This is a blog about food. Or, this will be a blog about food. Or perhaps, this will not be a blog about food but instead will ridicule contemporary food culture, or at least that of Los Angeles... But I guess that would again make it about food, only in the negative. I don’t have grand dreams or ambitions for this thing; I don’t have grand dreams or ambitions for most things. I do like to eat, and drink. I suppose I like to cook. But really, more than anything, I like to sit on a couch and stare at a wall. I’ve never written a blog – or much else for that matter – but I’m supposed to like to write.
But this isn’t about me. I’d actually much rather insulate my real feelings in irony and condescension. I think the blog is a sanctioned forum for this type of megalomania. Or that’s what I’ve been led to believe. Moreover, I’m not going to exclusively address food topics – Jesus, who wants to hear another culinazi talking about the Kogi Korean-Mexican-Fusion-Fad-Food-Truck? (Kamsa Hamnida, Pero No Gracias!) Maybe the reader wants to hear rap lyrics, or read a position paper, or just look at pictures. As an arrogant Frenchmen with a taste for California once said “Do not ask who I am and do not ask me to remain the same: leave it to our bureaucrats and our police to see that our papers are in order. At least spare us their morality when we write.” I’m going to allow myself these types of self-important, obscure references because, really, how interesting is food? (Yeah, I said it!) Honestly I’m not enthused enough to be jumping on the bandwagon, I’m just moving to the club car.
See I vacillate between thinking I love food and knowing I hate the “food culture” that has emerged in the last several years – these two feeling are not actually distinct or even in conflict. But for sure the debates, discussions, rants, and raves (?) that surround this whole culinary zeitgeist are “interesting.”
I’m not a culinista. I’m not part of the contemporary food culture. I don’t have impassioned debates about artisanal or raw milk cheeses, local vs. organic, macrobiotic vs. vegan. I’m glad my friends don’t demand this of me. I don’t think people should accrue social capital because they know how to use a chinois – I think it has something to do with high-grade methamphetamine. The local farmers market is a schlep and I’m suspicious of its vendors. My passion for roast marrow bones, though not equaled, is rivaled by my love for cheap beer.
I’m the wrong person to be writing about food. But if everyone else can write about themselves and other things they don’t know about, why not me? Welcome to L.A. Food Urchin. Enjoy.
