5 minute read
(autistic experience, social anxiety, invisible disability, autism and social situations, restaurant etiquette, sensory overload, cognitive load, unwritten social rules, neurodiversity)
After several posts exploring illness, healing, and the strange emotional terrain of becoming reacquainted with myself, I thought it was time to lighten things up.
Sort of.
Today I'd like to discuss something that is objectively insignificant, deeply first-world, and yet capable of triggering an existential crisis before the appetizers arrive.
The modern restaurant trend of small shareable plates.
Before I continue, let me acknowledge my privilege. I recognize that being able to dine at restaurants where someone casually describes brussel sprouts as "Brassica Medallions in a Balsamic Coulis" is not a universal experience.
That said...
Who approved this?
Because I'd like a word.
Apparently, the purpose of sharing plates is to create community.
As an autistic woman, it creates spreadsheets in my brain.
When I go to a restaurant, I have already completed an impressive amount of invisible labour. I've navigated the noise, the unpredictable lighting, the overlapping conversations, the clattering dishes, the mystery music that somehow manages to be both too loud and impossible to identify, and the uncomfortable chairs that appear to have been designed by someone with a personal vendetta against lumbar spines.
I am already doing a remarkable amount of processing before the menu even arrives.
It's complicated enough to go to a regular restaurant. However, when somebody utters the words: "Why don't we just go to (fill in the blank with the name of one the countless restaurants that only serve small shareable plates)?"
My soul leaves my body.
Because now we aren't just going to be ordering dinner.
We're negotiating an international peace treaty.
Do you know how many variables suddenly appear?
What do I want?
What does everyone else want?
What if I hate their choices?
Is this a democracy?
A meritocracy?
Can I veto something?
Should I veto something?
Is vetoing considered selfish, or is this exactly the type of healthy communication therapists are always encouraging?
Nobody gives you a handbook.
Everyone else just... seems to know.
Meanwhile, I would prefer to order ten Croquettes à la FruFrus for myself and not share and not have to deal with the choices you made.
But I quietly acquiesce and fumble my way though a conversation about our group order.
Then the food arrives.
Chaos.
There are three tiny Croquettes à la FruFrus and four people.
Excellent.
Now we're apparently performing gastrointestinal algebra.
Who cuts what?
How many pieces is socially acceptable?
Can we divide this into fourths without violating the structural integrity of the egg?
Has anyone brought a protractor?
And then...
There it is.
The Last Bite.
The tiny orphaned piece of food sitting on the platter, radiating social uncertainty.
Everybody wants it.
Nobody reaches for it.
Instead, we enter an elaborate ritual of Canadian politeness.
"Oh, you take it."
"No, no... you."
"I'm full."
Liar.
We're all lying.
You are not full.
You have simply calculated that wanting the last bite carries a greater social cost than going without it.
Meanwhile, I'm conducting a risk assessment.
If I take it immediately, am I rude?
If I wait too long, will someone else take it?
Should I offer it first?
How many offers are required before it's ethically mine?
Does eye contact matter?
Is there a parliamentary procedure for leftover potatoes?
These are not rhetorical questions.
My brain genuinely wants answers.
This is the part about autism that people don't often see.
It's rarely the big moments that exhaust me.
It's death by a thousand unwritten rules.
The invisible choreography that everyone else seems to absorb without conscious thought.
The constant decoding.
The endless wondering if you've missed something that everybody else somehow learned without being taught.
What looks like a casual dinner can feel like a live-action escape room where the clues are social expectations and the prize is... one roasted cauliflower floret.
The irony is that I love sharing experiences.
I love conversation.
I love connection.
I just don't want my dinner to require strategic planning, conflict resolution, ethical decision-making, and advanced geometric reasoning.
I don't want a communal culinary journey.
I just want my own damn plate of Croquettes à la FruFrus.
And if that makes me socially awkward...then so be it.
And pass me my entree.
The whole one.
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