The Art of Expectation
Daniel Bombardier |
Yes,” said the girl. “Everything tastes like licorice. Especially all the things
you’ve waited so long for, like absinthe.”
"HIlls Like White Elephants" - Ernest Hemingway
My most recent encounter with it was at a well-known
Boulder restaurant that is not only as pricey as a Ferrari, but comes with the
kind of long-lived reputation that is synonymous with the word “institution.”
Continuing the Year-of-50 celebration, I finally agreed to meet a longtime
friend at the posh spot overlooking Boulder and say yes to $75
butter-poached lobster, whether I could afford it or not. We’d been talking
about doing just this thing for at least a decade.
For that price tag, I expected an orgasm.
What I got was licorice.
You plot, you plan, you prepare, you’re excited.
And in the end, you get “meh.”
Butter-poached Lobster |
If disappointment’s has a twin, it’s expectation. Had my expectation killed the messenger?
Surely, anticipation is nothing if not a double-edged sword. Think of how many
times you’ve waited to see that movie that everyone says is “really amazing,”
only to be let down: “It wasn’t that great.” It’s the same with restaurant
food. I build up a place in my mind or go to some new hot spot everyone is raving
about, but it’s just okay. And too often, the first time at a restaurant is the
best. Why is it never the same—never as fresh or surprising—again?
I am disappointed.
A lot. And not just by food.
Am I drowning pleasure and the potential little
surprises life has to offer under the ballast of expectation and my need to
orchestrate everything? If I do X,
I think, I will get Y.
Disappointing sweetbreads an foie gras |
More and more, I want to live like I cook: with confidence and curiosity, with a
willingness to be surprised, with the idea that every single meal, each kiss, each act of love can be new.
Last night, the city-dwellling boyfriend made
dinner. He quick sautéed minced pork stew meat with garlic and white onions
before finishing it with a bit of chicken stock. Then he fried corn tortillas as
I drank wine and ate his famous guacamole. On the table: white lilies he’d bought for me. We ate the pork tacos
with pickled onions and cabbage and sour cream.
I served some chilled corn soup I’d made earlier in the week. We chatted
and watched to the hummers fight at the feeder above my head. It had been a
week since I’d seen him.
The experience was so much more satisfying than my
$200 meal.
Why?
I hadn’t expected anything at all.
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