I hate eating in other people’s homes.
Back in the nebulous “olden days,” the way one king lorded his wealth over another was to bring them in for a feast. It was a reliable method of intimidation, forcing your rival to sit at a table while you parade your wealth and hospitality.
Even now, dining in a friend’s home puts the onus of performance entirely on the guest. First you have to compliment the home. Then you have to start in with how wonderful everything smells and how beautiful the table looks -- all this even before anything is served, at which point each item must be individually appreciated, soup to nuts. In comparison, the host has the easy job of just cleaning and cooking.
Which is why eating out in a restaurant is a far more satisfying experience. I believe the urge to dine out is primal, derived from our same atavistic impulse as hunting.
First, you stalk your prey by going online checking the Yelp and TravelAdvisor reviews. In situ, one locks fully into hunter mode: Senses sharpen; one becomes keenly aware of all the other plates around you. Assessments are made. We listen to the specials being described with as much ferocity as the hunter listening for footfalls. Never is ancient man’s attention more focused than when the risotto is being described.
This is much more satisfying than being a prisoner in someone else’s home, where the final humiliation is always having to offer to wash someone else’s dirty dishes.
I’m Dan Libman, and that’s my perspective.
