Sorry, dude

Dear Husband,

As we dined out last night, and I fretted yet again that the waitress would spat in our appetizers of Brussels sprouts and brie (not mixed together, two separate apps, cuz’ that would be gross), I thought to myself: You don’t deserve this. You, who delight equally in chowing down at Jeane-Georges and on my homemade chicken fried steak. You who wined and dined me during our courtship and taught me the ways of the outer borough dive bars/edgy pub food. Who convinced me to travel to a hot, dry, soccer field in Red Hook for tacos. To the man who was my partner in eating our way through the five boroughs of New York (well, not Staten Island, never Staten Island).

I’m sorry.

I know you say that it doesn’t bother you when I have to drill the wait staff on gluten-free dishes, then double-check when the waiter looks at me like he just got through with a particularly grueling acting class and couldn’t possible wrap his head around my dietary needs. But it bothers me. And I’m going to go out on a limb here, and guess that it bothers other people I dine with too. People who used to invite me along to dinner because they knew I was up for anything. (Except small, furry, animals. It goes back to childhood — another story, for another time.) People who knew I would go along with them — no, encourage them! — to always get an appetizer that has the word “fondue” in the description, and never miss a chance to try a slice of thousand crepe cake. That girl is gone, and instead is replaced by someone who has to know every single ingredient in the salad dressing. No, I don’t like her either.

So to my partner in adventurous eating, I’m sorry I’m no fun anymore, and probably make restaurant employees hate us. Oh, and sorry about that whole “we must experiment with g-free donuts and beer” thing. I know that isn’t helping your cholesterol. Sorry about that future heart attack too.