Those coup-counting, lock-jawed, cake-eating, nose-in-the-air dimwits who, with sticks planted firmly in their flabby asses will make their weekly cruise out to the hottest addresses in town, get weak little culinary boners over year-dead trends, focused-grouped Frog-humping menus and anyone doing New American comfort food or French-Asian fusion in million-dollar spaces; who will swoon after “discovering” restaurants with 200 Yelp reviews, dismiss cheeseburgers and chicken-fried steak and sloppy tacos and Americanized Chinese food as beneath their notice, but go fucking bonkers for any restaurant that name-checks a farm on its menu.
Found here (yes, through a vanity google alert, so sue me) but originally from Jason Sheehan’s “Suck it, Foodies.”
I have only one thing to say: That was way harsh, Tai.
Ok, I have two things to say – this quote from Sheehan’s piece:
That dirt in your arugula-and-goat-cheese salad? That’s not proof of a loving link between farm and table, you tools. That’s just proof of a prep cook too lazy, dumb or hungover to wash the goddamn greens before service.
Is. Hilarious.
There is nothing more hilarious than a foodie writing a blog entry obsessing over being called a foodie, unless it is a blog entry responding to the original one, as above. I don’t even think of “foodie” as a pejorative!
You can practically feel his wrath, ST. Big boy words up there.