Don’t sniff it, don’t eyeball it, don’t comment on how it’s plated like a pagoda or a Zen garden, don’t detail the 39 steps it took to make it, don’t start comparing it to the meal you had at El Bulli, and don’t complain about the new chef while alternately giving me his culinary CV.
I don’t want to hear it. I just want to eat it.
I love food as much as the next person. I like food the way Homer likes his doughnuts and burgers and junk food aisle, oh my.
But a food snob I am not. You’ll never find me asking whether my Copper River salmon was gill-netted and bled and dressed on site. I’ll never lift a fiddlehead fern and wax rhapsodic about hunting the zenmai in East Asia during a trip with Anthony Bourdain. I’ll fork that fern and put it where it belongs: my belly.
Don’t put nettle pasta on a pedestal, put it in your piehole. After all, it’s food. You’re supposed to eat it, not dissect it.
Sometimes, I just want to eat a box of mac and cheese, and not the Annie’s kind. And I don’t need you to tell me how to zest it up with Emmentaler cheese and Linguiça. Don’t take the comfort out of my food or I might have to bust out the mandoline and create a new dish of hurt.