A restaurant snob may not be what you think. It’s not one of those people who, when they go to restaurants, must go to the most expensive one on the fucking planet and will settle only for a seven course French supper complete with caviar, champagne, snotty French waiter dressed in a tuxedo and a goddamn sommelier named ‘Henri’ (pronounced ‘Ohn Rhee’ – a suspiciously Asian-sounding name for a Frog).
Figure 1: Is secretly Korean
A restaurant snob is far more common: one of those fucking assholes who’s constantly attending ‘Restaurant Week’ events – so to render this definition complete, we must define Restaurant Week.
Restaurant Week occurs in major cities throughout the country, and is a week-long culinary fuck fest in which yuppie douchebags blow sunshine up each others asses for three damn hours at upscale restaurants that make them feel wordly and sophisticated by offering prix fixe menus and wines/cheeses that nobody’s ever fucking heard of before.
Figure 2: Warming up at the bar before prime-time douchebaggery
Aside: Prix Fixe Menus
Prix Fixe menus are a stepping stone on the way to fascism. Prix fixe menus are popular in Europe because fascism has been popular there for so long. Why then, are these menus becoming popular here? Simple: laziness and indecision (which, incidentally, lead to fascism). Have you ever watched a yuppie try to order food? It’s fucking EXCRUCIATING as they pick apart every goddamn thing on the menu as if their choice of what to eat tonight is as important as the decision to push the big red button to launch all of America’s nukes at Iran.
I’ll hear this idiot ask me over and over again “whaddyou think about [stupid entree #1]? I’m thinking about ordering a glass of [stupid obscure wine #1] or [stupid obscure wine #2], but I dunno if [stupid entree #1]’ll compliment it. Maybe I should just get [stupid entree #2]…shoot, what should I do?”
I’ll tell you what you should do. You should make a fucking decision before I jam Henri’s corkscrew in your eye.
Figure 3: Cure for indecisiveness, or Fascism’s Outbreak Monkey?
You’d think, then, that Prix Fixe menus would make me happy. You’d be wrong. Because instead of making people grow up and learn to make decisions, prix fixe menus just take the decision away from these people altogether. They never actually LEARN to make decisions, they’re just given fewer choices. This makes people stupid, and as people get more and more accustomed to the ease of effectively ‘deciding’ on things that were actually decided upon in a smoke filled room somewhere, fascism is gonna pop up. The same people who like prix fixe menus are gobblers of Mussolini’s cock.
The only thing more annoying than a restaurant snob is two restaurant snobs in the same fucking room. God forbid you get two of these motherfuckers together and they discover each other to be restaurant snobs. These pompous shitbricks will hijack whatever conversation was going on previously and spend the rest of the time talking about goddamn expensive food and quizzing each other about the fare at restaurants with stupid names like ‘Oya’ or ‘Lima’. For each restaurant snob, the goal of these conversations is a.) to mention a restaurant that the other snob hasn’t been to and thereby demonstrate superior snobbery, and/or b.) reinforce their opinion of “OMIGOD! The filet creme fraische was soooooooo GOOD!”.
During their little game of grabass, one of the snobs will say something to the other snob like “the BEST scallops in the city are at [stupid fucking restaurant]…”. Then this shit hole will turn to you, whom now sports a soulless and glazed over countenance reminiscent of Keanu Reeves, and ask that oh-so-condescending question – “Have you ever been to [stupid fucking restaurant]?” In the old days, I used to be nice. I’d smile and just say, in the whitest voice I could muster, “No I haven’t, but it sounds DELISH!”
Nowadays I just say fucked up shit like “Yea I’ve been once. I had the fish vagina. The taste was as predictable as the name is redundant.”
Then there is silence from the restaurant snobs, and I am happy again.
Figure 4: A friend and I celebrating our torpedoing of a restaurant snob conversation