The Most Commonly Misspelled Food Words, Even by Professional Food Writers

Thirty eight years, two months and 24 days ago, I was having a panic attack about spelling. I have panic attacks on a regular basis due to having a lifelong panic disorder. It’s not as if I have a special feelings journal where I document the date and surrounding circumstances like, “July 9, 1989: Jenny L. gave me a weird look while whispering to Jenny M. in the cafeteria and they both started laughing.” 

I happen to know the precise date and catalyst of this particular attack because there’s a wire report filed by Linda Parker of the Kentucky Post, documenting my moment of failure at the National Spelling Bee. I biffed it on the word “phyllophorous” in front of a crowd of reporters, fellow competitors, my family, their families, and random adult strangers who’d bought tickets to come see a bunch of dorky children cry onstage under TV lights. 

I had a minor freakout just last week trying to spell “bourguignon” without looking it up. So far as I know, no one was watching this time, but I felt the same hot shame suffuse my face as it did all those decades ago. Back then, I was just a gawky eighth-grader with a terrible perm and unmedicated anxiety. Now I’m an adult who is paid to write and edit at a major food publication. I think I’ve figured out the hair situation, and decades of therapy and proper meds have softened my physical nervous responses. However, there are certain food words that I’m going to have to look up no matter how many times I type them, and that bugs me — or it did until very recently.

There wasn’t a spell checker always at the ready back in 1986 unless you count the brick-thick Merriam-Webster dictionary on the shelf in my dad’s den. Maybe that’s why I beat myself up about not remembering off the bat if it’s “buratta,” “burrata,” or “burratta” (it’s the middle one); “bouillon,” “boulion,” or “bouillion” (the first one), or “bouillabaisse” (yeah, I don’t even try that one). Because I should just know this, shouldn’t I?  

Consequently, I am also far too smug when I am able to type “fettuccine,” “hors d’oeuvres,” and “focaccia” without Google Docs adding a squiggly red, “You mucked this up,” line under them. Granted, there’s one under the word “phyllophorous,” but that’s only because, shockingly enough, it’s not common enough to be in the Google Docs dictionary. I’m adding it to my personal dictionary right now, and if you care, the word means producing leaves, or leaf-bearing.   

But I related all this angst to my Food & Wine colleagues in an effort to find solidarity, and it would seem I’m not at all unique in my stress over spelling — or pronouncing — some of these food terms correctly. “‘Hors d’ourves’ is one I always screw up including here,” our editor in chief Hunter Lewis admitted on a Slack thread, before adding that that “muffaletta” was a constant trip-up. (In his defense, there are multiple spellings of the latter considered to be valid, and several colleagues responded with a “same” emoji on the former.) Associate editorial director Chandra Ram quickly shaved “prosciutto” onto the pile, while senior drinks editor Prairie Rose chokes on Daiquiri, Curaçao, Caipirinha, Sbagliato, and Boulevardier.    

“I once hosted a spelling bee drinking game with my friends and not one person knew how to spell restaurateur,” said associate editor Amelia Schwartz, prompting two other editors to note that they won’t take a pitch seriously if that mistake is made. I find myself comically over pronouncing that particular word in a “fancy” voice, in part to cover for the fact that I’m suffering a mild case of the linguistic twisties while trying to stick the landing, but darn tootin’, I’d spell check before sending out an official communique in the hopes of being hired.  

Hunter also mentioned that he “may or may not have practiced how to say sommelier approximately 2,000 times as well,” to which executive editor Karen Shimizu noted that both the spelling and pronunciation of “capsaicin” were a source of vexation. Associate editorial director Dylan Garret asserted that he’d be ashamed that he’d embarrassed himself in a meeting by mispronouncing the names of various drinks he’d only seen written — if he were a person who has shame, which he claims he does not. 

That actually cracked something open for me. Every time I type Dylan’s last name, I stop and double check that it contains the correct number of r’s and t’s, because he’s my colleague and my friend and a notably precise editor, and it’s a matter of professional and personal respect that I get it right. And it occurs to me that I fuss over the correct spelling of ingredients, dishes, and drinks — and spelling in general — because I am, more or less, the same word nerd who made it all the way to Washington D.C. to stand trembling on a stage in testament to how much I care about the precision of language.

Now, that precision just happens to be inextricable from my love of food. It’s not shame that I have, it’s care. And if I have to look things up from time to time, I’ll swallow this silly pride. I hear it pairs well with bourguignon.