Tasting Menus and Masculinity: A Honeymoon Reflection

What happens when we feel dumb.

Nov 21, 2024

“I’ll take a sixer of Old Milwaukee or Lone Star—nothing snooty.”
-Rustin "Rust" Cohle, True Detective, Episode: The Long Bright Dark

I had a eureka moment on vacation, which often happens when no schedule leads to surprising clarity. It’s all about something I’m calling “the masculine pinch,” a feeling that unfortunately happens on a frequent basis. AND it took place on my recent honeymoon.

Caitlin and I spent 17 days in Mexico. Tremendous time together:

One of Caitlin's critical skills is knowing where to eat. She booked three major "months in advance" restaurant reservations. At our first, Pujol, she reminded me we were in for a treat—three hours of a tasting menu. Then she asked if I had ever had the pleasure of receiving the samplings of a chef's art in a five-star restaurant. It's not something anyone had ever asked me. I scanned over 40 years of dining—I've had chefs stop by the table to ask how the meal was. Or maybe they were owners? Were any of them wearing chef's hats, Mark? Ok, focus. The point is I have had fancy meals in my life, but I don't think I've ever had a tasting menu.

And this made me feel a way.

That's where "the masculine pinch" comes in.

Throughout the years, I'd been looking for a name for the deep dives on masculine behavior we cover in OMNH, and discovering this label was the eureka moment for me—it's about a pinch! "The masculine pinch" occurs after a seemingly innocuous encounter or thought that goes against some sense of self. It's often unnoticeable to others, but it leaves you internally punchdrunk. Maybe it was finding out your high school girlfriend got a higher SAT score than you. Or you text a new friend to say you "had a really good time and hope we can do it again soon," only to receive silence. Or, in the case of my honeymoon, it was about fine dining.

If I have a mantra that increases as I get older, it's "you don't know someone else's personal measure of success." I'm sure one of mine is that of a "cultured man," and it's tied into more than just knowing fine dining. However, restaurant and recipe knowledge is a personal Achilles heel.

When I dig deep enough I can identify the early seeds of this: me, a coastal boy who grew up in a multicultural environment, with a heavy diet consuming globetrotting heroes like James Bond to the adulthood input of scenes like Mr. Big serving his red sauce to Carrie, daddy Tucci making a Negroni for the internet, or the adventures of the no BS man of international cuisine, the late, great Mr. Anthony Bourdain.

When I dig even deeper, the seed that has received the most nutrients is competition, where the pinch appears. Since I was never going to be able to compete romantically or professionally with peers who were taller, whiter, less bald, and more athletic, the decision to be a man of the world was an early lane. I will acknowledge a flashback: when Julia Roberts, an early crush, married geeky-looking Lyle Lovett, I felt like the movie star's decision upended everything I knew about female attraction. I asked my mom to make sense of it like I was answering a question for my environmental science class—how could she be with such a goofy-looking dude? My mom's response equally rewired my brain: "Maybe she finds him interesting—women want to be with someone interesting."

There's a mental filing cabinet in my brain with an overstuffed folder called "What Women Want." This note from my mother took a lot of real estate there, a constant source of reference as I got older: when you can't be the (BLANK PHYSICAL ATTRIBUTE-EST) man in the room, why not be the most intriguing?

The problem is that since I equate cooking and dining expertise with sex appeal, my limitations on both drop me down the cultural cache ladder.

And if I dig even deeper—like Earth's core-level excavation en mi guata—my lack of restaurant knowledge and expensive dining experiences remind me that my current financial situation means I can't afford a nice meal like this back home, and I can't see a time soon when I'd be able to treat my wonderful wife, who adores dining experiences, to a tasting menu that leaves us blissful.

I want to tell myself that it's ok not to know the newest restaurant or the exact etiquette with tasting menus. I like restaurants and love new food experiences; I've never been a culinary guide or leader. Like the time I assumed I'd naturally ace an American History course as an American going to college in Canada (I got a C+ for the semester), I thought that having grown up with James Bond, I'd instinctively be able to pick a restaurant in Karachi (I assure you that I can't).

When Caitlin asked me if I'd experienced a tasting menu before, that pinch meant I had to reckon with this idea I had of myself, resulting in "I feel dumb."

I wouldn't say I like looking dumb.

The problem with our assumptions about what others know is that "they just know it" or "they're smarter." We never see failures or investments in understanding "a thing." Who can blame us? James Bond never asks questions. He never walks into a restaurant and says, "What do I order?" With all his international travel, he never even gets acid reflux. When our models never show the work or the everyday actions of asking questions, how am I supposed to know these things? We then focus on their inherent wisdom and don't see how others might envy our areas of expertise.

In the past, the pinch made me do a number of foolish things. I would showcase some knowledge to make the other person feel small. Or I'd just go quiet, internalize, and then eventually take it out on myself. But it only makes that pinch, well, pinchier. And that shit hurts.

In this circumstance, the only thing that gets rid of the pinch is allowing other people to be caretakers and guides—the chefs, staff, friends, and loved ones. I let Caitlin lead the way. She never makes me feel small—that's why I married her. Occasionally, I share something about food that she doesn't know. Hell, I taught the cat how to eat Goldfish crackers—that's something.

Ultimately, the pinch was good—it reminded me that I was on a honeymoon with the right person.

Adios, ciao ciao, byeeeeeeeee,
Mark✌🏼