When I talk to other people whose identities are built around food and dining, there’s this level of specificity that seems inescapable. Maybe the conversation starts with swapping tales of recent travels (I was just in China!), then naturally meanders onto a shared appreciation for Chinese food, but before long, ends up riddled with niche qualifiers: “God, I miss the biang biang noodles at Xi’an Famous Food” or, “Oh yeah, the mackerel dumplings at ShanDong Mama are insane, boiled or fried?”
These little name drops might seem innocent enough on the surface, but rest assured: they are strategically implanted. While this is obviously obnoxious, annoying, and classist, this kind of patter does serve a purpose; it’s about identifying shared ground. At its core, it’s a way to subtly establish in-group status in a specific cultural landscape, one where to be ‘into’ food is to be cool. There’s vetting going on when we do this type of name dropping – vetting to make sure that you’re the right kind of noodle-enjoyer. Because of course it’s not actually about the noodles, it’s about status, class, and belonging. As with so much else in our modern lives, we’re doing a little dance to see if we’re kindred spirits. The specificity is a shorthand for cultural literacy, so that we can dip a toe and get a read on whether we’re from the same kind of world, and hold the same kinds of values.
Once we’ve got this out of the way, then we can tentatively start to open up a little. We’ve created a safe space, and excitingly, this means we can introduce a punchy new seasonal ingredient to the conversation: sincerity. We were not simply showing off our knowledge, we were figuring out if someone is safe to be transparent with, lest we risk being seen as basic. And if it worked, we’ve created the right conditions to quietly lean close, and in a low, conspiratorial tone, let our conversational partner know, “I actually love a late-night Guzman nacho fries”.
Of course you do, you’re only human. But what’s important is that we’ve built the context to be able to let go a little. The performance hasn’t ended, but it’s taken on a new shape, one with a bit more authenticity. We can talk about how we love ‘basic’ things like tacos, dumplings, and ice cream, but we still feel safe in the knowledge that we both know that we’re talking about the al pastor tacos at El Columpio, the sauerkraut and pork dumplings at Aunty’s Dumplings and a scoop of vibrant ube gelato at Kariton – not Taco Bill, HuTong, and Messina. Groundwork laid. Let’s get into some shakier territory. A Hawaiian pizza. Butter chicken. It’s trash enjoyment as earned privilege. Naturally, this conversation wouldn’t have bolstered your foodie identity if you led with your fondness for these secret lowbrow vices. That’s why the setup is important. We proved we have ‘good taste', now we can talk about what we actually like.
If you think you’re living outside this age of performance because you’re not a foodie, think again. Your most devoted film buff friend is almost certainly playing the same game. Dropping the right hints that let their audience know that they are a true cinephile, and that their opinions on trash movies are more nuanced than those of someone who hasn’t logged Ingmar Bergman’s whole filmography. They probably have Sharknado 6: It's About Time at five stars, tactfully offset by Chungking Express in their Top Four. Much like the great abstract painters starting with realism, you too have to master the rules before you can break them.
Frequent Veraison contributor Claire recently asked about my favourite bad movie. I said Fast & Furious 7. She rolled her eyes, “That’s a boring answer. That’s one of those ‘bad’ movies that’s cool to like. What’s your actual favourite bad movie?”. I scrambled for a better response but they all fit the same pattern. Evil Dead 2? No, that’s definitely on the ‘in’ list. D.E.B.S.? Nope, that’s cool too. I asked Claire hers. “ATL – it’s about a rollerskating rink and T.I. is in it.” I checked it out on Letterboxd later. Looks bad. Not a single friend has seen it or added it to a watchlist. Shit. That’s a proper, authentic answer.
This whole charade is ridiculous, restrictive, and draining. I’m tired even writing about it! Maybe somewhere between my first Lune croissant and my last Caper’s Greek Salad Martini I lost the ability to purely, earnestly like what I like – the waters are so muddy now with endless layers of nuance: ironic appreciation, post-ironic appreciation, performed sincerity. And who’s to blame? Well, for starters, there’s an entire industry that profits from keeping us anxious about relevance.
Once upon a time, in the pre-Broadsheet days, we had word of mouth, we had stumbling upon things, and we had published opinions coming from a wider range of sources. Now, we have an amorphous cloud of the city’s most dedicated diners moving en masse from one “First Look: This Ex-Attica Chef is Redefining Singaporean Street Food in a Former Strip Club” to the next, never dwelling long enough to become a regular, always on the prowl for the next Soi 38 – because nothing tastes as good as, “Oh I ate there when it first opened, it’s honestly gone downhill a bit” feels.
Not only does the endless churn of ‘What’s Hot’ help to keep the food-minded masses anxious about relevance, it also impacts restaurants. The Broadsheet Effect is well understood among venue operators. A new place opens up, an article comes out, they’re suddenly inundated with customers. Theoretically good, but maybe they’re not set up to deal with the unexpected volume, and it doesn’t necessarily translate to creating a lasting community. I asked the owners of my favourite local wine bar (Whitebark in North Melbourne) about why they haven’t had a Broadsheet writeup. “We don’t want to”, says Josh. “We want to be a neighbourhood bar, for locals, and we want those locals to be getting really good service every time they come in. We’re not set up to deal with the Broadsheet Hug of Death, it would mean a drop in standards, and that’s not a tradeoff we want to make.”
By making what we eat a part of our identity rather than a part of our day, we end up denying ourselves the ability to just… go get a feed. Spontaneity is scarcer, and the consequences of having a flop meal feel bizarrely dire. The rising cost of living plays a part in this – no one wants to spend $26 on an underwhelming sandwich – but the blow to the ego actually feels even worse than that to the wallet. How could I have done this? How did I, a foodie, end up eating a bad lunch? That’s not who I am, that’s not how I operate. Exhausting.
Contrast this with my friend who eats the same two meals on repeat for months at a time. Every time he makes his chicken and rice, he’s thrilled. Genuinely stoked about how good it tastes. It’s not that he’s not engaged with food, he just hasn’t made it a cornerstone of his sense of self, and that allows him to engage with it in a much more direct and authentic manner. He actually gets far more value out of dining out than any foodie I know. He approaches a meal at a wine bar with no pretensions. Loves the anchovy toast. Never even crosses his mind that it’s been done to death – because why would it? It tastes good. On the other side of the spectrum, my most foodie friends are saying things like “I’m so sick of dishes being finished table-side, it’s so played out.” Who’s happier here?
I’m not about to stop caring about food. Or films, or music, or art. But I am trying to follow my instincts more. And next time I order wrong, I will commend myself for taking the path less travelled. Unless my friend’s looks better :P