Yesterday while eating dinner, I was feeling very tense. Actually nervous for some reason. As I picked up my chopsticks, I could see my fingers shake—fear that I would offend my new friends when I would have to declare, “I do not enjoy eating Chinese food.”

Only 30 minutes prior, we had arrived to a Korean restaurant where the hostess refused to sit us because it was 30 minutes to closing time. I balked, wanting to demand that we be seated since…we were paying customers! But instead, someone said, “Let’s do Schezwan!”

With two additional voices chiming agreement, I desired not to dissent and silently walked with them to the car.

And there I was 30 minutes later, attempting to hide my dislike of the food. The dishes arrived swiftly—the great part of Chinese restaurants. I would eat small bites, mostly so that nobody noticed and enough to whisk away my hunger. A little bit of the tripe, the tofu, the Asian greens…and noodles. But people noticed. Across from me, a friend pushed the restaurant menu in front of me—find something you like. It was a futile attempt because I had gone through this cycle before.

And I was asked again to find something.

So I had to say it.

I don’t want to make it big a deal and I don’t want to impose, but Chinese cuisine is my least favorite type of food.

There was a silence. I didn’t want their guilt of responsibility. All I had wanted to was a nice dinner.

So I amended it the only way that I could, But I love dessert!