Greetings from the Ridge. Herb and I seldom do much fancy dining, but ever so often we'll take in a high-end restaurant just to be reminded of what our high ends taste like. There's nothing like a good meal in a classy place to sort of reward yourself of something you can make up later when you get home.
But I noticed a recent trend in restaurant eating that's a bit off-putting to my digestion. More and more restaurants insist on telling me where my food comes from and how it was raised. I've seen menu items labeled "free range," "organic," and "yarding." Okay, some folks are concerned about the treatment of the animals they're about to chew upon then swallow and more power to them. But in recent years I've seen more and more references to where the animal grew up. "West County Beef." What the heck is that? West County where and what's so special about it? Is this some sort of slap in the face to the poor ranchers raising steers over in East County? We once ate at an Italian restaurant in Chicago that touted its "Fresh Wisconsin Lettuce." I have many reasons to admire Wisconsin–nice water parks, lovely lakes, good cheese and a decent football team in Green Bay–but I've never heard the state referred to as being the home of great lettuce. And were they implying that Illinois lettuce is limp and watery? I've seen restaurants advertise their "Pure Argentinian Beef." I can just imagine how this might turn the appetite of a farmer from Iowa, and does this mean that the steak was pure or the cow held a purely legal passport from Argentina?
Yes, yes, I know that locally grown and garden-to-table dining is all the rage and I applaud anyone who tries to make my food as fresh as possible, but just how far are we going to go in this trend to make us well-acquainted with our food? Is it necessary to establish a kinship with a pig before you eat him?
"His name was Bob. Bob was a good steer, and as you dine upon his left rear flank tonight we thought you might enjoy knowing a bit more about this fine fellow. When Bob was born in eastern Kansas on a sunny April morning three years ago his parents, Richard and Wilma (nee: Cowley) Hereford, they saw bright promise in the boy and just knew that some day he'd end up in some fine dining establishment. When most of Bob's class of steers at Immaculate Emasculation Jr. High had their sights set on a McDonald's or Burger King, Bob always wanted to spend his final night on earth laying atop a piece of fine china on New York's Fifth Avenue. We hope that knowing just a bit about Bob might heighten your eating pleasure. Bon Appetit and thanks, Bob!"
Or perhaps: "Sometimes Free Range Chickens get a bad name, living their nomadic lifestyles, and an existence without fencing or rules, but we'd like to introduce you to the large breast on your plate tonight who was once known as Emma. Unlike most free-rangers, Emma was brought up as a strict Presbyterian pullet, a chick of high moral (and nutritional) fiber, and while in training for your dinner plate this evening swimming in a light garlic wine sauce, Emma has followed a dietary régime free of any artificial flavorings, growth enhancers, or chemical tampering. It's been nothing but bugs, flies and worms for Emma. In other words, Emma is all chicken. Although we don't read the minds of our chickens we somehow feel that when she reclined in our kitchen this morning with her neck draped so tastefully across our butcher's block, her last thoughts were perhaps of you, the diner who'd drawn her final lucky number. Enjoy Emma!"
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