SALT (8)

No, this is not about Angelina Jolie with a bad wig in a bad film, this is about the actual mineral one may or may not put on one’s food. In my case, it’s generally ‘may not.’
Back in June, my daughter and I headed off to Colorado for4 days to a spot in the NE corner where the prairies meet the mountains. This was completely my choice and my daughter bears absolutely no responsibility. The reasons for my choice are varied and personal but one of them was that I wanted to see the prairies to the east, visit Cheyenne, Wyoming, to the north and get into the Rockies to the west. (Just as a note here you may wonder why anyone would wish to see the prairies. I am not a Willa Cather groupie nor do I have a horticultural interest in grasses but the mere fact that there is a Pawnee National Grassland sort of sent alarm bells my way that what once covered 60% of the USA now has to be protected and is fast disappearing.) The epicenter for this momentous visit therefore had to be a place called Loveland. I kid you not.
Loveland is perhaps best known as a town to which romantic geeks send their valentines cards in order to be hand-stamped “Loveland” by a bunch of OAPs, known as Senior Citizens in the US, who need to supplement their social security (pensions in the UK). Since I am not far off from this predicament myself I bear them no ill will. But that is the heart, you should pardon the pun, of Loveland.
Anyway, we decided on a motel that met our travelling needs and selected a Marriott. This turned out to be situated in what in Britain would be called an ‘Industrial Estate’: a purpose-built horror of single-story office spaces intermixed with ‘inns’ and restaurants in the most sterile environment known to man. One could have sworn that the Stepford wives were about to hold a reunion there. This was not an area for fine dining; in fact, if you look up restaurants in Loveland you’ll find the choice so limited as to make Wendy’s look a firm possibility.
So one night we decided to go for gold and mosey on over to Lonestar. Lonestar may not be known east of the Mighty Mississip but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what their cuisine and ambience will be. Daughter Kit (well that’s not her name but she will die of embarrassment if I mention her real name) ordered a salad, being the more sensible of us two, and I went whole hog for the chicken burrito featuring TWO whole chicken breasts and more sides than the entire team of the NY Knicks puts away in a year. It also featured, unbeknownst to me until I took my first forkful, more salt than is mined from the Dead Sea in a decade. It was definitely a case of ‘have a little burrito with your salt.’ And not only was there salt in the burrito but the baked potato had a crust of sea salt, thereby ruining my favourite part of the spud. I could literally feel my blood pressure going up about 5 points per bite.
When the young and overenthusiastic waitress came to ask us how the meal was, I turned to her and asked if the cook was in love? This won me a good kick under the table from Kit. But here’s the thing: a few short years ago Kit and I were dining after the theatre in London when a similar problem occurred. We had decided to share a side dish of vegetables which came so salty neither of us could eat them. Not being highly original and holding the belief that forgetting how much salt you are throwing in food means your mind is on other matters, I said the exact same thing to the waitress there, a young ‘resting’ actress no doubt, who looked at me and laughed and simply took the dish off the bill.
Back in Loveland, however, our cheerleader friend looked at me, her face slowly caving in as if invisible hands were pushing her cheeks. “I’m sorry your meal wasn’t to your satisfaction,” she whimpered. I sat there in some disbelief while Kit stared angrily at me and kicked me again. “Oh, no, no,” I hurriedly apologized, “It was fine. Just fine.” And then I gave her what was no doubt the biggest tip of her young life.
Could it be possible, I wonder, that (a) she was actually in love with the chef and my comment was too close to home? Or was it (b) she knew a little tear would elicit a bigger tip? Or am I just too cynical?