Dining Out

A friend at work said she and another girl were ordering dinner from Sweet Greens a few blocks down from our work in Williamsburg. Tired from practicing meticulous procedures to prepare and eat gluten-free toast with an avocado and a parfait and coffee, I agreed to take the risk. She said they offered a lot of gluten-free options (she's living with a non-celiac gluten sensitivity) yet I was skeptical. We scanned the options to customize a salad. All looked promising except for one item, the spicy broccoli. All gluten items were supposedly marked, but surely they were using some type of sauce thickened with flour or mixed with soy sauce. We decided it was best to call and check. I asked the man on the line about the spicy broccoli, and he confirmed that it was. Still, I wanted more reassurance. I contemplated. I imagined the gluten proteins attaching to my small intestine, and my antibodies recognizing those proteins as a threat, and attacking those proteins along with my intestine in a self-destructive manner. "I have Celiacs, so it's really important." He reassured me that his sister in-law also had celiacs, that he understood what Celiacs was, and that his food was safe to eat—including the spicy broccoli. Not only did he reassure me, but he recommended an additional rice dish that was also safe, and that would fluff up the salad.

Gluten-Free Spiritual Food

So there is an awareness of Celiacs, at least in NYC. I can't vouch for other parts of the country. Someone I know told me her sister has Celiacs, that she lives in Knoxville, TN, where I'm from, and that she doesn't really eat out. She nearly always cooks.

The salad turned out to be filling, fair in size, delicious, and overall, satisfying. The total came up to about $10 with a tip. That's average, or below average for a NY dinner. The explanation likely lies in that the ingredients were all naturally gluten free: bacon, mushrooms, spinach, rice—one of the many gluten-free types—and sweet potato bits, among another item or two that I've since forgotten.

This last weekend, I was in the city and hungry to the point that I become rather irritated. Stupidly, I got off the train in Chinatown. What hungry celiac gets off the train in Chinatown!? It's practically a full assault on my body. A celiac is not ambitious, no matter how trained s/he is, s/he's a fool, and that's not up for debate. I didn't want to be defeated by my new dietary restrictions, and going home for food sure felt like submitting. So I looked up places nearby that offered certified gluten-free food options. Remember, just because a restaurant offers gluten-free foods, that doesn't mean that it's safe. Cross-contamination is the sly devil. I ended up at a well-reviewed place in the West Village called Risotteria "Since 2000." Alone, I was able to take the last seat available right next to the cash register. This guaranteed exceptional service. The servers and hostess felt obligated to constantly check in on me I'm sure, because they were just dodging the motion of my arm receiving signals to control the nerve's ordering the brain to cure hunger. I was consuming my two "gluten-free breadsticks" as the server announced upon the hostess seating me. I ordered a basic pizza—the "GFZ/ mozz/ fresh/ garlic/ Onion" as my ticket read. They had the bar in front of me lined with gluten-free beers by Green's, Glutenberg, and others. I drank water. My total came just short of $20 before tip (the service was exceptional after all!). This was a thin-crust 10" pizza—a personal pizza for anyone who weighs over 100 pounds. After tasting it for a few bites, I didn't doubt the authenticity of their claim to be %100 gluten-free. Two corporate women justifying to each other why it was okay that they felt they no longer needed to be a CEO at their company as they had as a child, that being "at the middle of the ladder" was perfectly fine, paid their tickets with American Express cards and left. The next people seated by me were a couple, a relatively new one it appeared, and they Instagrammed their gluten-free breadsticks and Brooklyn Lager... I felt trivialized, but that's for another post.

One more story. I took a hiking trip through the mountains in the Taconic Region in the Cold Spring/Nelsonville, NY area this last weekend, and afterwards—man did I need some calories. I wandered down Main Street, the every-small-town/village-Main-Street, and found a woman standing outside a restaurant to whom to ask difficult questions. She couldn't answer them, and directed me inside to talk to server about it. So I did. I wanted the pulled pork sandwich, sans bread of course, and french fries and pickle. The server informed me that they offered a gluten-free bread. I asked about the bbq sauce, if she knew it was gluten-free. Since she wasn't sure, I asked to see the label, which meant bringing the whole big tub of bbq sauce out to the table. Some people might have been embarrassed, but I didn't care. I think people stop caring so much regardless of who they are after they move in to anonymity in NYC, regardless if they're there or not, which I currently wasn't. The label was actually marked "gluten-free." Boom. I asked her with what else the chef used to cook the sauce and meat. "He mixes in raw vegetables," to which I should have asked if they were prepared on the same cutting board as non-gluten items. I should have asked the same about the bread. But I didn't. I was too excited by the prospect of eating a pulled-pork sandwich and curly fries. I asked if they crisped their fries with flour. After the clear on that one, I ordered. Then I got some coffee and walked back into the woods. I survived both Celiacs and the wilderness.

Private America 

Evening Light

Side of Cold Spring Apothecary Building

Antiquated and Derelict West Point Office Building

-All photos taken by a Celiac