Thursday night was J n’ my 4th anniversary. Now, in my previous long term relationship, I never celebrated anniversaries. Heck, I don’t think the guy even gave me a friggin’ birthday present all the years we were together. So when J n’ I hooked up, I knew I wanted to make a point of celebrating these milestones, even if only to use it as an excuse to splurge at a new restaurant we haven’t tried before. Basically that’s all our anniversaries have become… a good excuse to go out for dinner.

There was this classy-looking Italian place I’ve heard many good things about, so we decided to check it out. Even though this was our evening to splurge, I still found myself stopping to examine the menu posted at the front door, so I could get an idea of their prices. But before I got a good look, all I could hear was J telling the host, “Table for two.” Okay… well, I guess we’re eating here.

Now, before I go any further I want to be clear that I have never been one to stand on a soapbox and bellow my personal ethics about being a (sort-of) vegetarian. I say sort-of vegetarian because I still occasionally eat fish and shrimp, (with a guilty conscience – so I don’t know why I do it?), but that’s about the extent of my meat eating. My bigger issue has always been the factory farms. They friggin’ break my heart. But I do not preach my point of view and try to shove it down anyone’s throat. To each his own. As a matter of fact, J eats chicken all the time, and sometimes I’ll even offer to cook it up for him… which always has me asking myself – where do I draw the line? I guess I just don’t want to put any factory farmed food into own body. I don’t want to eat something that I know has suffered… even though I know that fish feel pain and fear as they suffocate to death and I still eat them. I don’t know… I’m just a big walking hypocrite, which is why I hate talking about this subject.

These are the inner battles that literally keep me awake at night. Just ask J… on more than one occasion my tossing and turning has kept him awake, and he’ll roll over and ask why, to which I’ll sob, “I can’t eat meat anymore… not fish, not shrimp… not anything… I want to see a dietitian. I want to do it right. I want to remove all meat from my diet altogether forever.” Of course, a couple weeks later, I usually will have a shrimp in a stir fry or something. Like I said, I’m a total hypocrite. I don’t know why I can’t just make a clean break. I have to start trying harder.

Still, I believe that what I eat is my business and what you eat is yours. I constantly feel embarrassed anytime someone feels the need to point out that there’s no meat on my plate. J’s folks always go over and above to try to accommodate me, and while I sincerely appreciate it, I can’t help but feel kind of ashamed. I love them dearly, and I know they do it because they care, but I just feel so uncomfortable because it is always pointed out that “We made this dish for Mel because she doesn’t eat meat!” Then with a little wink and a nudge they’ll add, “Boy, isn’t our little princess spoiled!” I tell them I can easily survive on side-dishes and salad, but they are just too kind and seem to genuinely enjoy making the effort. And yet, I almost want to swallow my conscience and just eat the meat they’re serving everyone else because I don’t want to be treated as a special princess. I just want to be treated as a normal dinner guest.

So this is my personal battle… the one that I don’t normally discuss, and which almost stopped me from even writing this story out of fear that people will post comments below judging me for being a vegetarian wanna-be or meat-eating hypocrite… not that I really believe any of you would… but this is how I judge myself, and so I suppose I always expect everyone else to judge me the same. But, I’ve decided to just come clear about it, and am only mentioning all of the above right now because it plays a significant part in the rest of the story…

Okay, and now back to the story…

J n’ I are seated at a quiet table in a private little corner of this swanky restaurant. The menu items are mostly in Italian, (I didn’t see any Corlazzoli though) with little English descriptions underneath. This is something I’ve been concerned about... I *know* that I’m going to end up eating meat at some point on our trip later this year and I’ve been trying to come to terms with that. I can understand French quite well enough to get by, but as for German, Italian and Dutch… I know I’m bound to slip up in one of those counties and order something that I’ll regret. Little did I know that I wouldn’t have to travel across the ocean and could easily make that mistake in my own backyard.

J ordered chicken catatori (sp?), and I scrutinized the menu trying to find something to suit my palate. I read through the little descriptions and was under the impression, given the way it was written, that the ravioli was filled with cheese. I decided that I felt safe with my choice. Of course, hindsight now scolds me that I was stupid not to ask… I should’ve known better.

Our orders arrived, and I started eating my ravioli. The taste wasn’t anything I recognized. I thought it might be whatever kind of cheese they used. I began eating the second ravioli and thought, “I don’t know… I really have a feeling there’s more than cheese in this… I think this is some kind of meat?” I tried mushing a piece up, but the way it was all mixed up, it was hard to tell. I cut my third piece in half, and began dissecting it. By this point, I could tell that for sure there was meat. J kept asking me, “Is there meat in it? Why didn’t you ask the waiter if there was meat? I’m surprised. That’s not like you not to ask.” Argh… okay, I know, J. You don’t need to remind me that I forgot to ask… as if I wasn’t beating myself up for not asking already.

I lost my appetite… which was fine. I had filled up on bread anyway. When the waiter came by to take J’s plate, J pointed to my dish. As if in slow motion, I shook my head at J to signal “No – don’t ask!” I didn’t want it to be an issue. Quite honestly, I really didn’t want to know! But it was already too late, the words had spilled from his lips, “I was just wondering, is there meat in that?”

