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Last Saturday was a typically sultry June day in Austin, Texas, but I was willing to bear the heat and humidity while taking in the late spring abundance at our farmers’ market. This is a busy time of year for our markets because although the strawberries are long gone, the peaches and blackberries have arrived and those most popular of all locally grown gems, tomatoes, are vine-ripened and ready for purchase. One vendor after the next had piles of juicy, deep red, fragrant, and beautiful tomatoes. I moved slowly along the line of tables and asked about growing methods and pesticide use. When I arrived at an organic farmer’s table which was overflowing with tomatoes of all sizes, I was ready to make my selections. I bought a pint of smallish tomatoes which weren’t as small as cherry tomatoes but smaller than plum types. Then, I started picking up bigger slicer tomatoes and soon enough I needed more hands. I wobbled my way to the scale so I could pay for my treasures before they started falling from my arms. It was a great start to a Saturday, but what happened next was so wrong and incongruous it confused me.
I had just bought those beautiful and fragile, ripe tomatoes all of which were destined for various meals in the coming week. They were delivered safely home, and then we left to go out for lunch. We chose a neighborhood spot for simple sandwiches, and we chose that particular restaurant because we hadn’t been there in recent weeks and wanted to support the business. The service was friendly and quick, and my turkey sandwich was delivered after only a short wait. It was made with nicely toasted, whole grain bread, the smoked turkey meat was fresh and delicious, and the lettuce was a crisp piece of the green leaf variety. That’s where the good news ended. Lurking between the turkey and lettuce was an alien object that was round in shape and approximately one quarter inch thick. It was hard, whitish in the center and pink all around. It had no flavor. It couldn’t possibly be fruit or vegetable. I believe it was being passed off as a tomato slice, but after my morning experience at the farmers’ market, I had no idea why anyone would regard that as something even edible.
I do understand that restaurants are businesses and they have purchasing processes and schedules and budgets. However, this was not a national chain restaurant that must deliver abysmal, consistent food day in and day out with a corporate produce purchasing plan. This was a local restaurant with menu prices that reflect an interest in offering high quality food. As I sat staring down at that offensive, pink tomato slice, I wondered why they hadn’t thought about working with local farmers to obtain vine-ripened tomatoes that are so abundant right now in the surrounding area. Given the price point of the sandwich I ordered, another ten or twenty cents wouldn’t have mattered if a local tomato from a small farm were more expensive than the pink thing. I pulled the pink alien off my sandwich and let it sit lonely and neglected at the side of my plate as I pondered why this restaurant or any other would offer food that just doesn’t taste good. Food can be so incredibly good when produce is ripe and fresh and bursting with flavor, why do restaurants think we’ll accept anything less?
lisa from lisa is cooking
