Food: A Love Story

by Jim Gaffigan

  Recently I tried Smartwater, which has electrolytes in it, and it’s supposed to replenish your body better than regular bottled water, therefore making you, I guess, smarter. I tried it, and it totally worked. I am now much smarter. Now I only drink tap water.

  SOMETHING’S FISHY

  It is probably no surprise to you that I’m not a huge fish-eater, mostly because fish is disgusting. I really wish I could be that guy at the restaurant who looks over the menu and decides, “Well, I rarely get to go out to dinner, but instead of getting a delicious steak I’m going to order the fish, because I like nasty-tasting things.” How bored are you with eating if you are ordering the fish? “You know what, just bring me something gross. I like to waste money.” I’m not even sure how we are supposed to tell when fish goes bad. It smells like fish either way. “Well, this smells like a dumpster … let’s eat it.” I don’t think fish even like fish. That is why fish are always frowning. “What’s that smell? Oh, that’s me. I’m a fish. Ugh.”

  Jeannie is a devout Catholic, so during Lent we eat fish on Fridays, which is meant to symbolize the suffering of Jesus on the cross. What? This means at some point some people had the following conversation:

  GUY 1: How should we honor the suffering of Jesus on the cross?

  GUY 2: Well, we could fast. We could starve ourselves.

  GUY 1: No, that’s too easy. What if we ate fish?

  GUY 2: I’d rather be crucified.

  I recognize that many people enjoy fish and that fish is good for you. However, at times it feels like there is an elaborate fish publicity machine at work. “Fish is so good for you. Fish cures cancer. Fish captured two members of al-Qaeda.” Well, it still smells like a dumpster. This fish lobby seems so passionate, I’m usually hesitant to express my dislike of fish. I often feel like when I do, I’m treated as someone who doesn’t know how to read. “You don’t like fish? I could teach you. You could take night classes!”

  I sometimes think no one really likes fish. They just won’t admit it. Occasionally you’ll hear someone say, “I like fish just as long as it doesn’t taste like fish.” I have news for those people: you don’t like fish because I’m almost positive fish is supposed to taste like fish because, well, it’s fish. That’s the catch with fish (pun intended): the word fishy is only associated with something negative. When people compliment a fish dish, they actually say it’s “not fishy.” You’d never hear “Try this hamburger: it’s not burgery.” Fishy is an indication something is wrong. “Is something fishy going on here?” “No, no. Everything is burgery.” Sometimes fish will be complimented by saying it tastes like something else. “Try this halibut: it tastes like chicken.” This selling tactic never works for any other food. “Try this steak—it tastes like tofu.” I always think, well, instead of eating the halibut that tastes like chicken, why don’t I just order the chicken? It doesn’t help that most of the things that are supposedly so good on fish seem to be the things that kill the taste of fish. “This deep-fried fish doused with vinegar, then dunked in a gallon of mayo and relish, is delicious!”

  I’m surprised that anyone would enjoy fish at all, but I am shocked and amazed we are still serving fish with the head on it. What are we … barbarians? I always feel like the eye is looking up at me. “Hey, you don’t mind if I watch while you eat my body? Don’t be distracted if a tear comes out. You can just tell yourself it’s butter.” I suppose some people prefer fish served with the head on. “Yeah, I’ll have the fish … keep the head on there. Oh, and do me a favor—find out if it had a nickname.”

  In some cultures they eat fish for breakfast. “Good morning. Here’s some fish. It matches your breath.” There are not a lot of things I like to do in the morning, and eating fish is probably at the bottom of the list. While I was in Iceland doing shows, I went down to breakfast and was shocked to find a large jar of fish oil at the beginning of the buffet next to twelve shot glasses. Yes, they are drinking fish for breakfast! I can’t think of any time when anyone would want to drink fish, but most definitely not after they just woke up. “Should I have orange juice, grapefruit juice, or fish juice?” I bet fish oil at breakfast was the best thing that ever happened to grapefruit juice. “Finally, I’m not the worst thing here.”

  The Icelandic cure for morning breath.

