Last week was my birthday. March 27th, like every year. I share it with Quentin Tarantino and Mariah Carey, if you need a mnemonic device. Well, I don't actually share it with them. Although that would be one hell of a party, wouldn't it? Tarantino and I would probably spend our time getting under Mariah Carey's skin at Chuck E. Cheese by attempting to name movies that are somehow worse than Glitter. Although we'd do it in a more mocking fashion, by naming movies like Schindler's List and The Shawshank Redemption. This would continue until Mariah Carey broke out in tears and stormed off to the bouncy castle. Serves her right. Tarantino and I would then go scare the kids out of the ball pit and hang out there until it was time to eat pizza and ice cream sundaes.
Anyway, for my actual birthday, I decided to head up to Bangor, Maine to visit my dad. And of equal importance, the two new Maine coon cats he had just gotten from a breeder who was parting with them at a considerable discount (they're adorable):
I know there's certainly a risk of being labeled a 'cat person' by posting these photos, but I thought it was helpful in contributing to the exposition. Funny enough, their names are Mindy and Candy. Which leads me to a very important and amusing query: Is the cattery intentionally giving their cats stripper names? I hope so.
Adorable cats aside, I knew maintaining Whole 30 in central Maine would be difficult. Bangor, Maine, for all it's positive qualities, isn't the pluralistic hub of culinary diversity one might think; 'casual dining' chain restaurants dominate the landscape and provide few alternative options. You can't throw a rock in Bangor without hitting an Applebee's...in fact, that rock may actually ricochet off Applebee's and hit the adjoining Olive Garden. Unfortunately going out to eat is kinda what people do on their birthdays, and I know from my days as a vegetarian that these types of chain restaurants are not supportive to healthy living - and certainly do not cater in any way to restrictive diets. Dietary restrictions here, or in any other rural area, are not usually a choice, but rather a doctor's mandate in order to keep a patient from dying of morbid obesity, or some equally heinous food-related medial condition.
I drove up with a plan. I figured my dad and I would dine out on my birthday, and then probably again on the following night. Two nights out at a restaurant were fine. Breakfasts and lunches were typically dine out options as well, but I wanted to head this idea off at the pass and prepare those meals myself. More dining out translates to a greater chance of unapproved ingredients added to my meals. I made sure to load my car up with Larabars, sweet potatoes, onions, and Whole-30 approved sausages. I also dragged my dad to the Super Walmart to knock a couple more things off the grocery list. To his credit, my dad has always (tried to) put his opinions aside and supported most of the endeavors my brother and I have undertaken in our lives - he's awesome like that (Disclaimer: exceptions to this include the time I somehow got the lid off a paint can and coated the side of our house and our RV in a dark red color, and the time I tried to strap a wheelbarrow to our 16 year old dog, Boo, so that she could give me rides around the yard. In these instances, he was not terribly supportive. In my defense, I was 6). My dad was no less supportive of Whole 30, even if he didn't quite understand the premise behind it, and why I can't have donuts. I felt bad dragging him up and down the aisles of Walmart reading labels and explaining to him all the things I could and couldn't have - like I was playing a particularly nasty game of Calvinball with him.
My plan for Dinner #1 (birthday meal) was a steakhouse. The beauty of Whole 30 is that I can essentially eat as much meat as I want for 30 days. I acknowledge that I would probably die at 43 if I maintained this diet of red meat (plus eggs, almond butter, etc), but I'm certainly taking advantage of it while I can. My thought in going to a steakhouse was that even if there weren't a lot of options and sides to choose from, at least I knew I could eat the meat, and it would fill me up. We decided upon Texas Roadhouse, one of the multiple steak chain restaurants from which we could choose. Before being seated, we were asked to select a cut of meat from the 'steak window' to be cooked - a glass display not unlike what you'd expect to find housing baked goods or tubs of ice cream. At our table, we were encouraged to shuck and eat as many peanuts as we wanted while waiting for our drinks/appetizers/dinner to appear - and to just throw the shells on the floor. Pure class, but unfortunately non-Whole-30 approved. Then our free bread arrived, with cinnamon butter. Again, couldn't have any. Just an unsweetened ice tea, thank you. We started with an appetizer of grilled shrimp, and I ordered a steak, sweet potato, and steamed string beans. I'm pretty sure everything had been cooked with butter (I was prepared to make that concession when dining out), and the string beans incomprehensibly had chunks of bacon floating around. I realize that this is probably for added meaty salty flavor. I also realize that anyone who orders a steak should have no problem also eating bacon, in the eyes of the food server. But whatever happened to putting these types of details on the menu? Just a thought, Texas Roadhouse. Sometimes vegetables are good as they are, and don't require bacon. One of my pet peeves is that Wendy's adds bacon to their salads, effectively eliminating all meal options for vegetarians from their menu. Is this really necessary? Either way, at least my dad was able to enjoy a beer on my birthday.
Overall, a good meal with good company. And an added bonus is that the servers were forced to line dance to country music every 30 minutes in the middle of the restaurant. How nice. Just kidding, it was terrible and embarrassing to watch. And in true chain restaurant fashion, I learned from our server that they find a way to embarrass you if they happen to find out that it's your birthday (she didn't). In this case, you ride a rolling saddle-chair:
Breakfast the following morning went off without a hitch, although I believe my dad was curious why he was eating sweet potato before noon on a weekend. I made a simple hash with sweet potato, onion and egg. With a side of sausage. This dish is turning into a Whole 30 weekend staple.
Dinner #2 was at a local seafood chain in Brewer, Maine called The Weathervane. One of the few chains I like, outside of Chipotle, Costa, and Panera. I thought I would have a delicious meal of local sourced seafood. Unfortunately fresh local seafood is apparently only good if it's mixed with cream, soaked in butter, rolled in Ritz cracker crumbs and/or cornmeal, and stuffed with any manner of non-Whole 30 compliant ingredients. There was literally one entree on the menu I could eat, and it took me about 20 minutes of frantic searching to find it:
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| Mmm...salmon and broccoli. I'm already hungry...again. |
The salmon was well-prepared and the broccoli perfectly steamed, but I really wasn't feeling this meal. I also had to pass up the coleslaw that came with this entree. Meanwhile, my dad was enjoying his haddock au gratin, a Miller Lite, and all the free bread he could stuff in his face. At least I could have (another) unsweetened ice tea. After dinner, my dad and I took another run by Super Walmart to stock up on fruit for dessert. Mmmm mangoes and grapes. Kill me.
Since this is already kinda long, I'll cover the second part of my 4-day weekend in the next post. But what we learned from this post:
1. Mariah Carey is no fun to have at birthday parties unless she can be the butt of your jokes.
2. More cats should have stripper names.
3. Bread, peanuts, and lots of other 'value-added' items are included in most restaurant visits for no reason. No wonder we're such a fat society.
4. Menus need to have more basic food dishes that aren't tricked-out by bacon or other delicious meats.
5. Chain restaurants need to eliminate all gimmicks and just serve food. No server should need to participate in that stupid birthday clap song and annoy everyone in the restaurant, just as no one should need to sit in a rolling chair-saddle. Let's just have a normal dining experience, folks.
To be continued...
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