Photo: bionicgrrrl, Flickr
There's a certain amount of liberal bourgeois guilt among those of us who are paid to spend our days sampling things like squab-and-foie-gras croustillant and then write about it.
We generally don't discuss it, except perhaps after we've reached the bottom of the second or third scientifically blended cocktail at a place like Death & Co. in Manhattan's East Village and otherwise exhausted ourselves trying to pinpoint exactly what it was that gave that $13 glass of whiskey its particular piquancy. Was it an infusion of Fuji apple? Or the spiced pear?
After all, the downside of decadence is the sneaking suspicion that when the revolution comes (admittedly a remote possibility), we'll be rounded up with others of our ilk -- film critics, art historians -- and shipped off to some gulag in Alaska to break rocks.
The same sort of cynical despair gives us all manner of indy films and just about anything written by Jonathan Franzen. it also gives us the occasional tirade by a food writer, in this case last Friday's blog post by LA Weekly's Amy Scattergood, "Top 10 Foodie Words We Hate: Starting with Foodie."

























