San Francisco is a Foodocracy
And I’m privileged to be a foodocrat
Working at Cold Stone for two summers, I served a lot of samples. In fact, I watched customers get full off samples. So when I visited Smitten Ice Cream for the first time two weeks ago, I was appalled to be refused the right to sample.
“Could I possibly try the salted caramel?”
“No.” Cold as ice. “We make our ice cream made-to-order.” Why is she annoyed? I should be annoyed. Resisting the urge to turn and leave, I took a deep breath.
“Okay, I’ll have a small salted caramel then. The smallest.”
“Do you want chocolate on that?”
“Um, I’ve obviously never tasted it. What do you suggest?”
“Oh, I definitely recommend the chocolate. It helps cut the taste of the ice cream a bit.” Cut the taste? CUT THE TASTE? You cut the taste of a vodka shot or cough syrup.
“Okay, a small salted caramel with chocolate I guess.”
“That’ll be $5.25.” Over five-dollars? For ice cream? That I can’t even sample beforehand?
Overcome with the illusion of powerlessness, I handed the server my credit card then sat down at a bench to wait. Moments later, I heard my name being called and went up to the counter to be handed a bowl of
fresh, locally sourced, organic, high-quality, additive-free
ice cream literally made just for me. I walked to an adjacent park to enjoy several “tastes” of salty, caramely, chocolatey ice cream. I was torn between unfoundedly hating or forcedly loving the ice cream whose tastes could cut. It was a little too sweet for my liking, but I still ate every last bite. On principle.
Hours before my ice cream endeavor, I witnessed a friend attempting to substitute ingredients in her sandwich at Giordano Bros. “We really don’t encourage people to make changes. I’ll do it, but I won’t be happy about it,” her sandwich artist responded, as if he would be eating the sandwich. He, like my ice cream server, perfected that guilt-inducing tone that leaves you inexplicably submissive.
The next day, my friend and I stopped in at Jane, a Pacific Heights coffee shop that wishes it were a cookie shop.
“Do you have nonfat milk?” I asked approaching the counter. I know, I know. Asks the girl who went on an ice cream date with herself less than twelve hours prior.
“No.”
“Okay. Well I guess I’ll just have a whole milk latte if I don’t have a choice.”
“Yeah, you don’t.” To console myself for the “inferior” latte I would now “need” to consume, I added a cookie to my order. The barista took down my name and handed me my cookie. I took a chewy chocolatey bite while waiting for my latte. It was foam-artified and my name was called. I admired the art but for a moment, then threw a lid on it as my friend and I waltzed out the door.
While I typically cook for myself during the week, I explore San Francisco’s expansive coffee and food scene over the weekend. On this particular weekend, however,
I was stripped of my gustatory freedom.
I was victim to San Francisco’s Foodocracy. The one in which what you like or don’t like and what you consume or don’t consume is decided by some other entity. The one in which a word like “organic” trumps your preferences, dietary restrictions, or semblance of control.
A week later, I arrived at a bus stop to see a young couple enjoying a to-go-box meal while huddled over a trash can. They hadn’t been guilt-tripped into purchasing their meal. They resisted foodocratic force. Yes, they were above the influence, empowered to choose from a plethora of options. Options that were castaway by ungrateful foodocrats. Options that resided in a city trash can.
Observing them from afar, I was struck by a not-so-tasty reality that I was forced to ingest whether I liked it or not: Some people could only dream to experience a problem so first-worldly as the San Francisco Foodocracy. To spend over five dollars to taste too-sweet ice cream. To devour a sandwich whose combination of ingredients has been carefully chosen and perfected for decades. Some couldn’t even fathom it.
Oh! To be a foodocrat!
This week, as I baked a pie to be enjoyed under a roof with loved ones, I wore my food-beliefs humbly on my chest. I am privileged to be a foodocrat. I am thankful to be so well-fed.
