I am not a foodie. I am sorry.
I was meeting someone after work, and I asked my coworkers where we should go for dinner. They gave hearty and eager answers, reliving memories of feasts and gastronomical wonders. “The thing is,” I told them, “I don’t really care. I’m not really a foodie.” “What does that mean? You don’t eat food?”
Lame tongue, I guess. What I mean is that I am not skilled at appreciating the difference between good food and great food. San Francisco is a town that prides itself on culinary diversity; it’s a bastion of niche eateries, as well as hippy dippy organic free range edible ephemera. A lot of it is wasted on me.
You have to know a bit about how something is made to really appreciate it. I marvel at good writing and good movies because I’ve studied them and have tried my hand at those crafts. I can even appreciate something as impenetrable as Ulysses because I am tuned to seeing the work that went into it. However, I do not do anything that resembles cooking. I can toast a mean slice of bread. I can heat a pre-cooked meal like a champion. If they sold a nutrient-rich sludge that tasted not-bad, I’d slurp it daily as a means to an end.
Then why bother going out at all? Because I having dinner with a girl, you nincompoop.
PS. We ate pizza at Little Star. Pizza always fits well into my oeuvre of ignorance.
PPS. On a different day, a friend of mine wanted to eat Ethiopian food. “Ethopian?” I said, “I thought they didn’t have food in Africa. It’s all starving children over there. Are they gonna serve us bowls of sand? They should send the Ethopian food that we have here over to the starving children.”
Just kidding. Ethiopia is a nice place, with food.