Every time a server in a restaurant says, “Our dishes are small plates that are made to share family style,” all I hear is, “Our dishes are made to share famine style, ” and while they run through their favorite small plates I’m either mapping out where the closest In-N-Out Burger is on the way home and panicking that we might not be done before they close, or I’m wondering when the UN will have to start doing food parcel drops over the gentrified neighborhoods that have too many of these “family style” restaurants we are all going to, and all quietly starving in because of this share plate craze. And then I wonder if we’ll even recognize the food parcels if they are not wrapped in phyllo with a sweet tamarind dipping sauce.
“Family style” really is just proxy for lots of small plates, usually with things rolled into very small balls, very small stacks, on small kebab sticks or in a pâté dish with four half slices of bread even when there are six of you at the table. All these small plates come with big plate prices though – the little plate that could! – which means you will always leave with an empty wallet, and an empty stomach, with the exception of a few tiny balls of something rolling around like some sort of abandoned game of digestive pinball.
If you have not experienced any of this, let me lay out the course of events of eating “family style”. There are usually at least six of you dining, family style. You are usually seated at a long table, family style. At your servers recommendation you will usually order, “A couple of dishes per person,” so everyone can have a taste, family style.
If you live in LA half of this family will be vegetarian, vegan, or only eating animals who are organic grass fed vegetarians. Obviously you’ll all be allergic to wheat.
The dishes will be ordered accordingly. Everyone will look to the server who will then count how many dishes you’ve ordered to ensure you’ve ordered enough. Well, they will appear to count dishes but really they are counting how many homes in Malibu with ocean views and good martini glasses the restaurant owner will have after you all leave. They will then smile and suggest you maybe add one or two greens on the side, like the Brussels sprouts which are delicious.
Then this “family style” meal will be placed across this long table. And the one dish you actually wanted will be at the other end of the table, a mini meatball mirage simmering in the far distance, while you share the gem lettuce salad with no lardon and no cheese – so the real gems are missing – because you’re sat next to the vegan.
Seeing the actual size of the plates all of you realize you are about to be starved to death, and all overcome your wheat allergy enough to eat the only substantial thing on the table – the four half slices of bread. It’s Lord of Flies, but with the wild pig on Barbie plates with sourdough bread.
Directly after this moment of suburban savagery the Politeness Meatball Phenomenon – or PMP as I call it in my circle of me – will kick in. PMP is not limited to actual meatballs but is an overarching term that stretches across all of the last foodstuffs left on the plates that everyone is suddenly too polite to eat. The Politeness Meatballs will stay on the table, all night. Too small to be divided amongst you, but just big enough to make you hungrier even as they congeal in their own cold gravy.
Of course there will be plenty of the server recommended Brussels sprouts. They will come in a proper grown-up sized bowl and there will always be more than one Brussels sprout left. Brussels sprouts are never Politeness Meatballs. This is because they are not delicious. No one ever ordered them as their last meal on earth. I checked Google. At first it laughed at me and said, “You know the answer to this,” and then it double checked, and it turns out one Gregory Resnover did order Brussels sprouts as his last meal. Sentenced to death in Indiana Resnover ordered fried chicken, whipped potatoes, giblet gravy, Brussels sprouts, salad with French dressing, cranberry sauce, ice cream with chilled peaches, buttered dinner rolls, milk, sugar and coffee. He then declined the meal. Okay, he swore he was innocent so this was likely his last act of defiance against the system, or, it was because he realized too late Brussels sprouts are not a good last meal.
Google also told me about the white people who seldom get wrongfully sentenced to death coffee table book called ‘My Last Supper, The Next Course’ by Melanie Dunea. Chefs David McMillan and April Bloom both list Brussels sprouts in their death rider. It should be noted Bloom has been photographed with a whole pig on her back, and McMillan owns a restaurant called Joe Beef. Brussel sprouts are a conduit for pork gravy, and a crunch with a forkful of roast beef, but they are not a bowl of deliciousness any family is going to dig into.
Wow. Big diversion. Anyway. I looked into where this whole family style thing came from. It does have benefits. None of them are listed as “feeling satisfied and full” but mommy bloggers like Jill Castle do rave about the benefits in children. It helps fine tune motor skills as they pass dishes around. It also teaches politeness, and sharing. And I buy that, because in most homes dishes are full dishes, big dishes. Meatballs are not the same size as your peas. And Brussels sprouts are reserved for Thanksgiving.
So, I’m giving the restaurant version of family style the finger. I’m doing this largely because after years of eating family style at home my motor skills are pretty finely tuned now, in fact they are spectacular. And I’m doing this because I’m tired of being polite. I want to go out to dinner with good friends, eat my own meatballs, off my own big plate while I share the things that are actually worth sharing; conversation, opinions, gossip and really good wine. Isn’t that why we all go for dinner together in the first place? I think it is. If you agree, share this post. I’m not opposed to that.
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