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Poring over the menu at Paul’s Pasta on Friday, I was torn between the Fettuccine Ragu and the Fettucini Alfredo, my perhaps-too-usual favorite dish.
Alfredo I can count on. Even after the time I finished an entire “large” on my birthday (at the suggestion that I wouldn’t be able to), I’ve never doubted it. Some things are just good, and I have trouble passing up a sure thing for something new. Logically, the quality of the Fettucine Alfredo, as well as the satisfaction of my non-Alfredotarian dinner companions, should present a strong argument in favor of branching out. How could other dishes not be at least comparably tasty?
Call it an issue of trust, call it a fear of change, but it comes down to commitment—an entrée is a serious step. Beyond noshing, beyond two- or three-bite shared appetizers, an entrée is your whole evening. I agonize especially over the choice for just this reason. Alfredo has never let me down. The rest of the menu, little more than twenty-word ideas of food, just don’t offer the same security.
But perhaps I’m an anomaly. Perhaps I’m too faithful, too enamored of constancy and hot cheese sauce. Is that a thing?
Several years before last Friday, out to dinner with a friend and his parents at the Imperial Buffet in Plainville, Connecticut, I was faced with a different problem. Everything was laid out, hot line style, in warming trays with ladles, tongs, and little laminated labels. Teriaki Beefkebabs. Egg Rolls. Chicken Nuggets. Despite the vague Asian rainforest/fishtank theme, the cuisine was decidedly multinational. Buffalo Wings. Pizza.
At age fifteen, this arrangement was ideal. All options were visible and ready-to-eat, and there was no pressure—social, institutional, or cultural—to deter one from selecting both spring rolls and meat lovers’ pizza, fistfuls of mozzarella sticks with a stack of pork dumplings, and none but your mother will grimace when you return with twenty-two buffalo wings (just drumsticks) and two shrimp wontons. Why submit to the paternalistic Fascism of pre-portioned haute cuisine, the buffet asks, when all the world’s TV food is at your tongtips? In a comestible democracy such as the Imperial Buffet, anything goes.
Now, of course, in all my agèd wisdom, I see the fundamental indignity of this. Aside from my personal belief that no one needs to eat a dozen buffalo wings in a sitting, the buffet absolves its patrons of committing at all. Foraging is passive at best.
Thus, the very idea of an entrée represents a level of personal seriousness, a willingness to stand for something, be it Linguini Primavera or Eggplant Parmigiani over Pasta. An entrée is a complete entity—a beautiful, culinary Gesamtkunstwerk in which one can invest fully, if just for one meal. The difference between feverish taste-testing and being an Alfredoholic is not so difficult to discern; a finer line lies between the taste-testers and the sincere try-ers of new things, those willing to order two scoops of “Jamaican Me Crazy” sorbet instead of just a wooden stickful.
College is a buffet of sorts. From academics to extracurriculars, to hopeful, would-be, and wannabe hookups, it’s all here, laid out like so many chafing dishes. Breadth has its place, but what of depth?
In a post-Van Wilder, post-post-Animal House college environment that often encourages free love and “finding yourself” over real personal investment, two dates in a row reeks of “commitment,” which itself reeks of romcom horror. Smile too genuinely and you’ll betray a real interest, text back too quickly and you’ll chase them away. Somewhere between surgical attachment and a one-night stand, between an entirely unmanageable sundae and a mini-muffin, is a middle ground of sincere interest that seems entirely lacking.
Clearly, we are interesting. Most of us. The unoriginality with which we interact, both socially and romantically, belies the energy each of us pours into what we do here, from coursework to fundraisers. Don’t we deserve a little more from one another? What is it that keeps us taste-testing the entire Harris hot line instead of deciding on the orzo risotto? What keeps us ten beers deep in Cro instead of splitting a microbrew six-pack?
On Friday, I took a leap of faith and ordered the Fettucine Ragu. The sweet Italian sausage was delightful, and I’m a sucker for a mushroom, but it just wasn’t the same. I missed my Alfredo. Still, I’m glad I did what I did—I branched out; I committed to trying.
Like a so-so date, I may not find myself at the same plate a second time, but I can’t say I have any regrets. At least it’s dinner, which is more than can be said for a lot of things.
– John Sherman
Managing Editor
