The Great Menu Expedition: How You Became a Five-Star General in the War Against Trying New Food
The Opening Ceremony: "I'm Definitely Getting Something Different This Time"
You walk into the restaurant with the confidence of someone who has finally evolved beyond their culinary comfort zone. Tonight is the night. You're going to branch out. You're going to be adventurous. You're going to order something that doesn't contain the words "chicken" and "sandwich" in the same sentence.
The hostess seats you, and you immediately flip open the menu like you're about to discover the lost city of Atlantis. This is it. This is your moment to become the kind of person who orders fish tacos without breaking into a cold sweat.
The Research Phase: Menu Reading as Olympic Sport
What follows is a performance that would make Method actors weep with envy. You study that menu with the focus of someone decoding nuclear launch codes. Every dish gets the full treatment—you read the description twice, mentally calculate whether you know what "jicama" is, and briefly consider Googling "what is harissa" before deciding you're probably not that kind of person.
Your friend orders their drink in thirty seconds. You're still on page one, having a full internal debate about whether the "seasonal vegetable medley" is a risk worth taking or a fancy way of saying "whatever vegetables are about to expire."
The server approaches. You panic and ask for "just two more minutes," which is restaurant code for "I need to have an existential crisis about whether I'm brave enough to order salmon."
The False Summit: Briefly Considering the Exotic Option
For exactly forty-seven seconds, you genuinely believe you're going to order the Thai curry. You can picture yourself confidently saying "I'll take the red curry, medium spice" like someone who has their life together and isn't afraid of coconut milk.
You rehearse the order in your head. You imagine the server nodding approvingly, thinking "Now here's someone who knows how to live." You envision yourself posting an Instagram story of your adventurous meal choice with the caption "Trying new things! 🌶️"
This fantasy lasts approximately as long as it takes you to remember that one time you ordered pad thai and spent the entire meal wishing it was spaghetti.
The Consultation Committee: Recruiting Your Friends as Menu Advisors
Suddenly, your dinner companions become unwitting participants in your food crisis. "What are you getting?" you ask, as if their choice will somehow unlock the secret to your own culinary courage.
"How's the fish here?" you inquire, despite knowing full well that you've never ordered fish at a restaurant in your entire adult life and you're not about to start now.
You ask about spice levels like you're planning a military operation. "Is the medium actually medium, or is it like, restaurant medium?" As if there's a secret restaurant conspiracy to make medium spicier than it should be, specifically to target people like you who consider black pepper "a little zippy."
The Technology Intervention: YouTube University, Food Edition
In a moment of desperation, you excuse yourself to the bathroom and frantically Google "what does chimichurri taste like." You find yourself watching a three-minute video about Argentinian sauce like you're cramming for a final exam.
You return to the table with the false confidence of someone who just earned a PhD in condiment studies from the University of Quick Internet Search. You're ready to make an informed decision about that steak with the mysterious green sauce.
Except now you're wondering if you even like steak that much, and whether you should have googled "how to eat steak without looking like you don't know how to use a knife properly."
The Moment of Truth: The Inevitable Surrender
The server returns, pen poised, and suddenly your mouth operates independently of your brain. "I'll just do the burger," you hear yourself saying, as if some ancient force has possessed your vocal cords.
Not even the fancy burger. Not the one with the truffle aioli or the one with the fried onions. The regular burger. The same burger you've ordered here seventeen times. The burger that appears in your dreams because it's basically your restaurant signature dish at this point.
Your friend gets the curry. It looks amazing. You spend the entire meal stealing glances at it, thinking "next time, definitely next time."
The Post-Game Analysis: Accepting Your Culinary Identity
As you drive home, you make peace with the fact that you are a person who orders the same thing everywhere you go. You're not a culinary adventurer. You're not someone who "loves trying new cuisines." You're someone who has found their restaurant lane and is staying in it, thank you very much.
You've already started planning your next visit to the same restaurant, where you'll definitely order something different. Maybe the chicken sandwich this time. You know, really shake things up.
Because somewhere deep down, you know the truth: that burger isn't just a meal choice. It's a lifestyle. It's a commitment to consistency in an uncertain world. It's knowing exactly what you're going to get, and getting exactly what you expect.
And honestly? In a world full of surprises, maybe that's not such a terrible thing. Even if you did just spend twenty minutes pretending you were going to order fish tacos.