I ordered the artichoke under the assumption that it would resemble what I got on top of my gourmet pizza or what my mom pulled from a jar when making dip or what sat marinating with pimentos in tubs in the bulk section at Schnucks. But instead, at this fancy Italian joint, I was presented with exactly what had been described on the menu: an artichoke, baked, topped with couscous.
“Excuse me,” I said to my bartender. “Um, how does one eat this exactly?” I tried to sound charming, completely sophisticated, yet innocent and playful. “I can eat the leaves, right?”
Without missing a beat, he said, “Of course you can.”
I stared at the warm, rough, pointy, scratchy skin and thought that maybe he was referring to something different. “All of it?”
He nodded and continued pouring a $17 glass of Pinot for someone at the bar whose questions weren’t nearly as petty as mine.
I wouldn’t identify myself as someone who came from a place of class or cultural refinement. I grew up with Big Lots, McDonald’s, Stove Top Stuffing and canned fruit cocktail (with those pink maraschino cherries I still find myself craving). In grade school, when preparing to cross the river for a day trip to the Galleria or Plaza Frontenac for a movie, my mother demanded I wear my Sunday best. I had never heard of filet mignon until my high school French class, where I learned that “mignon” meant “cute.” So even after I had made it my mission during college in the big city to work my way to a higher echelon, I apparently hadn’t made it up far enough to know how to eat an artichoke.
I started with the couscous, eating it slowly and methodically, stopping frequently to fill in answers to the crossword in front of me and to take sips from my wine glass. I avoided touching the leaves for as long as I could, but eventually they were the only things left.
The leaves of an artichoke are prickly, tough and relatively unchewable. They are thick – their texture much like the husk of an ear of corn – and must be gnawed upon for at least three minutes before swallowing is even an option.
After the fifth or sixth leaf, I began to feel a bit full. My jaw ached and I was starting to cramp. My thirst was unquenchable; water was not helping. But my experienced bartender had told me to eat the leaves, so I considered it prudent, while in the company of such cosmopolitan people (who I now viewed as spectators rather than fellow diners), that I follow his orders.
I noticed him sneak a glance at my nearing-empty plate. He looked partly inquisitive, partly concerned, mostly confused.
“No, no, no – you’re supposed to eat what’s inside the leaf.”
It had never occurred to me that there could be edible and nonedible portions of the vegetable. I suppose, for some (the lucky), these lessons are learned early – say, at a dinner party at the age of 10. Or with your mother during her briefing on formidable fruits after your run-in with an orange rind. Maybe even during home-ec class in high school. Why would a restaurant ever serve a dish that wasn’t consumable? Shouldn’t they provide some sort of waiver for such an undigestible choice of food? A warning label or something? How was I supposed to know?
I continued to blush as I paid my tab and scurried out of the restaurant. I immediately called my father, whose wisdom goes above and beyond the typical paternal requirement.
“Am I going to die?” I asked.
“No, no, no,” he said. “You may have a bit of gas … but it won’t hurt you.”
“Oh …”
“You just got a lot of fiber,” he explained. “It’s as if you had eaten … had eaten a corn husk.”
The next 36 hours were a blur, but I know most of them were spent in bed, curled in a ball, a glass of hot water within reach. Blog posts from that day read:
I was in bed for over 12 hours, the thorny fibers pressing against the lining of my stomach. I canceled plans and delayed commitments all because of that damned artichoke.
2:06 a.m. Friday
Feeling like crap. STUPID ARTICHOKES!
3 p.m. Saturday
Just got out of bed. Still in pain. Word of warning: DO NOT EVER, EVER EAT THE LEAVES FROM AN ARTICHOKE. A mere week later, I read an article in The New Yorker about a writer’s experience with the same daunting vegetable:
The trick with an artichoke is to scrape off, using your upper teeth, the small patch of soft heart at the base of the leaf, and no more. This I did not know. Instead, I overshot, and sat there with bulging cheeks, grinding away at the greenery. My mouth felt like a hedgehog turned inside out, but somehow I made it through. Swallowing was simple by comparison – no harder than ingesting a small hairbrush. Sure, I was comforted, knowing that someone else had made the same mistake. But it still doesn’t change the fact that I will never, ever again eat an artichoke.
S.C. Truckey is a freelance writer who wouldn’t live anywhere other than in her Benton Park flat.
This article appears in Oct 1-31, 2009.