The plight struck, and it went straight for the fruit (or vegetable) of our hearts: the tomato.
Earlier this month, the U.S. Food and Drug Administration advised consumers to stop eating a variety of red tomatoes due to a salmonella outbreak that infected hundreds of Americans.
And while the food restriction was not a new phenomenon (see the spinach and E. coli outbreak of 2006-2007), this time around, the tomato shortage hit particularly close to home.
Indeed, restaurants throughout Westwood and the surrounding areas posted apologetic signs informing customers that, because of FDA restrictions, the tomato would not be attending dining festivities.
Chipotle pulled its salsa ““ of the mild variety ““ from its condiment selections, California Chicken Cafe printed colorful tomato-bordered “sorry” signs and the Westside mourned the temporary loss of our red and plump friend, the tomato.
Now for the sake of emotional and hunger-driven fervor, I must ask: Why the tomato?
The way I see it, the tomato has always had a hard time as it is.
After years of debating the origins of its existence, torn between the segments of the food pyramid, the tomato never fully found its home within the family of fruits or within the family of vegetables.
This type of identity crisis has surely taken a toll on our friend over the years.
My ignorant undergraduate mind continues to refer to the tomato as a vegetable, but that piece of information is up for debate ““ a debate in which I am neither willing nor yearning to participate.
Aside from its hard-knock life, the tomato has always served us well. So why must the gods of the land (in reality, the gods ruling the food production industries throughout Mexico and Florida) choose to punish our jolly red and round tomato earlier this month?
Indeed, when the spinach epidemic hit us last year, it was just a minor bump in the road. Other than forgoing spinach-artichoke dip as the appetizer du jour at backyard barbecues or potluck dinners, not much sacrifice was asked upon our parts.
But regarding the tomato, it’s an entirely different story.
Without the tomato, those with weak palates cannot savor the essence of the Chipotle condiments bar. Without the tomato, bruschetta is simply a dish with crunchy bread and olive oil. Without the tomato, college students are in dire threat of starvation without their seventh food group ““ pizza.
One cannot underestimate the importance of our fruit-and-vegetable hybrid.
Fans of Bravo’s reality show “Top Chef” may recall how the competitor Spike, after winning a Quickfire Challenge, was allowed to choose one item from each food group which the other competitors could not use as an ingredient.
For his fruit/vegetable, Spike chose the tomato, which caused uproar among his fellow competitors. There were talks of sabotage, and conspiracy theories flourished ““ all of which stressed the highly intangible importance of the tomato.
Inexplicably, the tomato has somehow worked its way into our hearts. With its cute curved and red shape that resembles the cheeks of a cherub and that mop of green flora atop its head that mimics a Little Rascal’s hairdo, the tomato is near and dear to each and every one of us.
And it’s outright painful to have denied us this lovable entity. Sure, there were some places that offered us the “organically grown” tomato, in vain hope that this would somehow salvage the food phenomenon.
But even then, consumers were wary ““ how safe could one be regarding the salmonella content of the tomato?
Even now, with the FDA clearance for tomatoes, one must question whether the love that was originally there will ever return.
The tomato has surpassed its edible importance, and is even a cultural symbol of our times. Decomposed tomatoes were historically thrown at an unsettling stage performance, and have thus manifested themselves today as the tech-savvy rottentomatoes.com for movie reviews.
Alas, like all other devotees to the fruit-and-vegetable hybrid, I have ridden out this bad spell. With the FDA’s clearance of the salmonella plague on tomatoes, I will return to the tomato’s golden gates of glory and will, finally, indulge in my ketchup-tainted splendor.
E-mail Chung at lchung@media.ucla.edu. Send general comments to viewpoint@media.ucla.edu.