Born to eat

You'll only like this story if you're a foodie. It was typical water cooler talk with the head of the loan admin department, a nice Chinese lady named Pam with perky old-school glasses who also happens to be an immense foodie. "Foodie" wouldn't even do her justice - she's a gastronome in the likes of M.F.K. Fisher or Julia Child. Before being "forced" back into the banking industry for her extraordinary loan documentation skills, Pam had her own cooking school in her home. She prefers cheese carts to dessert courses, knows Norbert at the Beverly Hills Cheese Store personally, once ate a truffle degustation at The French Laundry, and could tell you where to find the best baguette in LA (it's Paris Pastry in West LA). She knows food.

We occasionally talk about restaurants here and there, trading secrets and special finds and I relish these moments because it's like getting wisdom from a gourmet sage, aged in her food-knowledge. She tells me she can easily make a entire vat of duck confit for $50 while restaurants charge hapless customers an arm and a leg for such plebien fare. Anyways, today she was telling me how disappointed she was in her son.

"His favorite dish used to be pork andouille gumbo - at age three," she said.
"THREE? Holy crap, he has to be the most spoiled boy ever." I exclaimed.
"Oh, he was bred to be a gourmand. When I was pregnant with him, you can't even imagine the wonderful food I ate." waxing poetically.
"But he started rebelling when he was seven, going on a quest to stamp out arugula from his meals," she lamented.
"REALLY? I didn't even know what arugula was until a few years ago." I said.
Pam went on, "it's unfortunate, you know his friends come over as often as possible asking, 'hey, what did your mom cook today.' They fish out fresh cookie-dough I make and bake it themselves. He doesn't care though, he'd rather eat generic pizza from the local joint or Kraft mac 'n cheese. He still knows a good steak from a mediocre one, though"

I thought to myself, wow, this boy was supposed to be prodigy, an Epicurean marvel of human gourmandism, reveling in the greatest foods of the world while wielding the most accomplished, discerning palate man has ever known. Like the Yao Ming of food - a genetically perfect eater. He could ascend the highest zeniths of the culinary world, critiquing three-star restaurants and 98 point Bordeaux while traversing continents in search of the perfect meal. And he squandered it on junk food and crappy American staples.

I remember my Julliard-trained mother would put headphones playing Bach and Mozart while I was happily swimming in her womb. She had me playing piano before I was in grade school. I spurned her musical idealism and my mother finally relinquished her desire to have me become the next Isaac Perlman when I quit violin after years of private teaching. Instead I walked into Concert Band my 7th grade year, not knowing any non-stringed instrument, and quietly told Mr. Schick, the hair-brained music teacher at Wilson Middle School, that I was going to play the drums. My mother detested the incessant loud, banging all over the house after I got home after school. I guess now I've still inherited my mother's musical genes, playing a trio of instruments (guitar, bass, drums) and a bit of my father's culinary adventurousness (as evidenced by growing pot-belly). The apple truly does not fall far from the tree.

I told my coworker that her son would turn around. She's sure that he will, knowing that the powdered cheese in Kraft doesn't stand a chance against gruyere, roquefort, and reggiano.