May 01, 2013
I don't recall my first run-in with cilantro, but I remember hating it from an early age. As a young boy, I didn't even know it was cilantro I hated; I thought maybe it was a certain kind of sauce or some sort of seasoning that a lot of restaurants used that caused such outrage in my tastebuds. But as I grew older (and, at the risk of sounding smug, a little wiser), I pin-pointed the wretched herb. Since then, my hatred of cilantro has grown every day. It's not just the vile, deplorable taste of cilantro that fills me with rage; the contemptuous sight of it makes my blood boil, the horrid, wicked sight of the disgusting weed is enough to induce vomiting. Working in a grocery store doesn't help. I'm forced to ring up cilantro (PLU 4889; quantity item) almost every day to the repugnant villains that come through my line.
I think my worst experience with cilantro happened only days ago. I went to a show to see some of my friends' bands play. The show was nearly three hours long, and I hadn't eaten before, so by the end of it I was famished. We went to a local favorite: Kosmic Kantina. They serve delicious and relatively cheap Mexican food. I was so hungry I ordered without thinking: two tofu burritos and a water. I let my guard down, and I paid dearly for it. I felt as though I hadn't eaten in days, and when the food arrived, I dove in. The first few bites were safe: nothing but tofu, beans, rice, and salsa. But by the sixth or seventh bite, I realized my mistake. I hadn't asked for it without cilantro. I was so hungry that I was in pain; I tried to push through the disdainful taste and finish the burrito, but, alas, I could not. I gave it to my friend Mark. Cilantro had defeated me that night, but one day, I will have my revenge.