So as to throw into ecstasy.
A friend of mine, as a joke, used to say that he was “ravishing”. He meant so say he was “famished”, but by substituting that word with one that had a similar -ish- core he presumed to amuse one and all who shared his sense of cunning linguistic humor.
I remember that friend once in a while for a discussion we had about eating, and specifically the language used by human beings to describe their experiences in consuming food. There are times when, to me, this type of language is borderline obscene.
“This burger was tasty and moist.”
“The brownie was delicious and savory.”
“My mouth watered as I brought the delectable morsel to my mouth.”
Statements like this upset my stomach. Statements like this make me cringe. Detailed accounts of an individual’s gastronomical intake are, to me, just slightly different from similarly vivid accounts of defecation or vomiting, which are the only ultimate results of food consumption. This act of placing food in your mouth is the beginning of the digestive process, an act of necessity that we must perform to maintain this inferior vessel into which our souls are poured. The earthly obsession with turning this necessity into a publicly-shared sensuous act is ludicrous to me. Restaurant and food reviews — which I involuntarily encounter at times — virtually always make we want to hurl whatever it is I am reading from, be it a printed newspaper or a handheld mobile device. If I ever get blasé enough about material possessions I imagine myself throwing a large object into a TV screen when a food reviewer appears on the screen. For now I almost spontaneously grab the remote control to change the channel when a food or restaurant review comes up on the television. I just can not tolerate the way some humans talk about food.
I know, of course, that my instincts about this matter are probably not common. Others may be indifferent to accounts of the initiation of the digestive process but I doubt if very many share my feelings of discomfort.
Beyond the grotesqueries of these accounts, though, is even more astonishment that restaurant reviews exist at all. I read people’s accounts of a fabulous experience they claim to have had eating tacos at an obscure Mexican restaurant and I continually grimace, whispering “Who the hell cares?” as one reviewer lavishes panegyrics on the crispiness of the taco shells before another reviewer chimes in to say that their taco shell was stale — stale! — when they visited. The cultural debt incurred with the consumption of food at a dining establishment goes well beyond the moneys, it is a debt so severe that someone who spends $4 on a taco assumes the taco-maker owes them a goddam living.
