Scallop carpaccio and sunken clams.
Food is what is on our minds. We are ill and drunk and foaming at every hour with a hunger that our stomach could have never dreamt up on its own. The table has now become a refuge of the sick. It’s the ripe inversion of Knut Hamsun’s Hunger — a slow glass-clinking kind of killing.
Every great aunt’s recipe for yellowed duck.
Our stomach is simple, it won’t ask for what isn’t needed, but watch it be overruled by a mind that has fetishized our most important habit. Look for the foundational hunger beneath our cravings, a crying out for identity and safety, one plate at a time.
Mussels in brine, mussels in stew, mussels in butter.
When you are a sad boy looking to fit in, what can you rely on? When you are a lonestar stuck at a bar and need some quick credentials, what can you rely on? Food is your answer. Do your research and buy a guide and be the most uncontroversial of lovers.
Large plate of lobster in tantric coupling, near death.
Tell me what you like. Is it avocado? Tell me what you like to put it on. Yes I feel the same. Tell me where you like to get it. I’ve been there. Now we’ve really got something going.
Coitus reservatus of sundried clams.
The senses are ruling, pointing to a restless state of mind that will grasp at all the quick pleasures, seeking bereavement from itself. Nothing will soften the lack of an identity like mac n’ cheese with aged bacon and a stout. Sex?
A small fenced-in plate of arugula, fennel, parsley, cucumber and radish.
Food is the way we take in the world, but will the proper handling of it will release us from all of life’s dangers? In the grand perversion, there are as many pickers are there are gorgers. And pushers too; on a sunny Saturday in the park, gluten-free heroin.
Sandystoned pizza baked and brickfired in the round.
Enough of bread pudding, of salted caramel and pickled pigs, fried and deeper fried. What we need is just enough, just enough good food to settle our minds and give our stomachs a rest. Then maybe we can return to joyful dinners among friends.
A sampling from every exotic nation, feeds 7 billion. Please allow longer wait times.
In one or another hip San Francisco restaurant, you will see a mellow waitress who is working on her life in a strong and sober way. She’s bringing some new plate of food to a moneyed group of playpals. The lust for the food and for each other is hardly concealed. Their eyes are glazed and sriracha-fevered and they are talking about the zombie apocalypse, as if it hasn’t come already.