I sat at a three Michelin star restaurant with my boyfriend and his aunt and uncle for a tasting menu dinner. The meal was a Christmas gift from his aunt and uncle, and I had been invited to be his guest. When we first entered, waitstaff in crisp suits had graciously greeted us. Our coats were whisked away into another room and we were led to our table.
Beneath massive 24-foot-high ceilings, we oohed and ahhed as successive dishes, plated with exactingness, were brought out. Our next dish was brought out and placed in front of each of us. On the white plate sat a round metal tin with the dish neatly composed inside. A wooden plank with delicate biscuits was set at the center of the table. Our waitress described what was in each of our tins: eggs with caviar, smoked ham, and hollandaise. We were meant to scoop the egg and its accouterments onto the biscuit, the restaurant’s take on the eggs benedict.
My eyes had first gone to the generous pile of caviar in the center, before noting the minuscule cubes of ham that lined the perimeter around the caviar. I was pescatarian and I weighed whether I should say something to request another dish, or pick out the little cubes of meat. I wanted to eat it as it was intended (tiny ham and all), but a voice in the back of my head needled at me.
My pescatarian diet had begun eight years earlier in middle school, when my best friend and I decided to be vegetarian for a month. Unbeknownst to me, my initial conversion was partially due to Lent (my friend was observing the holiday by way of vegetarianism). I had agreed to join him, oblivious to his Christian motives and instead worshiping at the altar of cinema (I had just watched Food, Inc. in Biology class, a documentary about the corporatization of agriculture and its trickle-down effects).
After the month (and Lent) ended, I decided to keep going. I began eating fish again, to be a pescatarian instead. Friends and family would always ask me the reasoning behind my diet - was it for health, animal welfare, environmentalism? I told them that it was due to my morals - the modern meat industry was awful to both animals and workers, and I didn’t want to participate in it. I cared less about eating a living creature, and more about the torture that those creatures (human and non-human) suffered as part of the process.
One night when I was in high school, I met my friend at the Portillo’s in our town, a beloved chain of restaurants in the Chicago area. We had ordered salads - they were known for their Italian beef and Chicago-style hot dogs, but they really did have great salads. I loaded up my fork with romaine lettuce and feta and Kalamata olives and took a bite. As I rolled the food around in my mouth, I tasted a familiar umami on my tongue and a stringy texture between my teeth.
I spit the glob into a napkin and folded it as neatly as I could. My friend looked on with concern. “Is everything okay?”
I used my fork to examine the threads of chicken that had been added into the salad. Rather than going up to the counter and asking for a new salad (I’d asked for no chicken in mine, so the order was simply wrong), I picked at my food for about an hour in a fruitless attempt to remove all the chicken and salvage my meal. This was not the first time something like this had happened, and I agonized over whether it made me a bad person or not.
It is quite ironic that my introduction to pescatarianism came by way of Lent, as there are overlaps between how I practiced my morals and how some Christians follow the Bible. It felt like following my morals (ie, my diet) must be difficult and unpleasant in order for me to do it right. Pescatarianism had become a core part of my identity and I went to extreme lengths to abide by it.
I avoided the kitchen if my mom was cooking steak or some other meat product. I averted my eyes from other patrons’ carnivorous dishes in restaurants. When sharing food with friends and family, I considered anything that touched meat to be contaminated and off-limits to me.
Despite my pledge, I still fantasized about many foods that no longer fit into my diet - the tender braised oxtail my Poppy would cook for family gatherings, the salty and tart dinuguan that my Lolo would serve over rice after school, the ridiculously large burgers that I’d slather in Grey Poupon mustard, hot off of our backyard grill. Sometimes I’d wake up with a start, having just had a dream about eating a thick hoagie filled with cold cut deli meats. I tamped down these thoughts, viewing them as temptations that might ruin my diet.
I also agonized over the technicalities - What was the line between fish and meat - could I risk a bite of escargot at a fancy French restaurant? Were marshmallows morally reprehensible, with their animal-derived gelatin? Fish farms had their own pollution and animal welfare issues. Modern agriculture - grains, vegetables, and fruit - in general was pretty exploitative. Was there any way for me to realistically abide by my moral compass, or was I fucked any way I looked at things?
This thinking extended beyond my pescatarianism and seeped into all facets of my life - the stores I shopped at, the clothes I wore, the media I consumed. Rather than a holy text, I often relied on news articles and documentaries to guide my understanding of how to live a good life. I wondered if even the smallest indiscretions made me a bad person.
The world began to lose vibrancy, its nuance being replaced by black and white thinking. I rarely gave myself grace. There was one instance where a coworker complimented my scarf, bought years ago at Zara, and I responded apologetically, saying “Thanks, it’s fast fashion…”.
I felt immense guilt all the time - it seemed like, to simply exist in this world was to be complicit in its wrongs. I felt the need to proselytize my friends and family by informing them of the moral impunity surrounding us and how they might divest from it. If I made a small mistake (like accidentally eating meat, or keeping an old scarf produced in sub-optimal working conditions), I had to ruminate on it and repent.
I was so struck by shame that it hindered me. My obsession was making life miserable and obscured the ways I was doing right by the world.
These feelings still come up nearly everyday. I doubt I’m alone in this, and it’s very likely that this is a common feeling among my fellow socially-conscious neurotics. When I catch myself feeling undue guilt around my actions, I try to give myself grace. I remind myself that the weight of the world is not on my shoulders (and that that way of thinking likely plays into the hands of lawmakers and lobbyists and corporations who want us to fall for the lie of individual responsibility). I remind myself that these choices have nuance and one single decision does not mark me as either “good” or “bad”.
Back in the restaurant, I looked at the tiny cubes of pork sitting in my dish. I considered saying something to the group or to the waitress. And then I looked around the bright, sprawling restaurant. I almost certainly would never find myself here again. And there were slim chances that the pig that gave its life for this dish had come from Tyson or some other conglomerate that I’d been warned against. My boyfriend and his aunt and uncle had begun to eat.
I picked up my spoon and delicately scooped up a bite of food (ham and all) and placed it on a biscuit. As I ate, I did not feel shame, but gratitude.
Here are some things I’ve been enjoying lately:
- . I read this in one sitting and loved it. The way that the author plays with format and genre is masterful and I highly highly recommend if you haven’t already read it.
- . I couldn’t stop nodding along as I read. If you’ve been envious lately (ie, if you are human), you should read.
Why do you postpone yourself? a video from Accepting the Universe. I really resonated with the top comment “Not me clicking on 'save to watch later’” (which is exactly what I did when it popped up in my recommended feed). The video is inspired by a letter from Seneca and I really recommend you watch it if you’re stuck/unhappy/waiting to live your life in the way you actually want to.
That is all, and thank you as always for reading!
Xoxo, Mia