'Nothing civilises like a meal' - Anon.
The food blogger is a strange and terrible creature: the twisted chimaera of Brillat-Savarin and Hunter S. Thompson, you can find them alternately savaging and praising restaurants, each other, wine, foie gras or the popup hot dog, burger or chicken shop that's realyl a McDonalds masquerading with an expensive price tag. Dry-aged, smeared with an inappropriate mob of ingredients and stuck on with biodynamic glue, all to satsfy the left-wing, middle-class patrons who like nothing more than slumming it in absolute luxury.
I'm sat here, in the window of a tax-evading coffee shop looking out opposite into the sweatshop-using discount clothes place's lingerie section, where dangerously skinny girls that look about as old as most of my friends face the hordes, dull glassfibre eyes matched by the crisp packets, Coke bottles, coffee cups and chewing gum strewn about the aisles. Nobody cares. Is nothing sacred?
When the hipsters become extinct and take their transatlantic shrines of wannabe obesity with them, when Sketch is gone and Gordon Ramsay dead, when scores of commis chefs quit and all the stars stop coming, at your tables or on reviews, where will we go? All that's left will be the old-timers, the die hards, the true masters of their craft, the genuinely talented chefs and eager, dedicated kitchens, the full-bore, flat out lovers, cooks, chroniclers of eating and drinking, and the quiet, pensive, intriguing souls on the other side of the bar. Equal part bon vivant and subsistence farmer, weekend BBQ Neanderthal and wage slave, the über-human of food is still in prototype.
NB: more an exercise in writing than a coherent post expressing actual fact, this might not make sense. Take from it what you will, and please bear in mind that any opinions expressed are potentially not even my own or anyone else's.