You ever read a restaurant menu? It’s not just food anymore, it’s… an epic poem. ‘Pan-seared Atlantic salmon, nestled on a bed of delicate seasonal greens, drizzled with a balsamic reduction, hand-harvested by moonlit virgins.’ It’s salmon! It’s fish! Just tell me it’s fish! Do I need the entire origin story of the balsamic vinegar? ‘Our potatoes, lovingly embraced by artisanal butter and whisper-thin chives.’ It’s a baked potato! A baked potato doesn’t need a soliloquy. I just want to know if it comes with sour cream or if I have to beg for it. It’s like they’re trying to distract you from the fact that it’s just, you know, food. Edible stuff. That I’m going to eat with a fork. It’s not a theatrical production, it’s dinner!
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