Non-Foodie Men: Dateable?

My size may be deceiving, but I'm the biggest foodie out there. Just short of snob. So naturally I find myself instantly attracted to men (slightly questionable) who can reference famous chefs by their first names. However, most of the time my attraction quickly fades into disgust the moment the topic changes from food. After a few failed dating attempts with “foodie” men, I started to ponder: can I date someone who isn't a foodie? I'm sure the answer will be "depends on the right guy," but should a foodie like myself automatically discount a man with certain food allergies, dietary restrictions, or just plain finickiness.

Below is a short listing of non-foodie men in descending order of foodie dateableness.

The Sicko: No one should fault anyone with legitimate medical allergies. Although it can be funny to see someone break out in hives after eating shellfish, I try to be mindful of people's food allergies (more so if they could die from them). Usually these guys don't expect others to coddle them and their allergies, but watch how they order food to see if they are dateable. If the fella politely ask for substitutions, dateable. If he unexpectedly gets feta cheese in his salad, he’s dateable if he eats around it rather than send it back. However, if you sense any hint of fussiness or self-entitlement, undateable.

There is a narrow exception to the dateable Sicko. If the Sicko has too many allergies to make himself the equivalent of a vegan, then his dateable points go down. This includes those guys that are lactose intolerant and allergic to gluten. You’ve got to be realistic, eating out with these guys will just get frustrating and annoying.

Please note that guys who are just hypochondriacs and THINK they have allergies, avoid these guys like you would if you found a roach in your food. These guys are just needy and will expect you to coddle them at the dinner table and in everything else.

Just Green: These guys are inexperienced, either by choice, disinterest, or they just lived in a bubble (i.e. the meat-and-potatoes guy from Idaho). These fellas are the ones that shock me when they say they have never had sushi, dim sum, or naan. Los Angeles is not lacking in ethnic foods, and anyone who hasn’t tried common ethnic foods also is a good indication of their lack of traveling. Usually, the green ones are dateable and sometimes they can be flipped into foodies with the right sensai. But a red flag goes up for these guys because there’s a chance that they not really green, but are so disinterested in trying new food they are just narrow-minded idiots (see below). A good indicator in spotting these idiots is if they won’t order something based solely on the fact they can’t pronounce the dish.

The Dieter: Living in LA, you meet plenty of actor/model/waiters, and so most are conscious on what they eat. Usually the dieter’s food restrictions don’t affect foodies, but I personally feel strange when I’m the only person eating while my date is nibbling on a salad and sipping water. I’m usually more masculine than most guys I meet, so I don’t want to be reminded of it at the dinner table. I constant dieter will eventually be too frustrating for me to handle, but the occasional dieter trying to maintain his weight is welcomed and dateable (especially since I won’t date fatties).

The Vegetarian/Vegan: These are the tricky ones. On the one hand, I admire the veganetarians since it takes a lot of self-restraint to stay away from meat and dairy. And if they are doing it for humanitarian or environmental reasons, more power to them. But then again, one of my favorite places to eat is called Animal and last month I just ate a foie gras popsicle. Facing the realization that I’d rather spend time with those who enjoy eating and trying new restaurants, the veganetarians are likely not dateable unless there are other major plus factors that compensate. In my case, if the guy is witty, funny, and artistic I can try to look pass the food issues so long as the guy accepts my eating habits.

Junky: This isn’t referring to the William Burroughs sort, but rather “men” who have the eating habits of 8 year-old boys. Junkies will pick out the lettuce and tomatoes out of their double cheeseburgers, they believe Taco Bell is authentic Mexican, and their fridges contain only condiments and take-out containers. Us foodies pride ourselves (maybe a bit too much) on our refined palette and dating someone who actually eats Del Taco other than at 3am will never work, not to mention it’s just plain disgusting.

Narrow-minded Idiots: The most exasperating men of all. The fellas who refuse to eat seafood because it's "fishy" or won't try sushi because it's raw. The men who think "duck" is exotic. When I interface with these idiots, I can't help but look confusingly disgusted by them. I mean, to not even try something based on some preconceived notion that it won't taste good is absolutely absurd. Fucking try it and then decide not to like it. What's the worse that can happen, really? Not only is the narrow-mindedness an indication of odd reasoning abilities, it's a great way of spotting the bores. Absolutely Undateable!

Foodie Men?

I'm not in the dating scene right now but thought this article about was some interesting food for thought (pun unintended = punintended?)..

MEN I'M OVER: FOODIES

The ridiculous rise of male food snobbery has created a whole new way for men to be undate-able.

