Jen and I went to a quirky little French restaurant yesterday. It had a charming atmosphere, the food was delicious, and the waiter delighted us by being so drunk he did fan kicks as he flitted about the place.
But I am not going to tell you where. Because my panties are in a twist.
I am on a mother’s listserve for my neighborhood, and there was a familiar type of poster. The lil’ Ms. “the food (art/nightclubs/people) is so much better” where we came from.
I have met people from all over the world who have come to Boston. And I have endured YEARS of hearing about how the food is better in sinister New York or vapid LA. It is particularly annoying when I think about the crappy meals I have had in both LA and New York. This particular poster had moved from the culinary epicenters of London and Seattle. Give me a break.
I went to school at Northwestern. And there was a delicious Italian restaurant everyone went to on Sundays. Jen and I went back, and I remember telling her how we had to go to “Dave’s Kitchen because it had the best lasagna on earth.” Well, we went to Dave’s. And the lasagna was genuinely … mediocre. What I realized is that because I visited Dave’s during a special place in my life, I had fond memories of the food there. It distorted my memory of it.
What I really think is that these people are just homesick. But instead of just admitting that, they trash Boston.
So I have decided I am no longer recommending restaurants to out of towners. I am tired of recommending places that I have an honest connection to, places where I have dated my wife, had meaningful conversations, and enjoyed pleasant meals, just to have to hear about how it is done differently in the god forsaken place you decided to leave.
Is this why the townies hate the gownies so much?
And I am not giving you directions either. If you don’t know how to get there, you don’t belong there. I think I am becoming a real Bostonian after all.