  Sushi

  I don’t like fish, but somehow I enjoy sushi. I never said I was someone who followed logic. And, no, I’m not a person who thinks that seaweed makes things taste better. (Does anyone?) Well, to be honest, I tolerate sushi. I don’t really consider it a meal. Once, Jeannie asked me if I had eaten dinner, and I responded, “No, I just had sushi.” Sushi in general doesn’t make sense. Sushi seems like something someone came up with to get people to stop eating fish. I could see some evil dictator demanding:

  DICTATOR: From now on, people can only eat raw fish.

  CROWD: (moans)

  DICTATOR: Wrapped in seaweed.

  CROWD: (moans loudly)

  DICTATOR: And you can only pick it up using these long sticks!

  CROWD: (begs for mercy)

  Sushi is a Japanese thing. Don’t trust a non-Japanese person as your sushi chef. Nobody believes in racial profiling until they get a red-haired sushi chef with a southern accent. The Japanese have done so many impressive things with art, technology, and science that we all assume sushi was some brilliant achievement. In reality it was probably that some Japanese chef didn’t pay his electric bill.

  In all seriousness, sushi is an art form. It’s beautiful. There is the expert cutting of the fish. Putting it on rice. Laying it on the wood plank thing. Rolling it up in that seaweed snakeskin. Planting that little carrot garden on top. Placing it in front of someone and nodding with an uncomfortable smile. I’m not even competent at preparing a box of mac and cheese.

  I’m certainly in no way a sushi expert. I would definitely consider myself a wimpy sushi eater. I always order California rolls because they have nothing raw in them and I’m pretty sure that fake crabmeat they contain is made of chicken. I feel California rolls are the training wheels of the sushi community. “I can’t ride a bike yet, but I’ll pretend I can.” There’s some sushi I would never eat, like the salmon roe, the fluorescent fish eggs in the seaweed bucket thing. Roe is just a capsule of fish concentrate. Those Icelanders would love it. I don’t know how you can eat salmon roe after you’ve seen the opening scene to the film Finding Nemo. The eggs are even orange like Nemo’s mom and siblings.

  When I do eat sushi, I always make a point of not telling anyone I’ve eaten sushi. This is in reaction to my observation that everyone seems to have to tell you that they’ve eaten sushi like it was some impressive activity or adventure. “We just went for sushi!” “What did we do this weekend? We went for sushi!” It seems people never ate sushi. They went for sushi. I always want to ask, “Did you catch anything?” Some of the posturing may be to justify the cost of sushi, which for some reason is very expensive. This is strange, considering that it’s not even cooked.

  Marre enjoying some overpriced raw fish.

  Cooked or uncooked, fish is scary. My manager and good friend, Alex Murray, was an anti-meat fish-eater (yes, one of those). Feeling generally ill, he went to the doctor for a thorough examination. Turns out his blood contained abnormally high levels of mercury and other toxins to the point of almost poisoning him. Why? That’s right! From eating the evil fish. Upon hearing this news, I took Alex out for a gigantic steak, my own prescription for a fish-poisoning antidote, and, of course, made him pay for it because I was right. Fish is bad. A part of me felt like the alcoholic who just found out red wine was an antioxidant. I always knew that whole “fish is good for you” story was a little fishy.

  ANIMAL EATER

  I love to eat animals. I realize this sounds harsh, but it’s true. Of course, I’m not going into pet stores and asking, “Which is the most delicious animal you sell here?” Well, not anymore. I have contemplated buying a zoo, eating the animals, and putt
ing my children in the empty cages, but I like to think that has more to do with my parenting style than my diet. I’m kidding. About part of that. Anyway, I do consume food that was once an animal. Some vegetarians refuse to eat meat because they feel it’s cruel to animals, which, interestingly enough, is the same reason I don’t eat vegetables. In a way I’m a vegetable rights activist. I bet those vegetarian savages don’t even feel guilty when they eat baby carrots!

