Precious Food

Let’s talk about precious food.

I don’t mean this in the "oh I fucking luv, luv, luv food cause I'm a foodie!,"kind of way; I mean this in the "let’s cure our own organic, grass-fed beef!" and "the cow was raised on a small farm in Vermont and had its own upholstered sofa to sleep on!" kinda way.

I cannot pick up a free copy of Edible Brooklyn without feeling slightly awed and intimidated. The photography is gorgeous and the stories of local gastronimic adventures seem heartfelt enough. And yet, oddly, I often finish reading that thing feeling like I want to poke the eyes out of the hip, slightly dirty/attractive BK dude talking about cooking only with seasonal, locally sourced ingredients, or the post-recession entrepreneur who's hanging salamis to dry in their cruddy Williamsburg bathroom and selling them on the internet. Or worse yet, the in depth play-by-play of the breaking down of an entire fucking whole hog in the back room of a restaurant (!?).

Here's the thing: I do not want to know this much about the food I eat. It's TMI!

But just when you think its over, there's always one more story about the organic herb gardens grown on the roof above some chump's garage, or the sausage that is ground and cased in the basement of some skanky rent-controlled hovel that’s rented to the sausage makers for use as a makeshift kitchen come sausage-making time—ugh! SERIOUSLY?

ENOUGH.

I especially hate feeling pressured to read novel-length menus wherein the origin of every single solitary item on the thing is listed in what feels like hushed tones and bookended with thoughtfully curated adjectives. Always to be followed, of course, by an over enthusiastic waiter who comes to your table to take your order and launches into a passionate diatribe on the conception, birth, feeding habits, and slaughter of whatever it was you WERE going to order until he wouldn't shut the fuck up about it and reminded you that it once had a mommy.

And now there's even all this new language surrounding food that we're all forced to embrace: pastured chickens/cows/pigs, house-made this or that, lovingly tended organic gardens, locally sourced cow cheeks--I just want some fucking dinner!

And yes: there does appear to be a rash of these sort of joints lately in and around Park Slope and across Brooklyn. Like Mile End, a new vanity deli devoted to in-house smoking (meat that is, not anything good) and poutine--what the hell is poutine anyway??. (ed. note: Amanda has already looked into the whole poutine scene).

And of course I can't leave out the gourmet hot dog shops (are these two words even allowed to reside next to one other?). Willie’s Dawgs "sources" not from a local vendor but a San Francisco provider that raises--what else--all natural, grass-fed cows pastured on some cozy-sounding ranch. Bark, bastes their dogs in house-made smoked lard butter! And gets them from an Austrian sausage maker in upstate NY!?--are they fucking KIDDING ME!!?? (ed. note: They are SO not kidding you...that shit is the bomb diggity bomb bomb).

We're talking about hot dogs, people! These things are supposed to be made from cow's lips and shit like that, cost no more than 2 bucks, and only, ONLY should be eaten if you haven't had anything all day, and are running late to pick up your kid b/c you had to get back home in time to let the plumber in because your only toilet is backed up and...well, anyway. You get the picture.

I mean, is it too much to ask to please, please, please, just give me some reasonably priced, fresh (not rotten), artfully prepared, adequately seasoned and flavored, pleasantly served delicious food for me and my family so we can call it a day? As long as the shit you are giving me is not dog or cat or possum, I don't much care about its origins and heritage, or what it ate before it ended up on my plate. I don't care how lovingly, meticulously, or in-housed anything it was prepared.  Maybe I should, but I don't---it's all just too precious for me.