By Christina Spittler
Do you have a food allergy? A food sensitivity, perhaps? I may owe you an apology. I’ve worked in kitchens for most of my adult life, and I haven’t always been the most understanding server-turned-cook who I am now. I certainly have never acted with malice in this regard but rather with ignorance, naïvety, immaturity and selfish indifference. When I heard someone at your table say “gluten sensitivity,” there’s a good chance I got sidetracked with a demanding 12-top of VIPs and simply “forgot” to tell the kitchen about your request, which, at the time, sounded like you were just on a diet, anyway. I was young, unconcerned, inexperienced and apparently not well versed about the consequences of my apathy.
In the instances when I actually stopped to think about my lack of understanding about your food sensitivities — which was rare — I figured you would get over it. Typically, I was more concerned with how hungover I was on that day or how intimidating the line cooks were or how not to spill the entire tray of drinks on your baby. And depending on your tone in explaining your dietary restrictions, maybe I thought you were making it all up anyway (are you sure you are really allergic to all oil and butter?).
A lot of my coworkers also didn’t really give a fuck either. Telling the line cooks about your requests was particularly terrifying. The eye rolling and swearing that followed made it seem like I had just told them that I’d relieved myself on their checkered pants before their shift as opposed to simply giving them a customer’s order. Perhaps I was empathizing with the wrong party in this equation, as I would then feel tremendously guilty, like I had just single-handedly screwed up every single thing in the kitchen and ruined their entire day. Even though that was never entirely true, there is a dash of validity to my qualms.
In restaurants, both in the front of the house and the kitchen, there is an efficiency that is disrupted when the machine has to make exceptions, especially the sweaty, swearing machine in the back of the house. This doesn’t mean your requests are unimportant or frivolous; after all, you’re the customer, and you’re exchanging currency for a pleasant meal out—one that will hopefully not kill you. This is obviously a reasonable request, and restaurants wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for your doing this. But just like how everything in life works best without disruptions, kitchens work most efficiently when repetitive tasks can be repeated without edits or additions. This is a fact that I’m pleasantly reminded of every time I visit a Krispy Kreme or try to get ready in the morning. Throw some fire, knives and a busy restaurant’s worth of orders into the mix, and this concept is especially true.
There are plenty of exceptions, and many restaurants are excellent at accommodating special requests. Some kitchens are set up to easily incorporate your dietary restrictions. Others have even dedicated entire menu items to these most common requests. What a concept! I even managed a kitchen where peanuts weren’t allowed in the building because of peanut allergies. The times, they are a-changin’.
So now that you know that I used to be less awesome and less aware than I am now, before you turn me in to the food-allergy police, take solace in this, food-allergy sufferers: I’ve learned firsthand that karma is, in fact, a sassy bitch. Over the last few years, I’ve developed my own quite serious, life-threatening food allergies. I now have to take allergy medicine every day, keep Benadryl on me at all times and always carry my EpiPen, which is perhaps the most unfortunate and awkwardly shaped accessory that can save a life (think super tampon or dildo shaped). I’ve had to call 911, been to the emergency room countless times with a myriad of exciting, ever-changing anaphylactic symptoms (e.g., hives, wheezing, vomiting, itchy everything, airway constriction) and spent more than $2,000 on a nine-minute ambulance ride.
Perhaps what may be the dairy-free icing on your gluten-free cake is precisely what food allergy I have developed. It’s not peanuts, and it’s not soy. It’s not gluten, and it’s not butter (THANK GOD IT’S NOT BUTTER). I have what allergists call Food-Dependent Exercise-Induced Anaphylaxis (FDEIA, of course). WTF?! According to my immune system, my hospital bills and the Internet, FDEIA is a real thing, but I don’t expect you to believe me (no one in the ER does either, and I’m pretty much still in denial). It basically means that I’m allergic to moving around with certain foods in my stomach. Which foods? Excellent question. It’s been three years, and I’m still trying to figure that out, as are the allergists. It is confounding, confusing and quite annoying. I’ve discovered that the only way for me to know for sure if I am allergic to something is to eat it and see if anything weird happens. And by weird, I mean scary. It’s a super-fun type of allergy Russian roulette. Why couldn’t I have been cursed with a normal food allergy? Shellfish? Too easy. Dairy? Too common. FDEIA? Winner, winner, chicken dinner! And now I need a nap because I shouldn’t move around.
So I get it now. Food allergies are no joke. I am sorry for maybe almost killing you that one time. Please forgive me, and know that whoever is in charge up there was also not amused by my twentysomething ignorance. That, or they’re friends with that baby I spilled those drinks on.