  I don’t like to think of myself as the type of person who would be mean to an animal. I love animals. I’ve never looked at a cow and thought, I want to eat that. But once that cow has been slaughtered, drained of all its blood, chopped up, and put on a grill, I do get hungry for some cow. I guess I love animals, but I enjoy eating them more. My motto is “Fun to pet, better to chew.” It definitely helps when the food doesn’t look like an animal or part of an animal. “This ham sandwich doesn’t look like a pig to me.” Of course, ribs are a different situation because, well, they are ribs. There is no denying you are eating actual ribs. Ribs are what protect the pigs’ or cows’ lungs and are really great with barbecue sauce. I’m still not sure how to eat ribs without looking like a caveman. “Excuse me while I tear the flesh from this bone with my teeth. I need my energy for when I club you later.” It’s amazing how casually we order ribs. “Yeah, I’ll have the baby back ribs, and can you wheel them out in a stroller?” You can order the veal as an appetizer and have an all-baby animal meal. I do feel bad that the animals have to be killed to provide the meat I eat. I’d feel better if it was an animal suicide or if maybe the animal deserved it. “This is a good turkey sandwich, and to think that damn bird tried to steal my car.”

  Me eating an assortment of vegetarians.

  I’m really not interested in seeing the face of the animal I’m eating. At pig roasts they always have the pig head sitting out there on display. This is always sad, because you can tell someone killed the pig while it was eating an apple. The poor pig didn’t even get to finish the first bite.

  I am a meat lover, but I believe that the people who are really obsessed with meat are the vegetarians. For people who don’t like to eat meat, they sure seem to eat a lot of fake meat. There is mashed-up tofu, wheat, or vegetable versions of every type of meat.

  VEGETARIAN AT A RESTAURANT: I find eating meat repulsive! (to waiter) Okay, I’ll have a veggie burger with soy cheese and tofu bacon, and could you serve it to me dressed like a cow?

  If anyone is driving by meat’s house seeing if any lights are on, it’s the vegetarian.

  VEGETARIAN: Hey, have you seen meat lately? I mean, I don’t care, but has meat asked about me? (singing) I ain’t missin’ you at all (missin’ you).

  Some of the meatless meat products seem like something out of Spy Kids. “Over here, Agent Cortez, we have what looks like a hot dog, but it’s made completely of beans. Whoever eats it will never leave the bathroom.”

  Recently a waitress asked me if I was a vegetarian. I was flattered. I felt like a seventy-year-old lady who was just carded in a bar. I guess vegetarians and meat eaters are not that different. It’s pretty straightforward: some people eat meat and some people are wrong. Of course, I’m only teasing the vegetarians. It is very easy to understand the animal-loving vegetarian’s issue with us carnivores, but I’m confused by why some meat eaters take issue with the vegetarians. Why would I care if someone doesn’t eat meat? I always think, “You don’t eat meat? Hey, more meat for me.” The reality is, the vegetarians are winning. The perception has changed since I was a child. It’s become more socially acceptable. Recently my nine-year-old daughter informed me that she was a vegetarian. I would love to have seen my own father’s reaction if I had said the same thing to him. Without missing a beat, my dad would have said, “(cough) No son of mine is gay. Be a man. Eat your meat.”

  The health benefits of a vegetarian lifestyle are undeniable. In the not-so-distant future half the population will be vegetarian and the other half will be happily in a meat coma. This is not to say I don’t find vegetarians amusing when they try to impress me. “I haven’t eaten meat in five years.” I always say, “I haven’t had a banana in a month, but you don’t see me bragging about it, because I’m not a food bragger,” and I go back to eating my McNuggets. The shocked vegetarian usually replies, “Do you know what they do to those chickens?” “No, but it’s delicious. If you could get me the recipe, that’d be delightful.”

  I do have some scruples. I make it my policy to only eat meat from animals that during their lives were strict vegetarians. I find it very unethical to eat the meat of a lion, a python, or a tyrannosaurus rex. Those animals were too cruel toward other animals for me to feel okay about eating them. What can I say? I am just a great guy. One animal that no one in this country wants to eat is a dog. I think dogs don’t realize that they are never going to be eaten. Maybe that is why they’re so friendly. They are just kissing up to us so we won’t eat them.

  Jeannie eating a barbecued lung protector.

