I’m struggling with the social aspects of having a food intolerance. It’s one thing knowing that dairy products are like TNT for my system (sorry), but it’s another having to face that with every mouthful and every menu - especially with people you don’t know very well; especially at Christmas.
I looked along the table at my colleagues, each staring politely at the hot food in front of them. Side plates of chips were steaming next to burgers and buns, and pasta glistened in the downward glow of the restaurant lamps. A fork in a hand, a knife on a napkin. A glass of pink bubbles and the gurgle of water being poured from a carafe. The space in front of me was depressingly empty - wooden table bounded by cutlery, napkin and wine glass.
“Sir,” appeared the waiter behind me, “I am so sorry but we’ve had to change the grill to avoid cross-contamination. Your food’s on the way.”
My eyes flicked. Thank you. He vanished.
“Guys,” I gulped, addressing the awkward table, “Feel free to crack on without me.”
That’s what you say in that situation, isn’t it? I mean that’s the etiquette? I blinked. It felt as though I’d just offered to say grace in front of eleven atheists. And the worst part was… nothing happened.
Oh God, I prayed (silently), please bring out my food, please bring out my food…
In the cold light of hindsight, I can say it’s your own daft fault if you don’t eat your burger at this point. The power’s all with you, and not me if I’ve just told you you can eat. Why wait for me? Why wait for that one annoying guy who can’t eat cheese? Eat! Get on with it! But some things don’t feel so clear in the moment.
Later, in the Oxford Christmas market (four wooden huts in a shopping centre) they were all munching churros, and I was making conversation. One of the students was wolfing down a huge pile of pancakes buried in Nutella. He must be about 21 - thin as a rake, and good-looking, with the youthful airiness of a man who can eat anything he likes. I toyed with the idea of telling him about metabolisms and middle-age and what might be coming … but I decided against it. You’ve got to live haven’t you?
It’s awkward being the problem. I’m a fitter-inner at those kind of things, not a stander-outer. Yet my body’s inability to process certain chemicals plus the fact that those chemicals are in the tastiest and most widely-available foods, makes life embarrassing sometimes.
I wonder what would have happened if I had said grace? Clasping my hands together suddenly, squeezing my eyes shut and going for it? Ahhhh-men. HR violation? Puzzled, angry eyes up and down the table? Weird atmosphere? Probably. But then, maybe they should have all just got on with eating while I was waiting anyway.
A few moments later, the waiter brought my plate of vegan food and the tension evaporated into the air like steam from a hot burger. Just as well really.
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