An Ode to the Dietary Restricted

You and your friends decide to try out the new restaurant in town that everyone has been raving about. “You have to try the mini chimis. That queso is to die for. The chicharrónes on the salads are just amazing.”

The doors swing wide open, air conditioning and the smell of garlic blasting you in the face, and you shuffle in with your group. The conversations are light and intermingled with sounds of “I am so hungry” and “I am so ready for this.”

All of a sudden, your friend stops cold and turns to you. “Wait. Can you eat anything here?”

You turn to her and reassure her that yes, you can absolutely eat here! Little does she know that you had quickly researched the place when someone in the group had first floated the idea. You saw the little GF signs on the PDF menu—signs of a trendy, accommodating restaurant. You felt the swelling in your heart that accompanied finding an establishment that considered you personally in their menu. You even chimed in that you also wanted to try that new, fun, local place, happy that you could be a part of it.

The waters are distributed, the menus set down, and the talking at the table begins to get boisterous. The kind, hipster-looking server comes over to take everyone’s order, your friends’ eyes dancing with laugher from the lame joke that friend made. Your eyes follow the server around the table as he listens to each of the orders in turn, expertly scribbling away on his notepad. As he gets closer to you, you hear the simplicity of your friends’ orders: A quesadilla and a margarita. A bacon and potato burrito with a side of Mexican rice. Queso fundido with flour tortillas. The server is almost to you now, so you look down at your menu one more time to memorize your order, then close your menu.

Finally, it’s your turn. He looks at you with eager eyes, ready for service with a smile. Who are you kidding? You already forgot what you needed to say, so you open your menu again and stare at your decision. You weren’t going to ask, but as long as you have his full and undivided attention, why not? “I just have a quick question … Is the shrimp cooked in butter?”

The server’s face freezes. He looks around nervously like a middle schooler in class who raised his hand to answer a question, but forgot what he wanted to say the second he was called on. “I … well … I don’t think so?” He stumbles over his own words and looks around fearfully. “I’m actually not sure.”

“Oh, okay,” you say patiently while you stare with a sympathetic look; you’re used to this.

He waits a beat, as if he expects you to take it back. Then, he concedes, his face losing some of its eagerness. “Do you want me to go ask?”

You put on your best apologetic, thankful smile and nod, imagining that you are slowly sliding down, down, down your chair and underneath the table. It’s now a waiting game while the server runs off to get the answer to your important question.

Meanwhile, you look down at your menu at your second choice—a safe salad—chosen just in case something like this happened. You kick yourself for being blinded by the lovely GF symbols on the menu. Your usual menu frustrations bounce around in your head: Just because the restaurant has GF doesn’t mean they have DF! But if they go through the trouble of making sure they have GF, why not just have a DF or even a V option?! You shake these thoughts from your head, and remind yourself that it really is nice enough that the normal people thought of the GF people to begin with.

At this point, you spot the server bouncing over to you, relief swirling across his face. “The shrimp is not cooked in butter! It’s cooked in vegetable oil.” And without warning, the server’s face clouds. “Can you have vegetable oil?”

You wave him off, and gladly tell him the rest of your order. “I’ll have the cilantro lime shrimp tacos with corn tortillas, no sour cream or cheese, and the side salad instead of the queso beans. Oh! And I still get the Mexican rice, right? Yes? Okay, cool.”

You finish speaking and the server is still scribbling down your order with one eyebrow slightly lifted. You can feel his judgment emanating off of him. As he writes, you feel the need to explain yourself with a humorless laugh. “I’m gluten and lactose intolerant. I also probably shouldn’t eat beans anyway, you know … I live a sad life. …” You look up sheepishly as he finally finishes writing.

“Okay! Your food will be out shortly!” he says, without looking up from his pad and speed walks toward the kitchen

A sinking feeling in your chest tells you that he didn’t hear you say corn tortillas. You’ll have to break his heart later when he brings out your cilantro lime shrimp tacos with no sour cream or cheese and the side salad instead of the queso beans on flour tortillas. All you can do now is hope for the best.

—

“I live a sad life.” I say that too often to servers or people who don’t know me. Most people cannot comprehend having to give up a food that they love—even if it were to make them feel healthier. I hear cries of, “I’d just live through the stomach issues,” or, “The pain is worth being able to eat bread!”

But that’s beside the point—while I cannot eat cheese or bread, there is a whole world of other flavors and foods just waiting to be discovered. Real Mexican street tacos are not meant to have cheese on them. Everything at an Ethiopian restaurant is gluten free (if they’re making real injera). I can make all of the Chinese food I want at home if I just use soy sauce with no wheat (which tastes exactly the same anyway). If I need pasta, the innovations in gluten free pasta are phenomenal and pesto is amazingly easy to make dairy- and nut-free.

You deserve more than icky cardboard crackers and mundane freaking salads. I’m here to show you that whether it’s a lazy night at home or out adventuring with friends, food for the gluten free+ is more accessible than you think!