Back in the old days pre-COVID-19, when we could meet a friend for lunch inside a restaurant, when the only masks ever discussed might be those for Halloween, I had a wonderful discussion with a friend about tomatoes.
Fast forward to today: I just ate my last, luscious, red, juicy, warm-from-the-sun bright red homegrown tomato.
I’m sad the tomato season has ended. And this made me think of a previous post I wrote about them.
Here it is. Enjoy!
I recently dined with my friend Randall at the exquisite Neiman Marcus cafe in Walnut Creek (sadly closed now) where you need reservations if you actually expect to eat.
A wall of white frosted windows warm the intimate dining room and beam the space bright. The cafe is in a department store, but it’s destination worthy — elegant and inviting; special, but not stuffy.
Carlito, the server, bows and offers Randall a that may lint his dark pants. My white napkin suffices for my white cotton skirt. Next, Carlito serves a complimentary, teeny-tiny cup of chicken consommé (not to be confused with chicken broth, which is not clarified) to “clean the palette.” It’s perfectly hot and so rich with a primal flavor and aroma it summons a deeply buried memory of my Grandma Addie cooking in her kitchen.
“I’ll have the chicken sandwich, save the tomato,” Randall says. He hands the server his menu and leans forward toward me to reveal his latest inspiration. He is a man of many.
He directs the commercial in the space between us over the condiments.
Imagine a field of dirt where someone is planting tomato seeds. He pushes the seed under the dirt and in fast-forward, you see the seed grow into a plant before your eyes. The plant produces a tomato and — now, your eyes never leave the tomato — you see the tomato being harvested, put on to a truck, and brought to market. You then see a woman hand choose the tomato, slightly squeezing it to ensure its ripeness, purchase it, and take it to her restaurant where she tenderly slices the tomato for you who has just ordered a hamburger. Much effort and time has gone into growing and getting this tomato to you. You lift the burger and without a care, discard the tomato off to the side because, well, you don’t like tomatoes. All that time, effort, and care into producing a tomato that’s just thrown into the garbage. Why waste tomatoes? Why not save them?”
How brilliant is that?
A sound bite and a call to action to save food instead of wasting it.
A way to remember to save those food items we won’t eat anyway with a simple change in how we place our orders. “Hold the tomato” doesn’t effect change because it simply states what we don’t want. It’s a direction. But “save the tomato” illustrates intention. It speaks to a cause.
“I love it! It reminds me of the campaign,” I say. “To this day, I think of this commercial every time I brush my teeth. I remember the poor girl drinking the water that’s being wasted by the man brushing his teeth. Very powerful.”
Imagine all the water I’ve saved because of a simple, powerful message.
Now, every time I order a meal, I can save food and make a difference. And perhaps I can inspire others as Randall did me.
Over the rest of our lives, that’s a lot of tomatoes.