Honestly, the things they’re calling “food” these days. It’s enough to make a person want to just give up and go live on a steady diet of saltines and lukewarm tap water. I’ve seen it all, I really have. Foams and emulsions and things that look like they were pulled out of a petri dish. All of it served on plates bigger than my prize-winning petunias, with a single, lonely-looking sprig of something green on top, as if it’s begging for a friend. And don’t even get me started on the prices. Good heavens, for what they charge, you could buy a whole week’s worth of groceries, and still have enough left over for a new hat. It’s a disgrace, I tell you. A total and utter disgrace.
But I’m a woman of my word, and my son, bless his heart, said I should “try new things.” So, when he dragged me to this restaurant called “Nouveau Nosh,” or some such nonsense, I decided to be a good sport. He said it was “the hottest new culinary experience.” I just saw a lot of young people with beards and glasses who looked like they’d never met a can of tuna in their lives. The decor was all exposed brick and lightbulbs hanging from wires, which made the whole place look like a warehouse waiting for a proper electrical inspection.
The menu was a work of fiction, let me tell you. It didn’t say “chicken” or “fish.” Oh, no. It said things like “Deconstructed Farmyard Protein with Root Vegetable Soil.” I had to ask the waiter, a young man with a nose ring and a look of profound boredom, what on earth that meant. He sighed dramatically and said, “It’s, like, chicken.” Oh, well, why didn’t you just say so, dear? Now, what’s this “Root Vegetable Soil” business? Is this food, or is this something I’m meant to grow a garden in?
Anyway, I finally settled on a dish called “Savory Spume of Oceanic Bounty with a Hint of Umami.” Because, you know, I’m a woman of adventure. Also, the description was the only one that didn’t sound like it was actively trying to kill me with strange flora. It arrived, and I kid you not, it looked like a cloud. A little, delicate puff of… something. White, airy, and served in a bowl that was about the size of a thimble. There were a few tiny specks of something red on top, probably to make it look like it had been in a particularly messy fender bender.
Now, I was a little concerned. You see, I’ve had some bad food in my time. And by “bad,” I mean my neighbor, Mildred’s, pot roast. Mildred is a sweet woman. She means well. But her pot roast… well, let’s just say it’s an experience. The meat is always a color that doesn’t exist in nature, and the potatoes are either a rock-hard surprise or a complete mystery, a starchy slurry that defies all laws of physics. It tastes like sadness and boiled hope, all cooked together in a pot with too much bay leaf. So, when I saw this “Savory Spume,” I had a bad feeling. A very bad feeling indeed.
I took a bite. Or, rather, I took a lick. Because that’s all you can really do with foam, isn’t it? Just kind of… lick it. And let me tell you, the flavor that hit my tongue… oh, good heavens. It was like a memory of something that had once been fish. A fish that had been told it was getting a promotion, only to be let down at the last minute. There was a salty, sort of vaguely oceanic note, but it was overshadowed by a flavor that I can only describe as “mildewed disappointment.” It tasted like a damp basement after a heavy rain, but with a slight, briny aftertaste.
And the texture! It was… nothing. It disappeared the second it hit my tongue, leaving behind no satisfying feeling of having actually eaten anything. It was like I had just paid sixty dollars to breathe on a plate. I looked at the little red specks again, and they were supposed to be some sort of “compressed red algae gel.” Or something. All I know is they tasted like a fancy way of saying “fish-flavored gummy worms.”
I looked over at my son, who was busy taking a picture of his own plate, which was a collection of three artfully arranged asparagus spears and a single, lonely-looking quail egg. He looked up at me with a smile. “Isn’t it amazing, Mom? The textures, the flavors, the way they challenge your expectations?”
I just looked down at my thimble of sadness. “Son,” I said, trying to keep the bile down. “It tastes like Mildred’s pot roast. And I don’t mean her good one, the one from that one time she accidentally used fresh thyme instead of dried. I mean the regular one. The one that’s a mystery to all who try it. This ‘Savory Spume’ tastes like a bad memory of a fish that died a long time ago and was then left in Mildred’s oven for a few days to think about its life choices.”
My son’s face fell. “But… it’s a Michelin-starred chef, Mom!”
“I don’t care if it’s a Martian-starred chef,” I said, poking the foam with my tiny fork. “This is an atrocity. Where’s the substance? Where’s the meat and potatoes? Where’s the feeling of having consumed something that will actually sustain a human being for more than ten minutes?”
I just don’t understand it. We’ve gone from a time when food was meant to be hearty, comforting, and filling, to a time where it’s meant to be an “experience.” An “art form.” Well, let me tell you, if this is art, then I am a very confused critic. It’s like a painting where the canvas is blank and the artist tells you to imagine the color. I’m not paying seventy dollars to imagine a steak, thank you very much!
I think they’ve forgotten what food is actually for. It’s to keep you going, to fill your stomach, to make you feel warm and happy inside. Not to make you question the very nature of existence and whether or not you just ate an air bubble with a vague memory of the sea.
After my son paid the bill, which was enough to make my old heart flutter a bit, we left. And as we were walking out, I spotted a hot dog stand on the corner. The glorious, messy, unapologetic smell of grilled onions and cheap ketchup wafted through the air. It was a siren’s call. I marched over there and bought a hot dog. A real one. A big, juicy frankfurter on a bun, with mustard and relish and all the toppings a person could want.
And as I took that first, glorious bite, the mustard dribbling down my chin and the saltiness of the frankfurter singing a song of pure joy, I looked at my son and said, “Now this. This is food. This is an experience. This is worth every penny.” He just rolled his eyes, but I knew he agreed with me. Deep down, he knew. He knew that all the foamed-up, deconstructed, umami-flavored nonsense in the world can’t hold a candle to a good, old-fashioned hot dog. Or even to a decent pot roast, for that matter.
So, to all the “Nouveau Nosh” chefs out there, with your tweezers and your microscopes and your ability to make food disappear before it even hits the plate, I say this: Go back to the kitchen. Get a real pot. Find a real recipe. Make something a person can actually chew. And maybe, just maybe, learn to cook a pot roast that isn’t a complete and utter embarrassment to the entire culinary world. Because I’m telling you, this nonsense is not going to fly. Not on my watch. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I need to go home and make myself a proper sandwich. With real bread and real cheese. A sandwich that doesn’t taste like Mildred’s pot roast. And thank goodness for that.
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