Aside from my foray into chicken stuffed waterbugs last month, I’ve had two other recent experiences that have convinced me none of this is going to change. The first was in an Indonesian restaurant in Roswell, Ga. Let me repeat that, for those of you not paying attention: an Indonesian restaurant in the northern burbs of Atlanta (which, if you’re running for your atlas, is in fact, a province of Whitebreadia). I was the only Anglo Round-Eye that had been in since the place opened over a month ago. You know that classic scene where the stranger pushes through the saloon door and the place goes quiet and everybody stares, glasses halfway to mouths, cards unplayed? Yeah? Now imagine that in a strip mall in Roswell, and that they crazy old guy that always breaks the tension in the movies is instead a nice middle aged woman who asks if I didn’t mean to go into the Crazy Taco next door.

Amongst other things, I had the nasi gudeg, known amongst my people as beef skin. Half way through the meal, the cook and a waiter came over and demanded to know why I was there, and where – exactely – I had lived in Indonesia. And, by the way, how I could possibly enjoy the mounds of chilies I was going through. We had a nice chat, about the food, the business, and their prospects. In a slightly sad development, I learned that the Indonesian community – while strong – just couldn’t support the entire store, and so they were planning a lunch buffet in an effort to attract the local office lunchers. $5.95 for all the food you can eat. I’ve seen the buffets in Georgia, and they’ll get a nice flair at the beginning, but won’t attract people back for dinner – where they need to be, and where the melting pot has a chance to melt.

Even funnier? I was at a Korean restaurant this last weekend – in Northern Virgina – one very, very popular with Korean and Anglos alike – and as I was looking at the menu, the very nice and helpful waitress insisted that what I wanted to drink was a Budweiser. I swear I stared at her for two full blinks. And then ordered a bottle of soju (yeah, I know, in retrospect and for future planning: Soju + Gin + a little wine = not what you’re looking for. Regardless of what you’re looking for.).

Thankfully, that very same Korean restaurant does it right with its food. There is very little Anglosizing going on, and everything is really quite good. For instance, their dumplings (a weakness of mine, regardless of who makes them):

are really good (and a perfect excuse for this post’s only picture).

Being a white boy – I’ve discovered – allows you to star in a huge and unpredictable culinary adventure, even if you’re not actually aware of it.

I had been locked away working on a classic, a closely held family recipe, only emerging on occasion to talk about what a revelation it was to be for everyone when they tasted it. I, literally, used that word. Revelation. I also used the words: secret, my mother’s recipe, and a classic family tradition.

Some little while after we wrangled the turkey out of the oven, and gathered the multitudes at the table (well…tables…lots and lots of card tables lined up end-to-end), I slipped into the kitchen unnoticed, rummaged around, and then with great fanfare, swept into the dinning room announcing the pièce de résistance of the evening.

me: laaadddiiiees and gentlllllllemen, I present what can only be called a unique expression of family ingenuity, a dish passed down generation to generation, and to me at my mother’s knee…

the multitude:

me: huh? huh? Good huh?

the multitude:

Utter.

Complete.

Silence.

For about ten seconds. At second eleven, the laughter began. At second twelve, the first of seven people fell out her chair, tears streaming down her face. At second thirteen, the mocking began.

me:

Sitting at the place of honor on the table was the most picture perfect green bean casserole ever created, glistening green and cream, topped with golden brown French’s fried onions.

Somewhere in the next several minutes, as people picked themselves off the floor, returned from walking around and getting their breath back, I learned that not only did every household in America make the green bean casserole but that the instructions were printed on the side of every single can of Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup sold in the United States (a fact I seem to have missed in my intentness to read and follow every direction on the yellowed scrap of paper I had kept on my person for weeks).

And on Thanksgiving, every single year since (and it has been fifteen or so), I receive at least two phone calls from people giving me grief. Everybody still finds it hee lar ee us.

This year, in an effort to redeem myself, I did a version that had nothing whatsoever to do with Campbell or French’s. Oh no…I bought green beans; I used shitake mushrooms; I made chicken stock; I cooked flour; I FRIED ONIONS for god’s sake; I coddled, stirred, cooed, and finally baked a superb rendition of the classic.

I served it very quietly, and was pleased that no one seemed to notice.

But, you know what? It was really good.