I received a text the other day from my wife. She described me to a friend as a “foodi”. I looked at the spelling, saw the cuteness, put it aside. I’m not fond of the word “foodie”. My dislike doesn’t come from what the word connotes, but the awkwardness of it. It feels like “impacts” – as a verb – on the tongue.
Ok, but that’s dodging the question. Everyone knows that when the wife and daughter get their hands on the “man-cave”, the cave somehow becomes more civilized, more livable, cuter. Tibetan Spaniels are what happen to hunting dogs when a wife is through with them. And “foodi” is what happens to the phrase “gourmand” (though I’m hardly that) when a wife and daughter, in casual conversation, refactor usage.
Ok, to summarize. I’m not a foodie, though I may resemble one. But I’m not so curmudgeonly that I’ll object too much to “foodi”.
So that this article has at least one food photograph, here are the stir fried pork intestines, in garlic sauce, from the Tasty China that no one knows about, the one on Peachtree Industrial Boulevard. It’s largely Shaingahiese, according to BuHi, which my brother tells me is a less spicy, sweeter cuisine than most Chinese. I will note that the dish has a smell but tastes really good. Think of a fattier kind of squid or octopus.
Postscript: Ironic that the day this article was posted, B R Myers has an essay posted on the on line version of Atlantic Magazine lambasting the morality of foodies, as he sees it. My response? If being a foodie is by necessity being a glutton, then please tell that to my scale. I always thought the point wasn’t eating a lot, but to make the best of the eating you do.