If God Made Anything More Tasty Than The Olive He Kept It For Himself

When I was around eight years old, maybe ten, I woke up early one morning and went out to the kitchen. I was the first one up and much of the remains from a party my parents had hosted the evening before were still laying about. The first thing to catch my eye was a small dish that held these little round, green things, with a red spot on the end, that I took to be candy. They were not. What I popped into my mouth was a pickled olive. I thought I was going to be sick. I spit it out a grabbed a glass of red liquid that was on the counter nearby, that I thought was Kool-Aid. It was not. Thus was my introduction to olives and wine.

For the next forty five years or so I couldn’t even look at an olive without feeling nauseous. At some point in my early twenties, however, I did give wine another chance and discovered that I liked it, though never really became a fan. This came much later when my current wife, the foodie, introduced me to wine pairing, and the pleasures of great food and wine. Of course, the more we explored great food together the more olives came up. I wanted to like them. There were so many foods I was avoiding just because they contained olives, but just thinking about them sometimes was enough to engage my gag reflex.

Then one evening a few years back Kim and I were dining out at Piatto Pizzeria and she suggested that we start with the Charcuterie Board. Sadly, I had to ask her what this was. Anyway, she explained it and we ordered. When it arrived at the table I noticed that, in addition to the meats, cheeses, peppers, and breads, there were a small pile of big, green olives. “Oh God, I can’t even look at those”, I said to my wife, pushing the olives toward her, “you’re going to have to eat those”. She attempted to persuade me to give them a try but I would not give in.

The rest of the plate was delicious, including these little brownish, purple things that I had never seen before but were wonderful. After I had eaten three or four I mentioned to Kim how much I was enjoying them and asked her what they were. She laughed, and told me they were olives. “No they’re not”, I replied. She assured me that they were, told me they were Kalamata olives and that I had eaten them before. “No I didn’t”, I replied, but apparently I had. She explained that I had them in a Greek salad she had made, on pizza, and in a number of other dishes that she had prepared for me.

I could not argue with this, and they were actually quite good. In fact, I began to eat them regularly. If I made a sandwich I would have kalamata Olives on the side. If I had a salad I would put them in it. Where ever I could use them I would use them, even snacking on them right out of the container. Yet, I could not bring myself to try a green olive. There was just no way I could get past the memory of that awful childhood experience.

Then, this past Valentines, Kim and I were dining at this great local restaurant, The Green Door. There was a set menu, five courses, wine pairing with each course. We started with a couple of cocktails, then had the first course with wine. The second course was a Charcuterie Plate, which included a half dozen of the biggest, plumpest, greenest olives I had ever seen, each stuffed with pimento.

Perhaps it was the slight buzz I had going from the wine and cocktails but I didn’t feel my usual revulsion. In fact, I said to Kim, “I really wish I liked those, they look so good”. Kim responded, “try them”. I was reluctant. “For the love of God”, she said, “just try one. They taste just like the Kalamata olives you love, just maybe a little more briny”. I picked one up and began moving it slowly toward my face. I hesitated for a second, said to Kim, “if I get sick it’s on you”, and popped the olive in my mouth.

To make a long story short (if it’s not too late for that) I loved it. So much so that Kim told me to go ahead and eat her share as well. For nearly fifty years I had avoided olives like the plague, now I can’t get enough of them. I can’t wait to have my first martini: stirred not shaken (sorry James Bond but this makes for a smother cocktail), three olives.

Cheers!

Stephen