Dining out on dining

There are many remarkable things about food in the US, not least the scale of things.  For example they have the temerity to call this a sandwich:

If you look closely you can just see the bread peeking out from beneath a mountain of corned beef, sauerkraut, Swiss cheese and thousand island dressing.  Technically I suppose the bread makes it a sandwich, but only in the way that the Democratic People's Republic of Korea is democratic.  By the way that particular combination is a Reuben sandwich for the uninitiated and it is delicious - just make sure that the bread, even token bread, is rye and toasted.  They don't have to be monstrous, that's just how they make them at the Carnegie Deli in New York City.

Big portions don't really confound me - my appetite can hold its own here - but there are lots of little things that took my by surprise.  Like the convention in restaurants that you hold on to your knife and fork between courses.  If you leave them on your plate they're whisked away and don't return, so you pretty much have to lick them clean and sit them on your napkin.  I still get caught out by that one.

My biggest restaurant faux pas so far happened after I'd already spent several months here and dined out a number of times.  What I hadn't done was to order salad - for one thing it comes out at a weird time and for another who needs salad when you're tackling with the mutant sandwich or a steak the size of a tire?

This time, though, the salad came with whatever I'd ordered.  Fine.  Then came the fateful question: what salad dressing did I want?  I should have asked for a list, that's what I usually do, but I got cocky and just went for it.  I knew what I wanted, what any reasonable Kiwi would have asked for.  "Mayonnaise" I said.

It didn't help that this was one of the unusual occasions when we were out with a large group.  As I recall the table fell silent and all heads turned in my direction.  I could sense concern for my mental health from several of my dining companions, worried perhaps that I might suddenly turn dangerous and have to be restrained.  The waitress looked faint.  Somebody repeated back "Mayonnaise..." and then added "...on salad?" with a tone of both distaste and incredulity.

Because, you see, Americans don't put mayonnaise on salad.  They put it on sandwiches, they make other salad dressings from it, like ranch or the aforementioned thousand island, but they definitely do not put it straight on salad.  If I can save one person from the humiliation of asking for mayo with their salad in a US restaurant, this blog will have been worth it.

They did bring me mayonnaise, in the end, because another thing restaurants do here is take customers wishes seriously - more on that another time.  I think it may have hurt them on the inside to do it, though.

I eventually recovered from the embarrassment.  I've even ordered salad since.  With ranch dressing, thank you.  And I always ask for a list of the options if I'm not sure what they are.