Competitive Eating

I wouldn’t say my family is particularly competitive. My brother and I didn’t fight over who was stronger, smarter, or faster sibling growing up. My parents never pitted us against one another in order to make us work harder, incentivizing the spirit of competition. Us Berksons just aren’t built that way. Not on the surface, anyway. I think it’s the cherubic cheeks that are so deceiving. We appear friendly and generous, and we certainly are, right up until the topic of food comes up. Then, the gloves are off.

At our dinner table you either eat quickly, and with your elbows up, or you get poached. Whether it’s dad’s unapologetic thievery, my brothers quick, penetrating fork skills, or the infamous “mommy tax,” your food with be snatched up and gobbled down if you’re not careful.

I suppose that’s why, when dining out, ordering became such an intense sport: you had to be sure that regardless of the “sharing is caring” policy that applied superficially, you were confident with your menu selection regardless of what your dining mates chose, just in case. It is for this reason that today, I rarely eat out without having thoroughly researched the destination. Furthermore, if placed in a situation where I have not gather ample information to make an informed decision, I panic. I will ask every server, bartender, line cook his or her favorite dish, maybe even take a lap to the bathroom just to scout other tables to regain my confidence prior to placing my order. You may think me obsessive, however a chance to dine out is not an opportunity to be wasted on a dud dish.

Most people will sit down at a table and make small talk, or even launch into the main discussion before ordering. I am practically incapable of doing so. As long as the menu remains on the table, my eyes are darting back and forth across it, searching for clues as to which dish holds the greatest combination of flavors. Moreover, I find it difficult to make my own decision without knowing the choices of those in my company, even if sharing is not on the menu. My dad’s favorite response to the question is “It’s a surprise” which is both intriguing and immensely irritating.

Among family members and close friends who understand my insanity, entrée selection becomes an all out debate. I never thought I was stubborn, but try to sway me away from a seductively comforting bowl of pasta or anything with goat cheese, and you'll find yourself facing an immovable mule. My mother and I have been known to wave off servers 2 or 3 times before reaching an agreeable verdict. Just imagine the silent treatment and guilt trip that ensues if mistakes were made during deliberations. 

What a relief it is when the pronouncements have been made to the triumphant server, distracting menus cleared at last, and glasses of victory libations placed before us.

Now, of course, once the food arrives, you know the drill: Elbows up! Defend your plate!