A chunk of the world dislodged recently, went cartwheeling off into the void of the universe. You, philistine that you are, probably did not notice. In the sustainablysourced, sancocho-scented atmosphere where dwell the food bloggers, though, well, it was just short of devastating.
Domino’s came out with “artisanal pizzas.”
“The word no longer has any meaning,” pontificated one blogger solemnly. He meant “artisanal,” not “pizza.” The cherished “artisanal,” to the dismay of many of similar mind, had been coopted. By Corporate Food. By, of all things, a pizza chain. The same somber conclusion has been reached, expressed, and mourned in more or less the same funereal tones, again and again. Now, it would appear, “artisanal” belongs to the ages.
Wait a minute, you might say. “Artisanal” never did mean anything. Not if we’re talking about food. At least, it doesn’t mean anything any more special than “home-made.” Which was once just fine to describe food that hasn’t been turned out on a conveyor belt or stirred up in vats the size of a Packard. “Home-made,” though, or “hand-made,” did not have the cachet necessary to elevate conversation into the realm of the Serious and Special. Like using “flavor profile,” when “taste” would do as well—better, actually. Or saying “fusion” when what’s really meant is “combining two different cuisines by cooks who don’t understand either.”
Employing pointless, even oxymoronic jargon is, of course, a field guide key to spotting the poser, the pedant, the pretentious. Those who indulge in such language usually know this; they just enjoy preening the tail feathers of their aesthetic and socially conscious superiority. Which, uh, leads us inevitably to the Foodie. Or, more properly, to the term: “foodie.”
Back in the day, when people did not use idiotic phrases that mean nothing, like “back in the day” (Back in what day? Tuesday?), there was a perfectly good word to describe those who know a great deal about a subject worthy of study and appreciation and who confidently make judgments—and act upon them—based on that knowledge. They were called “connoisseurs.” In the case of those knowledgeable and learned about comestibles, we have at our disposal a more specific term: “gourmet.”
“Gourmet” is a perfectly good word. So is “epicure.” Even “gastronome.” They are reasonably precise in their definitions. But, oh dear. Actually use them? Why, they are simply not appropriate in polite company—by which we mean the company kept by the Foodie and his ilk. Words like those have the stale effluvia of a musty, Victorian era drawing room. They are snooty. They reek of the judgmental. The high-brow. Elitist. Terms like that; they’re, well, just ever so hoity-toity. Which is a problem for the self-described Foodie. The Foodie, you see, wants desperately to be an elitist. He just abhors being described as such.
Not only does the Foodie want to be duly regarded for his knowledge of food, he wants to be recognized as something special. It also has to do with his impulse to elevate the perception of his every mouthful into the realm of the aesthete. You and I simply enjoy eating in a restaurant. We’re diners, customers. The Foodie? He has dining experiences. He appreciates, discriminates. His meals are the stuff of gustatory adventure. What’s on his plate is more than dinner; it’s the ingredients that distinguish him from the masses. It’s just that simultaneously the Foodie insists on avoiding the real words that would make that distinction clear.
Confused? It’ll help to watch Animal House. Remember the Deltas? Pinto and Otter and the rest? They were the cool frat. The one with the colorful characters and fun-lovin’ misfits. Sure, they were a fraternity. But not, you know, a fraternity-fraternity. Not like the Omegas. The Omegas were the stuffed shirts. Uptight and just so awfully, embarrassingly narrow-nosed WASP-ish. The Foodie wants so much to be a frat boy. He just wants to think he’d be right at home in the Delta’s house—if not in their dining hall, where the salads are probably iceberg with nary an arugula leaf in sight.
That’s the problem faced by the foodie. He longs for recognition of his aristocratic Omega tastes and preferences, from smoked olive oil to lavender-infused ricotta. Yet he so wants to hang with the Deltas.
That’s basically what self-professed foodies are. They want everyone to know how much they know about food, care about it, obsess over it, and above all, they want to let you know just how much they know about it and appreciate it that you, poor soul, do not. But “gourmets?” Naah. Shucks. My Dad’s a gourmet. I’m a Foodie.
Food-related trends (which is the Foodie-preferred term over the more appropriate “fads”) tend to disappear faster than $5 cupcakes at an Earth First Eco-Fest bake sale table. It’s likely, though, that we’ll be stuck with those who proclaim themselves Foodies for some time. The word is sufficiently juvenile to appeal to the self-important. (Know any serious bibliophiles who’d call themselves “Wordies?”). “Foodie” celebrates both the smug sense of superiority and the presumptions of non-class populism that defines those who drape the title on themselves. At least they’re easy to spot. They’ll be the ones grabbing fistfuls of organic spelt to heave when Bluto jumps up and yells “Food Fight!”
"Foodie at Work" decals (above) are available here.