Jessica

May 18, 2011 at 3:02pm

Once, I was blown off by a guy who makes pickles for a living. We were both alone at a bar in Park Slope one afternoon and he asked me what I was reading. He was an art director or something before but now he spent his days knee-deep in brine. "I love it," he said, doing something weird with his eyes to let me know how sincere he was being. He talked about his pickles for about 45 minutes, during which I was able to conclude not only that they are much more flavorful as a garnish than a subject but that it is possible to have an extremely large ego even while you discuss the merits of canning.

“So, what do you do?” he asked absently while waving down the bartender for another beer.

“I write articles,” I said shyly, and in this short break from talking about him and his cucumbers, he had pivoted so his back was toward me and he was facing another woman.

“Sorry,” he tossed over his shoulder. “Food friend”

This is when I started to hate foodies, especially foodie men, who somehow making even preparing simple foods a macho, one-sided event. If a dude who makes pickles for a living can ask you if you’ve heard of his spicy asparagus with the same sort of smugness as a guy in Williamsburg who asks you if you’ve heard of his band then, women, we are in trouble.

The thing is I happen to love pickles. I will buy a jar of eight dollar McClure’s from the farmer’s market just like the next shmuck (damn those samples!) But the beauty of things like pickles is their inherent down-to-earthness.

It is the same with men who are just buying the food. I used to have daydreams about walking around the farmer’s market with a man and picking out food to cook together. In my fantasy I am wearing a sundress and we are stopping to laugh at some misshapen squash or feeding each other a sugar snap pea. In reality the men I’ve found who want to linger at farmer’s markets are like obsessive teenage boys at a vinyl shop.

“What kind of soil were these grown in,” they’ll demand, brandishing a clump of radishes at a sexily disheveled Brooklyn rooftop gardener. “This is a rare one,” they can be heard murmuring softly to a lumpy heirloom tomato. I knew a guy who practically went berserk during ramps season. “It’s. Only. One week. A. Year,” he said, breathing as though he needed the aid of a paper bag.

We will be doing men a favor if we don’t let this become a thing any more than it already has. For those men who neurotically look at the origin of every ingredient, who regularly order things like pork belly and make fun of how I say “radicchio” (you know who you are asshole), it’s fine to eat healthy and homegrown food but you can be quieter and nicer about it. Last time I checked, you just bought it and assembled it. I didn’t think I was Mies Van der Rohe when I put together my Ikea dresser.

For those men who actually do grow and butcher and preserve the stuff we buy on the weekend to impress people, it would be nice to remind them that food is vital and growing it is sexy because it makes you seem down to earth.

In other words: Hey buddy, you smell like vinegar, lose the attitude.

Original post: http://www.xojane.com/sex/men-im-over-foodies

Food Poisoning, No Bueno.

Readers! (All 9 of you) may want to avoid Tender Greens in Hollywood. Poor Viv.

"We seldom report of having eaten too little."

Food makes me merry. Free food makes me even more so! For the last few weeks, I've been honored by the presence of Christina, a fabulous friend ever since the gruesome days of high school. I've started to notice a particularly scrumptious phenomenon: receiving complimentary food or drink. Last week, Christina and I had brunch at Salt's Cure in West Hollywood. This was my second visit and Christina's first--so when we received a free oatmeal griddle pancake in the shape of a cow, I knew this wasn't the norm. We also looked over at the other patrons and none of them received a gratis griddle cake. Hmmm, interesting. Could it have been my extremely generous yelp review? Or was it Christina's stunning beauty? She was in view of the chef. I'll have to bring her back and see if this happens again in order to confirm my Bubble Theory (if you don't watch 30 Rock, you will not get this reference).

The free griddle cake wouldn't usually rise to the level of blog importance, but this week Christina and I visited the Roger Room on La Cienega for cocktails. As we were finishing up our 2nd round of drinks, I helped another patron named Matt to flag down the bartender. And lucky me, Matt bought us another round! I guess it pays off for being considerate to others (or it could be the food gods smiling upon me and my empty wallet). It is funny that Christina seems to be my good luck charm.
Finally, on St. Pattie's day, I joined my lovely friend Lily for some Irish breakfast and Guinness at Casey's Irish Pub in Downtown. We ended up not getting the Irish breakfast, rather just eggs and bacon, but we did enjoy the rich chocolatey goodness of a Guinness.

When the check arrived, we noticed that the waiter didn't charge for our pints. We flagged him down and like honest patrons told him of the mistake. He shrugged and told us not to worry about it. What a great way to begin the work day. Of course, the waiter asked us to come back later (eyeing Lily the entire time), which explains the free pints.

Whatever the explanation is for these delicious gifts, I am more than happy to accept (with a knife and fork).

