I’m a member of a Facebook group called Indy Local Foodies. Now before we get started, let’s get this out of the way. I’m not a foodie. I’ve never been described as a foodie, nor do I use that word in conversations on a regular basis. I joined because it’s a great place for my wife and I to find new restaurants. And while the foodies argue over ingredients and who makes the best linguine with clams, I look at the pictures and think, “that deep fried thing would taste good if I shoved it in my mouth.”
So, I wouldn’t describe myself as a sophisticated when it comes to the culinary arts, but I am an expert and making fun of pretention. And last night in the foodie group, pretention was abundant. It all started when a guy named Bernard (his real name) asked for Greek food recommendations. He made it a point to say he really knew authentic Greek cuisine and nothing in the Indianapolis metropolitan area had lived up to his high standards.
A person recommended a restaurant called Greek Islands. He proceeded to knock it by saying, “I’ve eaten Greek food in London made by actual Greek people and with a pretty solid Greek clientele, and it is different and better than Greek Island.”
The recommender (we’ll call her Tracey because her name is Tracey), pointed out that Greek Island is owned by a Greek family, started by a man born in Greece. To save face, Benard claimed, “well some restaurants, even if owned by authentic people, Americanize it because people are too dumb to know the difference.”
Okay, Bernard. Your Greek is “authentic” because you had it in London (check’s map, London is still in the UK) but Tracey’s isn’t because she had it just south of Downtown Indianapolis? I’m calling BS!! Not because I’m an expert on authentic Greek food (we’ve established I’m not), but I find it hard to believe someone claiming they KNOW Greek food because they had it in a city 1800 miles away from Greece. And that their Greek dining experience was any more authentic than Tracey’s.
But Bernard wasn’t finished. Someone else recommended a new Greek restaurant in Carmel, Indiana. Bernard went on to insult not only Carmel, but the entire county surrounding Carmel. As you know, make a living insulting Carmel. But I live there, I’ve earned that right. Bernard said, “I want nothing to do with Carmel or practically anything else in Hamilton County. If it’s north of 96th Street, it might as well not exist as far as I’m concerned.”
Well, you know what’s north of 96th street? Me. By about a half a mile. So, while I’m over here not existing in Bernard’s mind, I’m also making Bernard a villain in my next story. You think he didn’t like the food at Greek Island in real life? Wait till he has it in my next book. Not that I’m petty or anything.
And speaking of not being petty, I’ve made a major decision regarding my post living activities. I’ve noticed that people donate organs on the regular, but you never hear about people donating their toe knuckles. This seems like an overlooked area of need. I think there are people out there who have had industrial accidents and whatnot who’ve been waiting for a toe knuckle. So, I thought I would do a good deed and donate mine. I needed to get my driver’s license updated anyway, so I went to the DMV and asked to change my organ donation status to toe knuckles only.
You wouldn’t believe what happened next. Gladys Frimpton, the woman in her mid sixties at the DMV who was lucky enough to draw my number looked me in the eyes and said, “I’m retiring.”
“Congratulations!” Then I asked, “When’s the big day?”
Gladys replied, “Today, right now.” She turned and shouted to her supervisor, “Tony, I’m done. I’m retiring today.”
She started to get up and gather her things. A man I assume was Tony came to her desk. “Right now? Why so suddenly?”
She looked at me but spoke to him, “One too many nutjob.”
Of course, I looked all around me to find the nutjob that had driven Gladys over the edge, but I couldn’t find him.
Gladys continued, “Can you help Mr. Toe Knuckle here? I want to get on the road.”
Tony replied, “Of course. Good luck to you. I wish we had more warning; I would have ordered a cake.” But Gladys was scurrying away.
In the end, Tony was not able to add toe knuckle donation to my driver’s license. But I’m glad I got to share in Gladys’ big day. I wonder if she plans to celebrate with dinner out. I know a good Greek place.
Carry on, Citizens!
