I Hate Talking About My Food
Last week, a client and I discussed stock responses to help you navigate conversations that turn sensitive or when you’re limited in what information you can provide. I offhandedly mentioned that I don’t like talking about my food. She asked why, inspiring my second Curb Your Enthusiasm-inspired rant.
There’s a running bit in Curb Your Enthusiasm about Larry David’s view that scones should be hard and that soft scones are muffins. His disagreement with a coffee shop owner over that point enrages Larry so much that he starts a coffee shop located right next door out of spite.
As a semi-trained chef, what’s amusing to me about the argument is that scones, muffins, and cakes are essentially the same thing. They have the same basic ingredients—it’s only the slight variation in ingredient ratios that causes them to seem different. The point at which a dense muffin crosses the line into scone is totally subjective.
And this is why I don’t like talking about my food.
How are you enjoying the food?
What do you think?
Those questions burn my britches. I usually want to yell out, “Who cares?!?” in response. Given how subjective food is, my experience has almost no bearing on whether someone else would experience it in the same way. Besides, I’m not expert enough to have a qualified opinion. I might like the item on my plate, but I haven’t scoured the Earth or tested 1,000 different versions to have a reasoned analysis or worthwhile opinion on it.
That said, I know I’m the weird one on this. People, of course, ask about the food as part of social rituals and genuine attempts at connection, so I usually don’t deliver the rant in response. “It’s fine” is my standard response. And if others at the table are sharing their perspectives, I’ll just treat it like a dinner table conversation on gardening, the weather, or books of fiction—I’ll just tune out until we’ve moved on to something else. (Though I might have a different perspective if these conversations were as witty as this one between Larry David and Jerry Seinfeld.)
However, as I reflected on why food questions are such a peeve, I realized there’s a much bigger issue: they interrupt the sensory experience and force you into thinking about the experience, which isn’t nearly as enjoyable as the experience itself.
Picture sitting on a park bench enjoying nature on a beautiful day. If someone asks you to describe how you’re enjoying the day, all of a sudden, you’re no longer enjoying the day—you’re analyzing and judging it.
Or imagine walking through an art museum and, instead of being present, taking in each piece, and allowing them to spark interesting thoughts and feelings, you had to form and report an opinion on every artwork you saw. Those are radically different experiences!
At culinary school, this distinction was most apparent when we had to critique the food we prepared. You’d first observe the food visually, then olfactorily. After writing your initial impressions, you’d taste it and analyze how closely it delivered on your intent. Whether you experienced the food as “good” is a minor part of the analysis. You’re technically eating food, but that’s a world away from how you’d want a great meal to feel.
That speaks to how important presence is for great experiences. If I read a book in search of a specific insight, I’m much less likely to be in a flow state than when my focus is just on consuming the content. Whenever I notice how fast the person next to me on the gym treadmills is going, it distracts me from effectively noticing my running experience.
It’s way more enjoyable to stay in the moment and to stay with the sensations. When we analyze, we impoverish our experience.
That, and don’t ask me about my food. 🙂