“Ah yes, it’s a mixture of beef and veal.”

F*ck me!

Why did he have to ask? I thought I was going to die.

Tears welled up in my eyes, and I sat sipping on wine. J tried to reassure me that it was an accident. He tried changing the subject hoping I would shake it off, but I just didn’t feel like talking at the moment. I know it was an honest accident, but I felt so stupid and horrible and sick. I wanted to puke my guts out.

Other than J who was sitting across from me, I think I did a decent job at covering up how upset I was to the rest of the restaurant. Not a single drop of salty water managed to fall from my glassy eyes. I focused on the painting next to our table, which looked like pictures I have seen of Florence. Amongst the painted crowd of tiny people milling about, two characters stood side-by-side at a fountain, both wearing the same brown hat and red shirt. They had their backs to me as they stood still, looking at the fountain, while life buzzed on around them. I couldn’t help but wonder why the artist had painted two identical people standing side-by-side, when all the other little painted people were humming about in a wide range of poses, wearing colourful clothes. The only thing that was consistent between all the figures in the painting was that they all had the same empty faces – an expressionless splotch of skin tone, too tiny for detail. But why are these two painted the same -- where they twins? Were they in a uniform of some sort?

I felt bad that I wasn’t interested in making conversation. I wasn’t upset at J for asking. I was upset at myself for not asking beforehand. Whenever I unlocked my gaze from the painting, my eyes would float around the room, staring blankly at my half-eaten baby cow, over to the table where a few seniors sat enjoying a bottle of red wine, up to the sparkling crystal chandelier, down to the thick red curtains that swept across each section of the room, then back to J’s face as his words fell on deaf ears. I just kept thinking about what the baby calf looked like. Was it white, or brown? Did it have spots? How scared must it have been when it was pulled from its mother? What was its short little life like, abused and cramped in a little pen? And what about the adult cow… It spent an even longer life in horrible conditions, only to be herded terrified and screaming into the slaughter house. It made me depressed.

“What’s done is done, Mel,” J said, pulling me out of my zone. “You always do the best you can do. It was an accident. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

I agreed. I knew there was nothing I could do. I had to get over it. I left for the washroom just to make sure my eyes weren’t all red or anything, not that it would have been too noticeable in the dim atmosphere of the restaurant. While I was away, the waiter removed my plate. When I returned J suggested we order dessert to cleanse my palate. I really wasn’t hungry, but I encouraged him to get something. I zoned out again on the little painting, my mind dancing with the painted people playing in the streets of some foreign city. “I should’ve asked what I was ordering…Why the hell didn’t I ask if there was more than cheese in that ravioli?” I kept thinking. J broke the silence, bringing me back to reality again, “I shouldn’t have ordered dessert. We should just leave now so you can cry in peace.”

“I don’t need to cry,” I insisted, my eyes falling back into my lap.

J was concerned, “No, I don’t like making you sit here all upset while I eat dessert. It’s okay… we can go.”

I was firm, “No, I want you to have dessert! I know you…. You’ve been looking forward to dessert before we ordered dinner!”

J has got *such* a sweet tooth, unlike anyone else I know. He’s often told me that when he has a bowl of ice cream, the whole time he’s inhaling the first bowl, he’s already thinking about how good the second one will be. Fortunately, he has some sense of control, and doesn’t indulge to the point of excess. He’s very conscious about what can happen when you do. His parents and Bro are all overweight, which is a clear reminder to J that he really needs to watch what he eats -- so when he does cut himself some slack and wants to indulge, I never want to deny him of his well-deserved treat.

The waiter delivered J’s triple chocolate mouse cake. J looked at it with critical eyes, “I don’t know why the more the pricey the restaurant, the smaller the portions. I’d take Red Robins’ mudslide over this any day!” In case you don’t know, RR’s mudslide is big enough to provide dessert to a family of four. Like I was saying, when it comes to sweets, with J, the bigger the better.

I rationalized, “I think it costs more in places like this because the dessert is actually made in house, and also made with better ingredients.”

I could feel myself finally coming around again, slowly getting my mind off all the nonsense that was trapping my thoughts only moments before.

The waiter returned, “I wanted to give you each an amaretto shooter on the house.” He poured the sweet liquid into two fancy liquor glasses. We thanked him for the unexpected gesture. I wondered if it was a result of the fact that J had asked if there was meat in my meal, and that I had only taken a few bites, but never complained or sent it back. At least this time I know the gesture for a free drink wasn't the result of me announcing “From now on, let’s eat anywhere else except FakeNameItalian.” Ha.

I sipped on the shot while J finished his cake. Mmm...I really love amaretto. Even though it didn’t completely erase my conscience, it was definitely nice of our waiter. He really didn’t have to do anything at all, especially considering it was my own stupid fault. Oh well… lesson learned. It might not be a bad idea to brush up on foreign language skills… or at least learn the translation for "veal". Yuck.