A Comedic Review of Trendy Food, Overpriced Restaurants, and Questionable Culinary Choices
There are many things in life that I am willing to accept without complaint. I understand that fashion changes. I understand that young people have their own music. I even understand that restaurants now want to photograph your dinner before you are allowed to eat it.
But I have reached my limit with truffle oil.
Who put that much truffle oil on this?
I would like a word.
Not a screaming match. Not a dramatic confrontation. Just a calm, respectful conversation between me, the chef, and whoever decided that every dish in existence needed to smell like an expensive forest floor.
Truffle used to be something special. Now it seems to have become the culinary equivalent of glitter. Put it on fries. Put it on pasta. Put it on eggs. Put it on pizza. Put it on popcorn if you must. At this rate, I fully expect someone to walk into a coffee shop and order a truffle-oil latte.
And naturally, it will cost $19.
Welcome to modern food culture, where ordinary ingredients are given complicated names, portions are shrinking, prices are expanding, and apparently nobody is allowed to eat a meal without photographing it first.
When Did Dinner Become a Luxury Experience?
I remember when going to a restaurant meant ordering food, receiving food, eating food, and then paying for food.
Simple.
Now, dining out can feel like attending an elaborate theatrical production.
First, there is the reservation. Then the dress code. Then the menu that appears to have been written by someone who has never met a normal noun.
You are not ordering chicken.
You are ordering “heritage poultry, delicately roasted over seasonal aromatics.”
It is chicken, dear.
The waiter arrives and explains that the chef has “reimagined” a classic dish.
Reimagined?
I did not ask the chicken to have a spiritual journey.
Then comes the plate.
It is enormous.
The plate, that is.
The actual food is approximately the size of a postage stamp.
There are three decorative leaves, a tiny smear of sauce, one edible flower, and something described as “air.”
Air?
I already have air.
I came here for dinner.
The $30 Salad Problem
Let’s talk about salads.
A salad used to be a sensible choice. Lettuce, tomatoes, cucumber, perhaps some carrots, maybe a little cheese if you were feeling fancy.
Now, some restaurant salads have become financial investments.
You order one and suddenly you are looking at a bowl containing six leaves of lettuce, half an avocado, three walnuts, a few crumbs of goat cheese, and something described as “artisanally roasted.”
The waiter says, “That will be $27.”
Twenty-seven dollars?
For leaves?
I could buy enough lettuce at the grocery store to build an entire garden.
And naturally, the menu explains that the salad is “locally sourced.”
Well, I certainly hope so. For $27, those vegetables should have personally introduced themselves to the farmer before arriving at my table.
The problem isn’t that restaurants should never charge more for quality ingredients. Good food costs money, and restaurants have significant expenses. Staff need to be paid. Rent needs to be covered. Ingredients cost money. Running a restaurant is difficult.
But there comes a point where the description of the food becomes more impressive than the food itself.
If I need to read a paragraph before understanding that I am ordering lettuce, we may have gone too far.
Avocado Toast Has Some Explaining to Do
And then there is avocado toast.
I have nothing against avocado.
Avocado is perfectly respectable.
Toast is also perfectly respectable.
Together, they are a reasonable breakfast.
But somehow, avocado toast became a cultural phenomenon.
Suddenly, people were paying restaurant prices for something that could be made in five minutes in their own kitchens.
The restaurant version arrives beautifully arranged, naturally. There may be chili flakes, microgreens, seeds, a poached egg, fermented vegetables, and a drizzle of something that has an unnecessarily complicated name.
It looks gorgeous.
You take a photograph.
You post it online.
Then you eat it.
And eventually you realize you have paid enough money for toast and avocado to make you question several of your financial decisions.
Again, I am not against fancy brunch.
I am against being emotionally manipulated by a piece of bread.
Why Does Everything Need to Be “Deconstructed”?
Another food trend I would like to discuss is the deconstructed dish.
Now, perhaps I am old-fashioned, but when I order a burger, I expect the burger to be assembled.
I don’t want the bun sitting on one side of the plate.
The meat sitting somewhere else.
The cheese arranged artistically in a corner.
And the sauce presented in a tiny spoon like it is an archaeological artifact.
Put it together, dear.
That’s why sandwiches were invented.
The same thing happens with desserts.
You order cheesecake and receive a plate containing cheesecake crumbs, a tiny square of cream, a strawberry cut into an architectural shape, and something that looks like a decorative puddle.
The waiter explains that it is a “deconstructed cheesecake.”
No.
It is an unfinished cheesecake.
I am not paying restaurant prices to assemble my own dessert.
Foam Is Not a Food Group
Now we must address foam.
Why is there foam?
I have questions.
I understand that modern chefs enjoy experimenting with textures and presentation. Culinary creativity can be wonderful. But sometimes I look at a plate and wonder whether the kitchen accidentally spilled bubble bath on my dinner.
There is foam next to the fish.
Foam on the dessert.
Foam on the vegetables.
At some point, somebody needs to say, “That’s enough.”
And that person may as well be me.
Because I was promised a meal.
Not a science experiment.
The Great Microgreen Invasion
Microgreens are everywhere.
Everywhere.
You cannot order a modern restaurant meal without discovering approximately twelve tiny plants hiding somewhere on your plate.
What are they?
Why are they there?
Am I supposed to eat them?
Are they decoration?
Is there a tiny gardener living in the kitchen?
