Put down your phone. Right now. Put it back in your pocket, purse, fanny pack, or whatever ludicrously expensive Apple-brand accessory you use to carry that damn thing around.
No really. We can wait.
…Good. Now, what do you see on the table before you? Food? How about that! Imagine coming to a restaurant, of all places, and someone actually bringing you food that you ordered!
What strange times in which we live.
You may think, judging by your Pavlovian reflex reaction to reach for your phone, that this fantastical and unusual situation in which you have found yourself is worthy of a simple snapshot. Just one little snapshot, maybe? Filtered with Instagram so that you can try to hide your poor photography skills? Maybe just one quick little tweet about it, one facebook blast to a bunch of your friends who don’t care one iota about your picture because they’re to busy taking their own inane pictures of their own inane shit?
The Curmudgeon, as you may surmise, does not believe in taking pictures of one’s food while at a restaurant. At a restaurant, you are but one individual in a room full of other all having their own conversations, wait staff doing their best to serve a room full of guests, and a kitchen trying to bang out whatever unholy gluten-free broccoli bean-curd “cleanse” special order your self-loathing date ordered. Whipping out a phone1 and taking five pictures trying to get a good shot of your dish is disrespectful to the staff and the other diners. God help you if you ever use a flash somewhere The Curmudgeon also happens to be dining.2
Photographing your food at a restaurant instantly brands you as a grade-A Douchewaffle, the lowest of the low kind of culinarian that will retire to a two-bit food blog that over-uses adjectives like “scrumptious” and “delectable” and is only read by the author’s mother and that one creepy friend who comments on every post. The Curmudgeon likes to think that the restaurant staff notices the intolerable infraction and spits in that $7 cup of brown dishwater they call “coffee” that you ordered with your dessert.3 In fact, some of the best chefs in the world and publications like the New York Times are now on record saying that you are, in fact, a Douchewaffle.
Of course, this doesn’t mean that — what are you doing? I said put that thing away, dammit! Do you really think someone wants to see a picture of a veggie burger with your bite-marks already in it? — Of course, this doesn’t mean that you aren’t free to take pictures in the privacy of your own home. Take as many there as you want, and The Curmudgeon and your entire friend list will continue to ignore them just like they always have. Even The Curmudgeon has been known to indulge in this, but he does it with the full knowledge that he is, in fact, the only one who cares. So knock yourself out at home.
Unless you are hosting a dinner party and your amateur photography is holding up food for your guests. In which case, The Curmudgeon hopes you choke on a chicken bone.