I have a confession to make. In a previous career detour, I was briefly a food writer and restaurant critic. On the surface, this might sound like a dream job, attending restaurant openings and wining and dining across town for free. I’m not going to ask for sympathy or have you listen to me playing the world's smallest violin for getting comped dinner in trendy bistros. Nonetheless, I assure you, it’s not the culinary adventure one imagines.
It usually involved driving across town on a Tuesday to sample overpriced pasta served by hipsters and trying to come up with new adjectives for scallops. I am passionate about cooking and trying fantastic food, but the experience left me cold.
In many ways, restaurants are among the few modern bastions of creativity and entrepreneurship, where talented chefs and cooks construct a captivating experience. They often are a refuge for ex-cons and weirdos who never could fit in with our corporatized world. Anthony Bourdain writes about this beautifully in his book “Kitchen Confidential.”
What turned me off from the whole experience was how pretentious everything became, in no small part because of social media. Every meal has to be chronicled and shared on Instagram. It’s a digital facade where it doesn’t matter how the food tastes; instead, it’s about how it looks to your online followers. Does sea urchin with lemongrass foam served with dry ice actually taste good, or are you trying to impress strangers?
Dining has shifted from an experience of conversing with friends and loved ones to a digitized form of showing off. Food has become a way to brag to the world about your good taste and how you got a reservation at an expensive restaurant. It’s gauche and boring. Half the time, the food is filled with seed oils and sadness, and the waiter harasses you every five seconds about how it tastes and rushes you to make room for the next reservation.
I’ve been fortunate to try Michelin-star restaurants around the world, and they’re overpriced and antiseptic. There is no soul in those tasting menus, just elitism and crass consumption. They will never beat the Texas pit master who spent a lifetime perfecting grilling meat over a live fire or the tiny family restaurant in rural Italy making pasta the same way their great-great-grandmother made it. I’ve had better meals in the jungles of Thailand or a hole-in-the-wall Mexican joint in the Southwest than anything the New York Times will recommend.
This brings me to Thanksgiving, the great American culinary holiday. It hasn’t been infected by consumerism like most holidays have (although they’ve certainly tried with Black Friday). On its surface, it’s still a uniquely American experience centered on enjoying food and drink with the ones you love. Maybe that makes it beautiful; it’s a day to fill up on home-cooked food, watch some football, and try not to discuss politics with that one crazy aunt.
You wake up with joy and nostalgia, knowing the day will be filled with love and family, thankful for all the beauty and happiness life can bring. It doesn’t matter if your mom forgot salt in the sweet potato casserole or if the turkey is overdone; it’s about fostering a community and fellowship with the people around you. When it comes to dining, let’s ignore our phones and Twitter and focus on what matters: good, simple food and the people we choose to spend our fleeting time on Earth with.
