananas and sour cream, blintzes and knishes – served with mustard only. I remember stopping at the curb while my dad ran in and got us Nathan’s – apparently the only edible hot dog on the planet -- and those still-to-this-day awesome French fries.

For the first 12 years of my life, I remember visiting South Florida, where I live now, and eating freshly baked pecan rolls until I exploded at Patricia Murphy’s in Fort Lauderdale, which no longer exists.

Given my history, it’s no wonder I fetish food now. I will go anywhere and pay anything for good food. As a result of that early food education, today, in every city I visit, I research indigenous food. I spend weeks on it. Ask everyone I know. It kills me to have been somewhere and not tried or missed a specialty. I’m like a wannabe Calvin Trillin or novice Anthony Bourdain with much less culinary skill, education, ‘tude and mental agility.

I have files full of info on restaurants I want to visit, though, I confess, sometimes I don't even use, because when I’m in a city, aside from the Zagat-rated and well-publicized places, I rely on the locals to direct me well. If you know food in a city I may visit, I want to talk to you. In Chicago, I went with a native and ate very, very well. I still crave authentic Chicago-style deep dish pizza. In British Columbia, I had references from another foodie who’d just been and ate amazingly well. Toronto, same thing.

In Italy, Greece, Egypt and Turkey, well, we just asked around. It was the best three weeks of eating I have ever spent. When I returned home, I spent the next six months trying to duplicate what I’d eaten. And while most were at best facsimiles, I did create my own spaghetti carbonara that I actually like better than I was served. I have, however, never figured out the Doner kabobs in Turkey that were amazing. I still have no idea what they were, how they were made or what the hell they were drizzled with that turned me on so. And how did they puff up that pita bread? I did, however, become an expert at Bakalava. I ate it for three weeks straight. In every city we visited. Our fridge was loaded from top to bottom with Bakalava. It was so full, we had to sacrifice the wine. Yes I know sacrilege, stooping so low as to ice it down each night ‘cause there just wasn’t enough room for the food to keep it cold.

And still I’m not done. My New Year’s Eve is not complete until I have Sevruga Caviar and Champagne (yes with a capital C - French only) with crème fraiche, chopped egg and blinis. Every stone crab season has to include a trip to Joe’s on South Beach or I’m not happy. And I used to dread the end of oyster season until they were able to ship those luscious barnacles in year ‘round. I’m still on a journey to find the best chicken wing, which seems like a life-long pursuit. A couple of years ago I dragged my family totally out of the way from Toronto to Albany to eat at the original home of the chicken wing – the Anchor Bar in Buffalo, NY.

So after reading the above, I’m sure it’s no surprise that I also gravitate toward people who love good food. Not quantities thereof, but definite quality. I can talk nuances with the best of them. Though on a ski trip to the Dolomites at the Swiss/Italian border, I did mistake parmesan curls for truffles. Oops. No problem though. I was with foodies and they instantly set me straight. And after that minor debacle, we hit an Enoteca (wine bar) and dove into a wheel (gironde) of Tete du Moine (Swiss) cheese that I still scrape into (stinky) florettes and relish to this day with any Italian Red.

These days, I dream of having my own personal chef. Someone who can knock my socks off with his culinary expertise. Talk to me for hours about which taste mixes with another and why. What drink brings out the subtleties of which foods. And try to tantalize my taste buds into surrender. I’m not sure it’s possible, but I’m certainly up for the challenge.