Dining Fine is for Snobby Aristocrats

Honestly, I don’t adhere to the title of this post, but I’ve been as lazy in my writing as the Senate is in passing a budget, so I chose an amusing topic.

Fine dining is a culturally accepted oxymoron. It’s my official position that any star-rated, high-brow restaurant only offers a facade of non-existent etiquettes.

Firstly, food is at its core messy. More than anything (save the excrement that leaves our bodies daily), meals are grubby elements of life that come from equally grubby sources: the farm, the butcher, the market, etc.

As babies, we begin with disorderly consumption and in our old age, we end in the same fashion. For pretentious fine-diners to pretend the eating of foods is a clean-cut experience is simply false.

Secondly and finally, the devouring and munching and chomping of one’s daily bread ought not be accompanied by a company of actors and actresses. In fine dining, the waiters are the guest at your table who’d rather be elsewhere.

As they dissimulate joy and laughter and service, they’re only interested in receiving their coming reward: a 20% or more tip. These are not friends. They are slaves, acting to please their paying masters.

My hope is that eventually there would be restaurants with five-star quality food but the atmosphere of mamma’s kitchen, where dress is informal, sauce-shirts are custom and service is rooted in sincerity.


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