A new restaurant has opened in our neighborhood, and I want to like it, I really do. The menu is vegetarian, the food organically grown, sustainably harvested, locally sourced (wherever possible, of course). The restaurant uses environmentally friendly products. It’s a kid friendly-space with toys and large tables. They are trying to do the right thing, and it’s clearly hit a chord around here (of course it has) because the place is usually busy.
I cannot read the menu without wincing. Every item on the menu is an emotion, every dish a proclamation:
“I Am Sacred.” “I Am Joyful.” “I Am Triumphant.” “I Am Festive.” “I Am Bright-Eyed.” “I Am Sensational.” “I Am Prosperous.” “I Am Elated.” “I Am Plenty.” “I Am Charasmatic.” “I Am Precious.” “I Am Succulent.”
I Have To Stop!!!
I try to get past the names of the dishes and focus on the descriptions: the tabouli with hummus and spicy olive tapenade on pita sounds fine (“I Am Flourishing”), but it’s right there next to the “live sun burger” (“I Am Cheerful”) with macadamia cheddar cheese and I want my (veggie) burger cooked, thank you, and made with dairy cheese please, and then I see the basil hemp seed pesto (“I Am Sensational”) and although I know hemp is good for you, I’m not putting it in my pesto. The thought makes me cranky.
I will just never be the flax seed-eating, hemp-wearing person my zip code might suggest; in fact, I guess you can take the girl out of New York but you can’t take the New York out of the girl.