In my humble opinion, you frequently get just that,Too Much Information, when you dine at restaurants referring to themselves as Farm to Table, locally sourced, inventive or rustic chic.
When we go out to dinner, which is “lesser and lesser” these days, I go for one reason: The Joy of NOT Cooking. I’m okay hearing the wine is Italian, the bread is French and the strawberries were picked just this morning. That’s all soothing and appetizing.
But I don’t care a whit about the tomato’s heritage, the lettuce’s country of origin or how lovingly the corn was harvested. By the time I’ve sat through all that, I’d rather be home, foraging in my own fridge. Where I could have something on the table in a heartbeat and know exactly where it all came from: Publix.
But the worst, the totally unacceptable, the ultimate TMI, is hearing thoughtful tales about the unsuspecting benefactor of the evening’s filet mignon. Ditto the dear little lamb whose chops are on the menu. With that information, my appetite gets up and leaves the room. And, so do I.
The whole thing makes me want to go back to a favorite restaurant. No reservations were accepted…for anyone! You sat/stood at the bar until your name was called. If you were a regular, no menus were needed/offered. The waitress simply asked what you wanted and how you wanted it cooked. Onion rings? she’d ask. And crumbles? (blue cheese on your salad.) Absolutely, we’d say. And that was that!
It was perfect and we could hardly wait to go back. Never mind the potentially long wait at the bar. After all, that’s where we sated our hunger for fun, friendship and laughter.