Foodies - the How and Why of Their Suckitude

Save me from Foodie Nation. There is a famous chef [rhymes with Ebay, round face, strawberry-blonde hair, rampaging ego, mistaken idea of self attractiveness, mega-tooly attitude] who owns a restaurant on the ground floor of my office building in New York. My office is on the penthouse floor and due to the peculiar layout of the building, occasionally, if the air vents are all tuned together and the breeze is cosmic, or something equally benign and HVAC techy, the aroma of beautifully cooked meat will waft through the floor. Very often, the smell is of badly charred toast. It just goes to show.

Recently I placated a colleague by participating in an extremely informal telephone survey for my opinions about various New York chefs; some famous, some not. The last question was: Do you consider yourself a foodie?

Me? A pretentious, toadying, trend-following ewe of the sheeple? In the name of all we call Fresh Hell, No!

Foodies have the longing to be included in a faux insider's circle, the compulsion to be the first in their group to sample the inane, the impractical, the exotic - the unconscious swell anxious to proclaim a specious individuality by purchasing all the herd-following accoutrements constantly hawked by a band of corporate shills. They are the first to jump on the bandwagon of an enthusiastic media whore touting whatever is new and improved in the world of food - regardless of its merit, practicality or, most important, taste.

I am emphatically not a Foodie. Even the -ie ending of the word repels me - what, I'm still in fourth grade?

Even so, I'm intimately connected with the world of food, for Mr. Fresh Hell is a professional chef.

The apparent contradictions of this can be solved by generous applications of the Eternal Balm of Common Sense [something I eventually intend to trap in a bottle, sell, and net millions - just you wait and see]. It was also something I had to explain to my beleaguered colleauge.

Mr. Fresh Hell was trained in France and New York - during a 20 year career span he has cooked in terribly snooty restaurants and transformed pub grub in many a small venue - without ever once falling prey to some of the idiotic concoctions that pass for current sophisticated cuisine. In fact, he regularly debunks all of the new fangled fusions and fashions that have so enslaved the most guillible.

Towers of food? Why? So a diner can insert a fork in the top layer and have it all come tumbling down? Mango salsa as a side to everything? Hint: it goes with virtually nothing. Duck confit is a bit more complicated and rich than is presented and seriously, a splash of truffle oil is often nothing more than slopply glurge - it overwhelms nearly everything it touches, which is why the genuine professional uses it sparingly, if at all.

Fresh, in-season ingredients, recipes that turn the 30 minute meal paradigm on its head, minimal handling of the food during the process and piquant, palate sharpening additions can turn the simplest of meals into a true appreciation of the beauty of food.

Imagine the warmth of a white bean and tomato soup, simmered for over two hours, enhanced by the tongue-melting taste of slow cooked tomato and onion and the astringency of lemon and fresh herbs added at the last minute. A perfectly roasted leg of lamb, crowned with sprigs of rosemary and stuffed with garlic, served in the meat's own clear juices with a side of blanched asparagus. Heavenly Beef Bourguignon, swimming in fat sliced mushrooms and diced carrots in a gravy liberally glazed with fresh butter and red wine. Crispy golden crab cakes, fresh with the aroma of the sea, the crunchy batter spiked with lime and parsley. Tuna tartare mixed with finely minced onion and papaya served with a dressing of dijon mustard vinagriette.

If I never have to hear another "Bam!" followed by a completely unnecessary idiotic flourish flung onto a perfectly acceptable dish, I might die happy, provided I was swathed in layers of perfectly ripened Brie accompanied by a sliced French baguette.

Foodies have accepted the Gospel as Written by Media Whores and blessed by Corporate Mandate. It is all dressed up in snowy white Emperor's Clothes, the public ignorant of the fact that everything is smoke and mirrors, presided over by dolts in ill-fitting and badly cut chef coats who generally don't know their asses from the proper saute pan. They are literally puppets performing for the masses while behind the scenes actual people, actually cooking, assemble their little road maps-cum-recipes ready to be dispensed to the unthinking everywhere.

As for me, I'll continue to look beyond what some vainglorious fool has to say and be ready to cook standing on my own two feet, using my own mind, Mr. Fresh Hell's knowledge and Nature's bounty as my guide.