Celiac. An autoimmune disease that makes my body respond to even the slightest amount of gluten (a protein found in wheat, barley, and rye) the way other people’s body’s might respond if there breakfast had been seasoned with arsenic. I’m flat in bed with the most severe digestive pains for almost a solid week after the smallest amount of gluten sneaks its way into my diet. As a result, this makes eating out a challenge to say the least.
I used to blindly walk into an unfamiliar restaurant with my fingers thoroughly crossed in the hopes that there was something on the menu I could eat without too much modification. And then I’d see it. That small little asterisk in the corner of the menu indicating that they served gluten-free bread. I’m safe here! They know how to feed me! I’d breath a sigh of relief.
As I later discovered, though, I was wrong. Those little notes on the menu or that the cute little homemade “It’s gluten-free!” sign can’t always be trusted. Sometimes, even my favorite little indie restaurants don’t have a clue.
A little sandwich shop with their grandma’s-kitchen theme made me completely drop my guard once I saw those six deceptive words—”gluten-free bread available upon request.” Perhaps it was the partly due to the homey tone of the place, but I felt like these folks most know how to take care of me. So I ordered fried eggs and gluten-free toast. It wasn’t until I was getting up to leave that I realized these well-intended people had thrown my bread right into the same crumb-filled, gluten-infested toaster as everyone else’s. And, without knowing it, they’d put my health in serious danger.
Even one of my very favorite indie coffee shops is guilty of a similar offense. I know the manager by name and every Monday a group of friends and I meet there for a few games of Apples to Apples. They care about their customers and the quality of their products, but that doesn’t mean they know the first thing about gluten. In fact, the “gluten-free” cookies were made on a wooden cutting board and on the counter right next to a pizza and a couple of sandwiches (all major don’ts due to cross-contamination). It might be wheat-free, but it’s not really gluten-free. And, for other folks like me, it’s not safe.
Yesterday, while on the bus, I ended up talking with the manager at a new little diner that just opened. He was more than happy to talk about his restaurant, even informing me that he’d tried offering gluten-free bread for a while. It was no longer on the menu though because it hadn’t sold enough. “But you could order something in a wrap,” he said very sincerely, “because that would have less gluten.” Less? But I literally can’t even have a crumb!
Anyone who tries to sell me on a flour wrap because it has “less gluten” doesn’t know nearly enough about celiac disease for me to feel comfortable with them feeding me. I don’t think any of these independent businesses are intentionally misleading their customers; like a lot of people, they just don’t understand what gluten is or how serious celiac disease needs to be taken.
I’ve eaten at some wonderful, extremely careful indie restaurant run by people who go out of their way to keep me safe, but because not every place is like that gluten-free folks have to do some investigating because anyone can write “gluten-free” on cardstock or buy a loaf of bread. (For more essays and recipes on living gluten-free, check out my blog The Crunchy Cook)