I should have known. That evening in Elbert’s Steakroom, when I bit into that gorgeous hunk of crisped salty charred meat and washed it down with a sip of Bordeaux, as soon as the wine hit my palate, it was rich and velvety. My eyes went wide and a big grin took over my face and I squirmed, doing a little happy dance in my chair. In that moment, I should have known. I should’ve known that baby was arriving sooner than later.
You see, for practically the entire nine months I was pregnant, my taste buds went awry. Especially with one of my favorite things in the world — wine. I could not even enjoy the occasional sip. Every glass, every bottle, no matter how prestigious, tasted like rancid, metallic vinegar. Over Christmas we opened a beautiful bottle of Chateau Angelus 1998, which sadly to me tasted like cheap grocery cooking wine that I wouldn’t even dare cook with. Then, about a month or so ago, my dear friend Romy Sia of Wine Story called me up excitedly, saying he had a great surprise for me. “Steph, I would like to invite you to a very exclusive Chateau Latour vertical tasting.”
My heart sank. I could have pretended. I could have said, “Sure! I’ll be there!” and falsify the orgasmic oohs and ahhs that these vintages would elicit … but it would have been like making love to a dead fish. Completely unpleasant and so depressing. I felt it was almost disrespectful to the wine that would have been a total waste on my hormonally scarred taste buds. I sighed a big sad sigh and coughed up the truth: “I’m sorry, Romy. I’m practically nine months pregnant and wine just tastes like crap to me right now. No Chateau Latour vertical tasting for me.”
It was one of the greatest tragedies of my life.
Finally, on that fateful day, I was eating that beautiful hunk of meat when suddenly the wine gods stirred my heart and it was like being reunited with a long-lost lover. The passionate bacchanalian flames were rekindled in the perfect marriage between food and wine. Two weeks later my baby decided to pop out ahead of schedule. The world was much too exciting for him to wait inside.
You see, my pregnancy had given me time to reflect on my existence as a foodie and more importantly, the perception of taste. I never had a sweet tooth but pregnant, I couldn’t get enough of cakes, desserts and Banoffee pie. And almost immediately after giving birth, the sweet cravings went away. It truly highlighted the fact that no one can really tell what the other is truly tasting at that very moment.
If you are a regular reader, then you’ve probably noticed that I’ve recently shied away from too many restaurant reviews and focused more on food itself — recipes, anecdotes, history, musings, and the occasional truly enjoyable experience. The reason being that pregnancy has proven to me that each food moment is extremely personal and relative, not just to how the actual dish is cooked but to your memories, your emotional connection to certain ingredients, the ambience, your level of exposure, and even the people you were with. I’m not even counting personal preferences. For example, my husband has this strong aversion to bell peppers, which in turn makes him not enjoy Spanish food as much as other kinds of Mediterranean cuisine.
In this day and age of the mass foodie, professional and amateur food blogger, self-proclaimed or even justified restaurant critic, guides and top 10, 50 and 100 lists, stars and books, our minds are made up even before the fork touches the plate or even as early as before the soup has come to a boil. People come to a place with all kinds of expectations and prejudice due to reading too much into these reviews and recommendations that they can no longer simply take things for what they are at that moment. Ordering what someone said to order rather than letting your eyes organically roam the menu and letting your instincts choose. Asking what the bestsellers are without determining for yourself what your tummy really yearns for. Being underwhelmed or overwhelmed based on someone else’s experience. Plus, with Instagram, Twitter and Facebook and people always glued to those tiny evil little screens (moi included!) we’ve forgotten how to just be and let things be. I blame it on this generation’s information society. Where we need to know everything before it happens that when it happens we are, in fact, immune to it… blasé… depressingly neutral. Sometimes being a blank slate is the most precious gift in the world.
That moment with the wine was one of epiphany. I had forgotten how wonderful wine was. How the aromas can entice you long before the glass even reaches your mouth. How seductive a solid Bordeaux can be as it grazes your lips, then opens in full bloom on your palate, leaving lingering pleasure as it slowly goes down your throat. Nine months is a long time and, quite frankly, I was beginning to doubt that it would ever return. And when it did, it was like the first time you fell in love. Enjoying your first kiss. It has reminded me to try and enjoy every meal like it’s your first time. To truly learn how to taste and savor again. To banish preconceived notions and just be a beautiful blank slate. And believe me, food and, of course, wine have never tasted better.