Writing About the Dish You Always Order: Seven Questions for One Evening

Ordering the usual is not laziness.

I tend to think so when I am still annoyed at myself, and sometimes I think the opposite. But before thinking anything, look at one specific lunchtime.

Twenty past twelve, the chicken-rice place near the apartment block. A cleaver knocking steadily on the board, the smell of poaching broth and ginger, a ceiling fan with a tiny squeak on its fourth turn. I have barely stepped through the door when the owner looks up.

— The usual?

— Yes, the usual.

One portion of shredded chicken rice, no scallions, plus a small bowl of broth. I have not even glanced at the menu taped to the wall. The owner has already turned away.

Then a small question in my head, passing so fast I nearly miss it: do I want that dish, or do I just not want to think?

This is not about which dish is good or what you should eat. It is seven questions to write down, from gentle to deep, about a dish you always order. I tried writing all of them in one evening. There is no right answer, and not one of the questions leads to the conclusion that you should change what you order.

This is not a lesson in escaping habits, and it is not here to say the usual is bad or the new is good. Some people order the same dish for ten years and are happy with it. The only aim is to look once, closely, at the usual, then decide for yourself whether to keep it or change it. If you are following a diet your doctor gave you, follow the doctor, this piece does not touch that.

What place does the usual dish hold in my day?

The most obvious reason for ordering the usual is saving the effort of choosing. True, and everyone does it. If you stop there, the advice would be "try something new", which sounds like progress and is rarely kept up for long.

There is another layer. In a day full of decisions, which message to answer first, which file to send, what to say to whom, the usual dish is a place to shelter. Nothing has to be weighed there, nobody is waiting for me to answer correctly. I do not order it because I am lazy about choosing but because I have already chosen enough, and this is the one place in the day where I am allowed not to choose. Seen that way, "change the dish" is not the next thing to do. The thing to do first is to know what place the usual dish holds.

You will not know you did it right by how well or how deeply you wrote. You will know because there was one answer you finished and felt slightly surprised at yourself.

The first time, many people find the first few questions easy, then slow right down at the third or fifth. Some find it funny, some find it weighs on them a little. After about a week, some notice they pause for exactly one beat at the counter before saying "the usual", some say it exactly as before and feel nothing different. Both are normal.

On a busy day, pick just one of the seven and write three lines.

People tend to write it and then draw a serious conclusion, something like "I have to change myself, I have to try a new dish every week". It is tempting because it sounds like progress, and because a blank page makes people want to promise. But a promise written at ten at night rarely survives lunch the next day, and when you drop it, you have one more thing to blame yourself for. Instead, just record. Keeping or changing is a matter for another day.

Seven questions, from gentle to deep

One. Which dish came to mind when you read the title?

Hint: write the dish, the shop, where you usually sit, who usually stands behind the counter. Whatever detail appears first, write it first.

Two. When did you first order that dish, and where were you then?

Hint: if you do not remember, write "don't remember". Sometimes only a smell or a person who came along is left, and that is enough.

Three. In a day full of decisions, what is this dish saving you from?

Hint: do not answer "because it's tasty". Tasty is the easy part. Ask again: besides tasty, what does it give me?

A short example, mine: "I get to skip choosing. I've already chosen a hundred things this morning. Lunch is the one time I'm allowed to think about nothing."

Four. Who cooked, carried, or grew what is in that dish, even someone whose name you do not know?

Hint: think of the owner's hands, the person who went to the market at four in the morning, the person who raised the chicken. It does not have to be moving, just write it down.

Five. If the shop ran out of that dish today, what would you notice in your body first, before you thought anything?

Hint: the first reaction is usually tiny, shoulders dropping a little, an exhale. Write it before you write the reason.

Six. Is there a dish you have glanced at on the menu and never ordered? Why?

Hint: maybe the price, maybe shyness, maybe "what if it's not good and it's wasted". Every reason is valid. Just write it honestly.

Seven. Besides meals, what else do you do "the usual way", and do you want to keep it?

Hint: it could be the route to work, the seat in meetings, the answer you give your mother. No need to decide anything. Only to see it.

If you want to taste the usual dish again as if for the first time, there is a piece on chewing slowly written for exactly that. And if you like writing at the end of the day, seven mindfulness questions for the end of the day is a different set, wider in scope.

The week the shop closed, and I stood between three menus

The following Monday, the chicken-rice shop's metal shutter was down with a sheet of paper taped to it: closed for a week. Glaring sun, motorbikes passing, the smell of poaching broth nowhere to be found. I stood holding my phone, and the first thing I did was type into the search box: chicken rice near me.

— What are you standing here for?

— The shop's closed.

— So just eat somewhere else.

— "Somewhere else" isn't that easy.

I heard the last sentence only after I said it. Not that easy. Across the road there were three places, noodles, rice noodles, rice with pork chop, every menu laid out right in front of me. I was not short of a plate of chicken rice. I was short of the place where I do not have to think.

The obvious reason is that I like that dish. Maybe. But those three places sell dishes I have eaten and rather liked. The real discomfort was somewhere else: when the usual dish vanishes, what bothers me is not the missing dish but having to choose, and having to choose right there in the sun. Knowing that, I do not need to fix anything yet. Only to see how much the usual dish had been carrying for me.

You will not know you did it right because the new dish tastes better. You will know because you managed one beat of pause before speaking to the seller, even half a second.

The first time, many people hesitate, regret the order a little, or find the old dish was the one that suited them after all. After about a week, some dare to change one more small thing, some go back to the old dish and notice they chose it rather than slid into it. And some still like the old dish best, which is enough.

On a busy day, just pause for one breath before saying "the usual", then say it.

People tend to force themselves to eat something they dislike to prove they have escaped the habit, then punish themselves when it turns out bad. It is tempting because it looks like a step forward. But there is no score here. If the new dish does not suit you, go back to the old one at the next meal. Nothing is lost.

If you wrote and it did not work

There are two common places for it to go wrong.

The first: you write two answers and then not a word more. This is normal, and it is usually the third or fifth question, the ones that ask you to look inward a little. Skip it, write "don't know yet", move to another. You can also answer as briefly as possible: one word, one dish, one name. Nobody is grading this notebook.

The second: a question leads you to a heavy memory, for example the dish was one that someone who has died, or left, used to cook for you. Put the pen down. You do not need to write on, and you can tell someone you trust instead. If that sadness goes on for weeks, please talk to a doctor or someone with the right training.

One more thing, said plainly and briefly: if eating is making you miserable, ashamed or afraid, and it goes on for weeks, please talk to a doctor or someone with the right training. These seven questions only look at one usual dish and cannot replace them.

Thank you for giving one evening to this small thing.

The next day I walked into the chicken-rice place again. The ceiling fan still squeaked on its fourth turn. The owner looked up.

— The usual?

I paused for exactly one beat.

— Yes. The usual.

Only this time, I knew what I was ordering.

This article was created with AI assistance.