I guess we had pushed the limits of our ethnic food comfort zone.
Stan and I both love pickled herring, which is probably weird enough for your typical American Pepsi drinking, Ding-Dong gobbling, Cheetoh crunching isolationist, whose idea of ethnic food is a microwave burrito. I was first introduced to pickled herring when I was a kid, most likely at a Smorgasbord sponsored by the Volvo dealership where my dad got his fist Volvo. Since I liked it, it was probably later bought on a trip to my grandmother’s where my mom could spend a little more freely, not being under the austerity measures of my dad. But don’t quote me on that. I really can’t remember when I was introduced to it, not that it matters.
Continue reading An Andrew Zimmern-type Experience