We get it, you read Grubstreet. Eater's your home screen. You get off on up-close and personal food Instagrams. You actually subscribe to restaurants' newsletters. And worse - you read them! You read them like menu critiquing is your job!
There are discerning diners - lovers of the finer things, unhappy to settle for second best.
And then there's you. Obsessed with where you go to dinner. Anxious the entire day, scouring reviews, scanning the menu, texting fellow 'foodie' friends for confirmations of your findings.
It's all so exciting to you isn't it? This chase, this thrill. Some people eat to live. You dine to feel alive. You search for larger meaning in the waiter's reading of the specials. Your main belief in life? Truffle Oil. AKA, Fool's Gold.
Such a culinary creep you are, with no surprises left to shake any day from its calculated expectations. You walk in the door, and already know everything there is about the place. Having stalked all published photos of the interior, scoped out the ideal seating situation. You've spent the day pouring over the menu online in between the occasional work break, hoping your boss doesn't walk by.
Nothing like the question mark risk of trying a completely new place. The white whale of unknown spots that sends shivers down your stomach. A spot obviously suggested by a friend - a friend with questionable taste and no sign of resigning this wildcard choice. The Yelp reviews may be fair, but their otherwise lack of write ups gets you all anxious and squirrely, in the worst way possible. Should you just cancel? Save yourself the indignity of what may possibly turn out to be a terrible (read: average) meal. Nothing in comparison to dining it up in a douchey establishment. But still, a gut-wrenching worry nonetheless.
Like a poor man's Gwyneth Paltrow, with nothing left in your life save this bizarrely fluffed knowledge of where you think you should go, why it's great, what you need to get.
You're bringing everybody down.
[Photo via @melissamale]