I spent eight months dating a foodie. When we first started seeing one another, I didn’t know what a foodie was. She described it as “a person passionate about food”. On the tail end of our relationship, I’d drawn my own opinion on what a ‘foodie’ was. And I guess my ex-girlfriend was right: foodies were passionate about food, in a similar way stalkers are passionate about commitment.
My ex-girlfriend ran a food blog that involved going to restaurants and taking photos then telling her followers how yummy it was. Sometimes she would do this on her own accord, and other times the restaurant would ask for her services. She would always write glowing reviews, because for foodies, the only thing more important than eating free food is making sure the free food doesn’t run out. So don’t be fooled: foodies are easy to buy, and will write good things about bad things if required.
The food photography always made me uneasy. It’s not fun sitting in a nice restaurant watching a $36 steak go cold while the flashes of your girlfriend’s iPhone remind you that everyone is staring. And it’s not just one photo. There is the photo of the steak ‘as served’, then the photo of it cut open, then a photo of the accompanying drinks. There’s close ups and wide angles and a bunch of other unnecessarily technical gibberish that no idiot on Instagram would ever take notice of. Then there’s the caption, which takes a lot of planning and thought.
There are also foodie rivalries. In Sydney, the foodie scene is vicious, and some foodies don’t like others, presumably because competitors within the foodie realm are almost indistinguishable from one another in that they all have iPhones, all like the food they’re posting about, and will all commit anything short of murder for a free plate of protein on a Saturday evening.
On the rare occasion my ex-girlfriend and I didn’t eat out, one of us would cook. If I cooked, I did so knowing her unbearably high expectations would never be matched by my skillset. If she cooked, her extravagance required a spray of expensive grains and cuts of meat that would otherwise never be used. There is absolutely no fun in spending $60 on packets of ingredients you’ll never eat again.
Thankfully, in and of itself, none of the above is really a deal breaker. I once dated a girl who shit eight times a day. BUT: and this but is perhaps the most significant and overpowering but(t) since the serial shitter ex girlfriend: this foodie, like most, became a slave to the food. Everything was about food. Between planning meals, eating meals, blogging about meals and discussing the act of blogging about meals, there was almost zero time left to do things that didn’t involve the scrutiny of food.
So we broke up. Over a meal I organised. That she blogged about.
Words by Hayden Delousa.