Microgreens can certainly be nutritious and perfectly pleasant to eat. But sometimes they seem to exist primarily to make a plate look expensive.
You can take an ordinary piece of grilled chicken and put three tiny green leaves on top of it.
Suddenly, the chicken costs another $12.
Congratulations.
You have discovered the power of leaves.
“Artisanal” Is Doing a Lot of Work
Food marketing has also become quite creative.
Everything is artisanal now.
Artisanal bread.
Artisanal cheese.
Artisanal pickles.
Artisanal ice cream.
Artisanal ketchup.
At this point, I am waiting for artisanal salt.
Actually, that probably already exists.
The word “artisanal” makes food sound special, handcrafted, and carefully produced. And sometimes it genuinely is. Small-batch products can be excellent.
But occasionally, the terminology seems to be doing more work than the ingredient.
If someone tells me the restaurant’s ketchup is handcrafted in small batches, I am going to need to sit down.
It’s ketchup, dear.
The Menu Description Olympics
Have you ever read a restaurant menu and felt as though you needed a dictionary?
Apparently, food cannot simply be grilled anymore.
It must be “fire-kissed.”
Vegetables cannot be roasted.
They must be “slow-roasted over an open flame.”
Sauce is now “velouté.”
Potatoes are “hand-selected heirloom tubers.”
And chicken is apparently “farm-raised poultry prepared with seasonal aromatics.”
I admire creativity, but sometimes I would simply like to know what I am eating.
If the menu says “potato,” I know what to expect.
If it says “rustic golden tuber medley with a fragrant reduction,” I become concerned.
When Instagram Becomes the Chef
One of the biggest changes in restaurant culture is the importance of presentation.
Food needs to be photographed.
And honestly, I understand it.
A beautiful plate can be part of the dining experience. Presentation matters. People eat with their eyes first.
But sometimes restaurants seem to be designing food for social media rather than human beings.
There are burgers so tall that eating them requires the structural engineering skills of an architect.
There are milkshakes covered in cookies, candy, whipped cream, chocolate sauce, and approximately half a grocery store.
There are desserts that look like miniature gardens.
And there are pizzas arriving with toppings arranged so carefully that you feel guilty touching them.
Eventually, somebody has to take a bite.
That is what the food is for.
The Tiny Tasting Menu Situation
Then we have tasting menus.
Now, I know what you’re thinking.
“Madam, tasting menus are an art form.”
Yes, yes.
I understand.
But sometimes a tasting menu consists of approximately fourteen courses, and after three hours you have consumed enough food to feed one moderately hungry cat.
The waiter arrives with another tiny plate.
“Here we have our chef’s interpretation of summer.”
My interpretation of summer is eating something substantial.
Then comes the next course.
And another.
And another.
By course number nine, I am wondering whether bread would be considered rude.
Of course, the experience can be wonderful when done well. A thoughtfully designed tasting menu can showcase technique, creativity, and seasonal ingredients.
But if I leave the restaurant and immediately stop at a fast-food restaurant because I am still hungry, we have a problem.
Not Everything Needs Truffle Oil
And now we return to the original crime.
Truffle oil.
Please stop.
I understand why people love truffle flavor. It is earthy, rich, distinctive, and luxurious.
But there is a difference between using an ingredient thoughtfully and pouring it over everything as though the bottle is about to expire.
Truffle oil can easily overpower a dish.
Instead of tasting the pasta, you taste truffle oil.
Instead of tasting the fries, you taste truffle oil.
Instead of tasting the eggs, you taste truffle oil.
Eventually, everything tastes exactly the same.
And if every dish tastes like truffle, what was the point of ordering different dishes?
Dear chef, I came here for variety.
Not a truffle-themed survival challenge.
The Real Problem With Overpriced Food
The issue isn’t expensive food.
People should absolutely spend their money however they like. Fine dining can be an incredible experience. Exceptional ingredients, talented chefs, skilled servers, beautiful surroundings, and creative cooking can justify a higher price.
The problem is when the price becomes the main attraction.
Good food does not have to be complicated.
A perfectly roasted chicken can be wonderful.
A bowl of well-made pasta can be extraordinary.
A fresh tomato with good olive oil and salt can be delicious.
A warm piece of bread with butter can make an entire table happy.
Food doesn’t need fourteen ingredients with names nobody can pronounce.
It needs to taste good.
What a revolutionary idea.
The Verdict
So, where do I stand on modern food trends?
Some are wonderful.
Some are ridiculous.
Some are wonderful and ridiculous at the same time.
I have nothing against chefs experimenting. I applaud creativity. I appreciate beautiful presentation. I respect quality ingredients. I will even tolerate the occasional microgreen.
But there must be limits.
Not every meal needs foam.
Not every sandwich needs to be deconstructed.
Not every salad needs to cost $30.
Not every ingredient needs to be described as artisanal.
And for the love of everything edible, not every dish needs truffle oil.
So the next time you sit down at a trendy restaurant and the waiter places a plate in front of you containing three leaves, a decorative flower, a teaspoon of sauce, and something described as “an elevated interpretation of potatoes,” take a moment.
Look at the plate.
Look at the price.
Then look at your dining companion.
And ask the question we are all thinking.
“Excuse me, where is the rest of my dinner?”
Because I am not saying modern restaurant culture has gone completely off the rails.
I’m just saying the evidence is concerning.
And I would like a word with the manager.
