Why in hell would I know that? Furthermore, why in hell would I waste precious brain cells remembering it?
Snobs of any sort were once cute, piquant, risqué. Now that entire armies of them exist they’ve become rather tedious.
I guess that makes me part of throw-away consumer culture, ridding myself of disposable trends once they are no longer novel but a burden instead.
I’m so ashamed.
Self-appointed snobs with enviable taste and the inability to remain courteously silent on their pet peeves for any significant amount of time are no longer charming.
There’s just too damn many of them, and if they aren’t espousing the finer details of their ‘passion’ they’re droning on about their snotty virtues: The courage to stick to their guns in the face of mediocrity! Refusing to bend on their good taste! Declining to compromise on their identity! Utter rejection of everything that doesn’t make them climax with the perfection of their selected brand of hedonism!
Jesus Christ—what a bunch of kill-joys.
I’m not including that other exclusivity-based army in my life—the OCD crew who insist on washing their hands thrice apiece before eating, or those who eat the blue Smarties first and the red one’s last (and fuck everything in between), or those who must, absolutely must sprinkle salt on their meal before the pepper.
No, I’m referring to the pretentious bastards who would rather starve than swallow so much as a morsel of KD or overdone steak.
Unless no one is watching. Unless they happen to be really hungry. And, er, no one is watching.
I don’t love steak. I don’t even like it. And I won’t be forcing out any hip or blog-worthy reasons other than it’s exhausting to eat and my jaw hurts after three bites. There will be no “5 Ways Steak Was Eating Me” or “A Foody Gives Up Steak for a Week and You Won’t Believe What Happened Next…
Like any of us are lacking for better things to do than read or write that kind of shit.
Avoiding steak or GMO’s is a personal choice. Verifying that the door is locked to the point where the door handle falls of twice a year—not so much. Being a self-appointed snob is a choice—gagging every time a spoonful of creamed corn nears your face, well, not so much.
But I promise you this—creamed corn or no I will not pull up to your table sighing, tsk-ing, sourcing, eye-rolling, condescending, rejecting, or ‘educating’. If I don’t like it I won’t eat it and you probably won’t notice because we’ll be too busy enjoying each others company.
There is an upside to the food snob’s existence I suppose. They spread awareness of local, organic produce among the commoners and tend to make a dent in the fast-food market while passing along their appreciation of real food to the masses.
But that visceral sharing only works if you’re not a total twat about it. Condescending to your fellow citizens or wasting food because you’re above ‘flawed offerings’ is offensive.
There’s something relatively amoral about a $9.00 cup of premium roast coffee being on your gratitude/brag list. Really? If you’re going to swagger over a cup of joe then do us a favour and dig a little deeper next time—I’ve been dying for a review of a $40-$100 cup of kopi luwak.
Takers? Anyone? No? Then shut the hell up about your damned Starbucks.
We all draw lines with the things we’re devoted to but self-appointed snobs reek of manufactured passion and the taint of being painfully hip and aware.
This devotion does not read as being infused with appreciation of preferences but of posturing designed to cater to the cult of ‘unique personality’ and self-elevation in the name of things that are so easy to adulate that adulation becomes irrelevant.
Crazy-in-a-good-way people who draw seemingly random lines are interesting. We all know people like that and good on us. What these people are not is tyrannical about demanding recognition for their peccadillos and preferences.
They just are—trendy or not, ‘on point’ or not—regardless of who might applaud or not.
Performing your ‘passion’ for adulation, self-regard, or the regard of others is equivalent to leaving the bathroom with your skirt tucked into your underwear.
Perhaps I’ve become an anti-snob snob. That would make me twice as snotty perhaps… Or maybe I’m just bitching again, just muttering my way along to the mecca of misanthropic old age.
But performing a life seems exhausting while sharing one does not.
I don’t know which is worse, being a self-appointed food snob or an anti-snob snob. All I know is that if you sit down at my table and bitch that my place settings aren’t correct or I haven’t plated dinner so you can ‘eat with your eyes first’ I’ll remove the offending plate and perhaps replace it with a knuckle sandwich.
Bon Appétit motherfuckers.