When I was but a tiny Emmaling, I was the pickiest eater imaginable. No, really: I was the pickiest eater imaginable. I’ve mentioned before that I wouldn’t even touch ketchup until well into my teens, but that’s just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. Condiments and toppings and garnishes of any kind were completely out of the question - when ordering a hamburger for me (I still ate hamburgers then) a patient parent had to be prepared to remove any and all foliage, and not even the tiniest trace of mayo or sauce or dressing was acceptable. Pizza was plain cheese or nothing, and I wasn’t even comfortable having pickles on the same plate as anything I intended to eat.

So I imagine it was a bit of a chore to take me out to dinner when attempting the whole family restaurant experience. I remember many nights of plain rice and chicken fingers and Shirley Temples at one particular Chinese restaurant, and a few other Emma-safe establishments were frequented as well, but still. My parents, being not insane, enjoy sampling a variety of cultural cuisines, but I suppose they also enjoyed avoiding my temper tantrums.

All of this pondering has been prompted, incidentally, by plans to grab some Indian with Crispy tonight. I remember the first time I actually ate Indian food, at this now-extinct place near Harvard Square. Having been warned of the family dinner plans ahead of time (I was something like sixteen at this point) I’d taken the liberty of getting a sandwich a couple hours earlier. I met everyone at the restaurant and ordered a Coke, prepared to smugly abstain from any and all weird food, but then the appetizers showed up. Everything smelled so insanely good that my resistance was lowered and I believe it was my Dad who finally got me to try half a samosa. And of course after that, there was just no stopping me.