Hold The Garlic!

Linda is a born picky eater whose taste buds developed much later in life than most. As they've evolved, so has her interest in different ingredients, cuisines, recipes, and dishes. As she continus her journey from a diet consisting mainly of pasta to a quest into the culinary unknown, she is supported by her loving cat and adoring husband, who live with her in New Jersey.

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I grew up as the baby of four sisters. My sisters are significantly older than me and were born in a little town in the mountains of Sicily. I was born in New Jersey. They made sure I received a more “Americanized” childhood than they did. I was allowed to date, encouraged to be independent, and escaped duties like ironing, squashing tomatoes for the yearly sauce-making, sewing, learning to make pasta from scratch and using a meat-grinding machine (My father was a butcher). Though my mother could cook any dish under the Sicilian sun, one thing she never did was use garlic.



“Mama B,” pictured above, detests garlic. I grew up eating all kinds of classical Italian fare, but with no garlic. I stuffed my face with manicotti, lasagna, and baked ziti, but not once did I taste even a miniscule slice of garlic. We rarely dined out, other than an occasional trip to KFC—another strange quirk of my mother’s. Garlic is found in most cuisines the world over, and considering the variety of restaurants in New Jersey, it seems almost unbelievable that a young woman could make it past her formative years without having any. But I never bought lunch at school or work, as I lived with my mother until I was almost old enough to be married. To me, garlic was only for vampire movies. It stayed this way until I met my first husband, who I'll call "Jim."


Jim, an American guy complete with a leather jacket and a motorcycle, was “cultured." He’d grown up eating fast food and Chinese takeout, watched American football, knew where to go in Manhattan, and was already divorced. He thought my pickiness was cute and was determined to show me the ropes. Around the corner from his house was a Japanese restaurant that he wanted me to try. With some coercing, he finally got his wish. On the condition that all food would be garlic-free and that I wouldn’t be required to eat anything from the sea, I agreed to try out Banzai, a Hibachi restaurant.


Hibachi restaurants are like the Japanese version of a steakhouse. Hibachi chefs are known for their speed, precision, and capability of performing entertaining little tricks, like chopping off shrimp tails and catching them in their own hats or pockets.


As we pulled into the parking lot, I wondered if there was a kid’s menu. I was certainly not above ordering chicken fingers or plain spaghetti in place of whatever exotic phenomenon was waiting to torture my underdeveloped taste buds. We walked past a huge wooden character for “Banzai” and past a pond full of gigantic koi fish. I was apprehensive, and hoped I wasn’t being tricked into eating vampire repellent or friends of The Little Mermaid for dinner.

I walked in and was immediately overcome by a wonderful smell of food cooking. The tantalizing scent was so strong that it pervaded my nostrils completely! I figured that it must be some special eastern spice. I pondered as a petite woman dressed in a kimono politely led us through a boldly painted red and gold palace to our table. Instrumental recordings reminiscent of the orient played in the background. It was like New Jersey’s miniature version of Epcot’s Japan.

We ordered drinks with little umbrellas and waited for our table to fill up, and I ordered chicken and steak with a strong emphasis on the “no garlic” part.

Suddenly, the chef appeared at the center of the enormous stove and started to prepare our appetizers, which were universal for the whole table. I saw him with a few giant cloves of garlic, and I realized he was about to put the garlic on everything. I freaked out! I started waving my hands at him frantically as the other couples at the table looked on curiously.

I’m a little shy, but not shy enough to waste a fifty-dollar dinner.

I begged him to hold the garlic, and he made my whole meal—including appetizers—separately from everyone else’s on the hibachi stove which was embarrassing.

We did have a very good meal—fried rice, vegetables, noodles, chicken, and steak—all grilled on that glorious stove like a novelty barbeque! But I still hadn't found the taste to go with that awesome smell!

We returned a few weeks later. I couldn’t help but just love the aroma coming off of the grill and I finally said to Jim, “It always smells so tasty in here and I can’t figure out what, exactly, it is!”

Jim grinned and said, “Well, babe, that’s the garlic!” I didn’t believe him and was convinced that he was just trying to trick me. Once again, I had the chef make my meal separately, but this time Jim convinced me to take a bite of his steak with garlic on it. The pungent aroma spread from my nose to my mouth and sent spicy tidal waves over my tongue. It was love at first bite!

I’ve been a garlic lover ever since.

I tried to convince my mother to start using garlic, but she’s already set in her ways. That's unfortunate, because I still eat at her house at least twice a week. I, however, incorporated it into my cooking immediately, and it made me feel like a five-star chef.

There is absolutely no smell more enticing than that of garlic being sautéed with some olive oil in a pan. Yum! Whenever I wonder what my first marriage possibly could have been good for, I quietly muse, garlic. Now, I always request extra garlic wherever I go. I’m a believer!