Breakfast is the Most Important Meal of the Day

Breakfast, the most important meal of the day. So important that I started preparing my breakfast the night before. After coming home from night class and turning on the Federer v. Simon match, I started feeling the pangs of hunger. As I roamed my fridge full of half eaten cheeses, I noticed I had a bag of arugula that was about to lose its freshness. My economical tendencies switched on a culinary lightbulb: arugula pesto! I grabbed a garlic clove, the bag of arugula, pine nuts, parmesan cheese, and olive oil and started prepping. With a few pulses on my food processor, I had delicious pesto for a late night snack (on top of slices of day-old baguette) and as a condiment for my morning eggs.

I knew I wanted pesto with my eggs, but felt I needed to take it up a notch. Mushroom omelet! I took some cremini mushrooms and an onion. I sliced up the mushrooms and diced onion and started sauteing them with some fresh thyme. In another pan, I made some of my infamous potatoes (infamous only because I've made them for pretty much anyone who sleeps over at my apartment after a late night of drinking). The potatoes are made with diced onions, salt, cayenne, chili powder, cumin, garlic salt and lawry's seasoning salt. Since I'm trying (well, not really) to lose some weight, I decided not to top off my potatoes with sour cream-- instead I added some tomatoes and avocado. I scrambled two eggs with a little milk and salt for the omelet. When it was finished, I topped it off with a dollop of my arugula pesto. To place the final touches, I brewed some fresh coffee in my french press: 2 tablespoons of beans, brewed for 4 1/2 minutes in 190 degree water. Here's the final product:

How to Create a Stirfry of Death

Alternate title: how to teargas yourself and enjoy a lovely meal that may or may not leave your stomach lining in-tact. But that was kind of a long title, don't ya think?

The Beginning of the end:

I was looking for something interesting to spice up an otherwise potentially boring meal of pasta, which for me defaults to stir frying whatever interesting miscellaneous veggies and vegetarian protein I can find in the refrigerator drawer. So between this fact, and the lovely little jaunt I had in the almost-forgotten pepper garden yesterday, you have the story of how I discovered the stir fry of death, the saute of satan, the meal to mace yourself with. Etcetera.

Let's backtrack.

My roommates and I have this cool little garden bed we planted a while back, in the shape of a mandala. It's gone mostly untended in the midst of this crazy holiday season. Thanks to the recent torrential rain, whatever hasn't been picked over or died off still lives: some leeks, a bunch of old rainbow chard, and a plethora of pepper plants: Bell, habanero, yellow banana, cayenne maybe? And so forth.

Noticing these pepper plants full of fruit, and wanting to make the most of whatever remains in the garden as my budget wanes, I picked whatever was ripe or verging on overripe, noting that many of the labels have washed away. Oh well. So there you have your backstory. If you're hungry, experimental, and just a little bit masochistic, as I am, I bet you're waiting for that recipe!

Pasta, with just a little bit O' Chemical Weaponry:

Pasta: Whatever the hell kinda pasta you have. For me, rainbow rotelle from TJ's was the pasta of the day.
cook according to the instructions. Or whatever. I cook to taste.
I usually sprinkle in a little Himalayan pink salt in. Because I think it has magical properties or something, and sometimes toss in a spoonful of olive oil and/or flavored vinegar. You know, because I'm fancy.

Topping of death:
Look what's in your 'fridge. Half an onion? Yes. several cloves of garlic? Obviously. Veggie Italian sausage? Because I'm vegetarian and eat to many carbs. That deformed bell pepper. Ok. And... oooh... what's this? Mystery peppers. But how hot are they? Won't know till I try 'em.

How many should you use? I suddenly remember hearing that in Thailand if you ask for something hot, and you're American, they automatically won't make it as hot as they would for a native from Thailand, unless you really really insist. Because when it comes to spicy, Americans are p*ssies. Well you're not a p*ssy, are you? Of course not. So you grab a handful of mystery peppers and get to choppin'! Watch your fingers, that knife is sharp.

While you are chopping, you notice: tears from peppers > tears from the onion. Who cares, keep chopping those peppers. Besides, frying them, and frying them, um... a lot, will take some of the heat out. Or something.

Throw it all in the pan. peppers first, you know, to cook the heat out. lean over the pan a little, just a little, and breathe like you normally would near a hot frying pan. You feel that? You just maced yourself with supper! Congratulations. Now pour yourself a big glass of milk or rice milk, or really, anything else that will neutralize the burning and hopefully salvage some of your stomach lining and enjoy your pasta/stirfry of death, because by god, you've earned it!
And hey, that sinus infection you've been fighting? Gone!

additional safety tip: after preparing the above meal, you may want to wash your hands with soap 5 or 6 times. Even then, you may want to avoid rubbing your eyes or... um, touching anything sensitive. Well, enough said.

Bon appetite! And, keep it classy! Because you know I always do. (wink)
Yours Truly,
The Blond Chef