When the news – and I use that word reluctantly – broke that the president and first lady of the United States of America had ordered the same main course at a Washington DC restaurant earlier this month, my first response was not outrage, but rather to Google the menu, so I could see what they’d missed out on. Those who, like the New York Post, complained that the Bidens were “painfully boring” for their identical tastes were wide of the mark. Even the leader of the free world deserves to eat what he fancies, but did neither of them want to try the squid ink linguine as well? Or find out what on earth a sunchoke cremosa is when it’s at home?
To be fair to the couple, this apparent lack of culinary curiosity probably leaves them more time to actually enjoy each other’s company, rather than horse trading side dishes. Conversely I’m afraid I’m the kind of horrible person who gets annoyed if my dining companions insist on continuing the conversation – telling me about their marriage problems, their exciting new job, their wonderful baby news – when the menu arrives. Naturally I’m happy or sad for them (as appropriate), but can’t they see that choosing food demands total focus?
Once I’ve managed to convince the table, through a winning combination of hard stares and stony silence, to concentrate on the really important business of the evening, I must then hear what everyone else is planning on eating before I make my own decision, so gripped am I by the fear of missing out. What if, by choosing the chicken, I’m destined never to taste the world’s best meatballs? What if that ordinary-sounding chocolate mousse will in fact change my life for ever?
Unfortunately for my nearest and dearest, going out for dinner with me thus involves a complex series of negotiations for tastes of this and halves of that, which is why I love cuisines where it’s standard to have several dishes on the table to share (as opposed to small plates, which are, as the name suggests, too damn small). My favourite person to eat with is my friend Martha, who with a cheerful disregard for convention and the physical limits of the human stomach, likes to order everything, and then take the leftovers home to enjoy all over again.
Perhaps, however, one or both of the Bidens have a horror of sharing food, which renders them unable to stomach the idea of their spouse reaching over and sticking a fork into their pasta. (My dog is similarly territorial about his dinner; though if I’m honest, he’s one friend I’d actively avoid splitting meals with, mostly because he doesn’t bother to chew.) Or maybe it’s simply that they’re such regulars at the Red Hen that they know the menu back to front, and are well aware that the sausage ragu is the best thing on it, and certainly not something you’d want to pass across the table half-finished.
To be honest, whatever the explanation for their matchy-matchy dinner, I find myself feeling a little bit envious of Joe and Jill here. What must it be like to view a restaurant visit as an enjoyable interlude, rather than a competitive sport – to not feel the pressure to identify and tick off the very best things on the menu, or spend half the meal wondering how soon it’s appropriate to ask for a taste of the shepherd’s pie? Rather pleasant, I’d imagine. Restful, even. Maybe I should try it sometime. Though first I have to try that sausage rigatoni.
Felicity Cloake is a writer specialising in food and drink
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