Reduced to its essence, life is about food, clothing, shelter and not much else. As I’ve said again and again, the meaning of life is lunch. If you don’t believe me, try skipping a few meals and see what the purpose and meaning for your life then becomes. The foodies in New York have apparently taken the idea to heart, as this hilarious article by Frank Bruni, Dinner and Derangement, observes about his recent dining experience:
Romera is Manhattan’s newest culinary oddity, an elegant hideaway whose conceits include the pairing of each dish in an 11-course meal with a lukewarm flavored water in a lidded grappa glass. One water might be infused with leek and radish, another with jasmine and dried seaweed. Most taste like indecisive teas, commitment-phobic broths or pond runoff.
“Feel free to smell them,” said a server, as if I might otherwise feel jailed. “And to taste them.” He paused. “Make a memory of them.”
While blazers are optional at Romera, straitjackets would be a fine idea.
It’s the craziest example I’ve encountered of the way our culture’s food madness tips into food psychosis, at least among those with keen appetites and the means to indulge them.
But it’s hardly the only illustration. Surf the cable channels and clock the time before you spy a spatula, a strainer, someone chewing, someone oohing or Gordon Ramsay. I bet it’s less than 11 seconds.
This is lunch combined with status-seeking, which a great many people confuse as the meaning and purpose for life. No. The meaning and purpose is lunch, status-seeking is only ancillary, a meaning and purpose that has been contrived by the conditions of modern society. Status among the multi-billion herd of humans comprising the society of man means that lunch is more or less assured. But the abiding purpose is lunch, whether one wishes to make a memory of them, or just eat them.