  We eat so many different types of meat and it’s also remarkable how many different ways to raise and process meat there are: organic, free range, grass fed, cured, smoked, and, of course, canned. Organic meat is better than other types of meat because those cows did yoga. There is a type of meat for everyone. For example, prosciutto is for people who like to floss while they eat meat. Some people like to eat poultry, but since that’s just a nice way to say bird, I don’t consider poultry a real meat. Sure, I occasionally eat chicken and turkey, but I think there is a reason why birds are categorized as fowl. Turkey has also become normal meat’s unofficial stand-in. “Now playing the role of a meatball, here’s turkey!” I am not sure how the cow feels about her understudy being a bird. It’s kind of weird that we even eat birds. Some restaurants seem a little too eager to serve duck. Duck is all over the menu. “I guess I’ll order the duck, unless you have a flamingo or a dove holding an olive branch in its beak.” To me, ducks are a little too adorable to eat. The reason I can even stomach chicken is because I don’t have the image of a cute duck in my mind.

  Adorable and edible.

  STEAK: THE MANLY MEAT

  As a child I was confused by my father’s love of steak. I remember being eight and my dad ceremoniously announcing to the family, “We’re having steak tonight!” as if Abe Lincoln were coming over for dinner. My siblings and I would politely act excited as we watched TV. “That’s great, Dad!” I remember thinking, Big deal. Why can’t we just have McDonald’s? To me, my father just had this weird thing with steak. I thought, Dads obsess about steak the way kids obsess about candy. Well, my dad did. I’d watch him trudge out behind our house in all types of weather to the propane grill after me or one of my brothers barely averted death by lighting it for him. He would happily take his post out there, chain-smoking his Merit Ultra Light cigarettes and drinking his Johnnie Walker Black Label Scotch alone in the darkness of Northwest Indiana. He’d stare into the flame like it was an ancient oracle relaying a prophecy that solved the mysteries of life.

  Given the sheer joy that standing at the grill gave my father, I was always amazed by how bad he was at cooking a steak. Maybe it was the grilling in virtual darkness, or maybe it was the Scotch, but his steaks were usually really burnt and often had the flavor of cigarette ashes. At the table he would try to justify the charred meat in front of the family: “You like it well done, right?” Again, my siblings and I would politely lie. “It’s great, Dad. Thanks.” I think I actually grew to enjoy the taste of A.1. Steak Sauce mixed with cigarette ash. A.1. was always on the table when my dad would grill steaks. It seems everyone I knew had that same thin bottle of A.1. It always felt like it was empty right before it flooded your steak. Ironically, the empty-feeling bottle never seemed to run out. I think most people still have the same bottle of A.1. that they had in 1989. Once I looked at the back of a bottle of A.1. and was not surprised to find that one of the ingredients was “magic.”

  By the time I became a teenager, I gene
rally understood that steak was something unique. It had some kind of a deeper meaning. I still preferred McDonald’s, but I realized steak was certainly not something my father would’ve been able to eat growing up as the son of a denture maker in Springfield, Illinois, in the 1940s. I remember thinking that maybe eating steak was actually my father’s measure of success. He wasn’t poor anymore. He and his children could afford to eat burnt steak. Even in my twenties, when I would go home to visit my father after my mother passed away, he and I would always eat a cigarette-ash-infused steak that he had overcooked on the grill. Many years later I realized that following my mother’s death, my father pretty much ate steak every night. Probably because my mother was not around anymore to say, “Well, obviously you shouldn’t eat steak every night!” When I think back to my father eating steak day after day, year after year, I can only come to one conclusion: my father was a genius.

  I don’t know what happened, but steak makes perfect sense to me now. I was really overanalyzing it as a teenager. My father was not cooking steak on the grill to get away from his family or eating it daily to prove to himself that he wasn’t poor; my father was eating steak because consuming a steak is one of the great pleasures we get to experience during our short time on this planet. This was probably one of my most profound coming-of-age realizations. Steak is really that amazing. Steak is so delicious, I’m sure the first person to go on a stakeout was eventually disappointed: “Been sitting in this car all night and still no steak! Not even a basket of bread.”