I have a healthy appreciation for food—for the joy of dining with friends, for the pleasure of cooking, for the miracle of agriculture, for the creative potential of shopping at the market, for the artistry of certain professional chefs. It would be a waste living in New York City and not enjoy the gustatory delights this city has to offer.
Those who do not know me accuse me of food snobbery. This is unfair. I make no pretense to the excruciating refinement of those who fancy themselves connoisseurs. I eschew gastronomic label whores, name-dropping social aspirants who, without having themselves the attained wealth, covet the status and trappings of the moneyed class. I only have contempt for the mediocrity of so-called food writers whose sole abiding passion is self promotion.
Those who do know me understand what motivates me to write this. Perhaps it makes me small-minded, dear reader, but when another woman strikes so close to the heart— emotional and professional—one feels entitled to just a little bit of cattiness.
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