Let me make it clear that I’ve only been eating at gourmet, celebrity-cheffed, critically-beloved restaurants for a couple of years now. Before I met my boyfriend, I enjoyed a lot of macaroni and cheese at home, and the most extravagant restaurant item I allowed myself to splurge on was the $14 guacamole at Rosa Mexicano.
So what I’m saying is–I don’t think I’m better than anyone else, really. But on Saturday night, my boyfriend and I were at Colicchio & Sons enjoying a lavish dinner when the table next to us was seated with douchebags. We were able to immediately recognize them as douchebags by the way two of them sat down, spread their knees about eight feet apart, and put their elbows up on the back of their booth while they surveyed the place. I wasn’t able to see the legs of the third one, and his chair wouldn’t allow him to put his elbows up on its back, but I knew he was a douchebag by association.
The first thing out of the mouth of the one next to me upon looking at the menu was, “Oh, sweetbreads. I love sweetbreads.” First of all, NO. No, you don’t. Nobody loves sweetbreads. They are cow pancreas, and they are not delicious. And second of all, you are a douchebag.
The thing is–I wouldn’t say I dislike sweetbreads. I think they’re interesting. I think it’s interesting that chefs are using them, and I think it’s interesting that we pay money for them, and I think it’s interesting that a really good chef can make them not-gross enough that we don’t feel stupid paying money for them.
But you know that’s not what this guy meant. What he meant was, “I’m trying to impress you by pretending I have some super-advanced palate that picks up the sweet delicate nuances of organ meats.” I hate eating next to people who are there to enjoy their status more than the food.
I know that once you get to a certain price point, the only people who can afford to eat at those restaurants are douchebags. (Except for my boyfriend, who worked hard and got his PhD and deserves what he has.) Everyone else is mostly finance types, you know, who got bachelor’s degrees and got to work making $100k their first year. And I know that a big part of being a douchebag is keeping up with and outdoing your douchebaggy friends. But still.
I expect to feel out of place at almost every restaurant we go to, but these guys looked at us so hard while I took pictures of my food and then passed my camera across the table to my boyfriend so he could take pictures of his for me. And then–AND THEN–
They had the audacity to order the gnocchi. And they pronounced it NO-key. Please do not judge me for being a food blogger and then kill simple Italian pronunciations, thanks. I know how to pronounce orecchiette, too, ya jerks.
When we left the restaurant, I immediately went on a tirade about how much I hate it when fellow diners make me feel stupid about how much I’m enjoying a meal, especially when they’re cultureless a-holes. I said, “I know I’m new money, too, but . . .,” and my boyfriend said, “The worst part is that you’re snobby new money.”