West Chester Dish

When we have an opportunity to meet our heroes we can’t let œa case of the Mondays get in the way, now can we?

On a recent such Monday, I learned of a food writer’s reading that was taking place that night at The University of Pennsylvania. Rick Nichols, a food hero of mine who writes for the Philadelphia Inquirer, would be reading there. Which meant that I would have to be there too.

After a hellish day at work and several wrong turns I arrived at the campus. I pulled into a parking space with a drop of gas left in my car and no meter money. After a dash across the street for change I returned to find a white envelope under my wipers. Perfect. I jokingly asked a security guard nearby if the meter lady was hiding in a tree waiting to write me a ticket. She laughed and pointed me in the right direction for the reading.

An hour late, and regretting the decision to drink all 33 ounces of water in the car, I did my best to hurry down the unfamiliar pathways towards the cottage-style literary house.

œWe are starting again in one minute, an intern grinned as he shooed me into the cramped room. I was seated at the end of a row of mismatched chairs, next to a vent, which blew a constant, frigid stream of air in my face.

The event was halfway over, but I had not missed Rick’s reading. The day’s headaches vanished as he spoke. He was captivating and appeared sweet and kind.

I played the scene of meeting him out in my head. I would introduce myself, he would beg to read my writing samples that I œjust so happened to bring with me and he would gasp at their awesomeness. He would insist on calling a publisher, the paper, the president, anyone. A minute couldn’t be lost¦

Applause snapped me back into reality. As the crowd thinned out, I went in the ladies room.

Hair? Not bad. Teeth? Check. Lip-gloss? Applied. I popped in a piece of Trident and faced the crowd.

I shook hands with two of the writers I wasn’t as familiar with and scanned the crowd for Rick. I found him outside chatting with a posse of writers. I straightened my shirt, cleared my throat and walked in his direction.

I then¦ proceeded to walk past him. I bashfully breathed œthank you and headed for my car.

œThank you? That’s all? What was THAT? I muttered to myself as I walked away. œWhat the hell is wrong with you?

Listening to my voice of reason, I turned around. At that exact moment his group began to walk away. Great.

But now I was committed. Urged on by the overly smiley intern, I began sprint walking after them. After tripping twice I was close enough to say something.

The intent was to say, œI am a huge fan. Your writing is deliciously inspiring. I anxiously look forward to your column every week. But it came out more like. œHi. Followed by an awkward silence and then some babbling about my love of food.

Amazingly, this worked and I was invited to join his group (and by group I mean Craig Le Ban, Michaela Majoun from WXPN and some guy who told me to not quit my day job) for a drink.

Star struck would sum it up best. It would explain why words my brain did not approve came spilling out of my mouth. It would also give reason to why I ordered a Miller Light draft alongside the most talented foodies in Philadelphia. Stupid.

The conversation that took place is a blur. I had intended to inquire about how he is able to stay unique and refreshing in an ever-growing world of foodies, self-proclaimed critics, food bloggers, culinary publications, websites, chat rooms and television programming. Instead, I acted like a giddy, food-obsessed groupie. How could I contain myself? My social skills were held prisoner by my nerves… or perhaps it was the excitement of not only meeting him but hanging out with him? Whatever it was, the time flew by and before I knew it, it was time to head home.

The same campus security guard was posted near my ticketed Subaru. A few hours earlier she had encountered a tired and bitchy version of myself who was mumbling something about parking ticket police hiding in the trees.

When our paths crossed at the end of the night, I exploded with excitement as I explained whom I had just met. She did her best to be excited for me, but she clearly had no clue what the hell I was talking about. All she could tell was how happy I was.

She shared the following words with me, œWell now ya see somethin’ good things always happens to good people. Makes the ticket almost seem worth it huh?

Worth it? I quickly did the math in my head. The fine for an expired meter in Philadelphia was $26. A invitation to have a drink with my food hero was positively priceless.

œWorth it indeed. I said grinning inside and out.

The Final Dish: When in doubt be fearless. It tastes better.