When A Foodie Meets A Foodie

Years ago, back when I was a geek (I'm now a dweeb), I used to spend a lot of time working and attending science fiction conventions. From wearing pointy ears to engaging in weekend-long "Dungeons & Dragons" games, I did it all. I was, of course, referred to by the unitiated or nonfans as a "Trekkie." That was and is the catchall phrase for anyone who's ever longed for a phaser on their hip when dealing with recalcitrant sales clerks or rude people of any stripe.

I outgrew that stage, and except for the occasional all-night "Deep Space Nine" marathon I'm completely normal now.

Or at least I thought I was.

Shortly after I embraced my enthusiasm for all things culinary and began accumulating the appliances and tools that would eventually become the Mongo Test Kitchen, I began hearing the term "foodie" bandied about. It was applied with no small disdain to those who would miss a meal because they couldn't whether to dress their line-caught Pacific salmon fillets with French or Japanese sea salt; and for whom a trip to the grocery store was at least a three-hour proposition.

As time went on, I started meeting a few of these "foodie" people, and even became friends with them. I discovered that, while they were a tad obsessive about things like extra-virgin olive oil and the age of their balsamic vinegar, they were by and large good, honest folk. And being invited to one of their homes for dinner was certainly a treat, barring that one fellow with a fascination for organ meats that bordered on insanity.

Eventually, I became a food writer. I was fully prepared to be spurned by my foodie chums on the "those who can't, write" grounds. Wonder of wonders, they accepted me. Not only that, but I discovered a whole new gang of chums out here in the electronic world. We are from all walks of life, all age groups and all food preferences. I'll bet if you're not one, you know someone who is.

We are everywhere. Fear us.

Case in point: I've recently moved to a new town, and second only to staking out my kitchen and grocery stores is locating the nearest big and tall men's clothing store. I did so, and after perusing the wares struck up a conversation with the owner. It was mere moments before we discovered shared interests in Indian and Chinese cooking, love of great steak and a weakness for fine single-malt Scotch.

A couple more minutes found me in the back room of the shop, sampling a dram from some bottle of mysterious Dutch liquor a friend of the owner had bestowed upon him and discussing the merits of Talisker versus Dalwhinnie single malts.

I never did buy any clothes, but he's going to show me what he swears is the best steak house for 50 miles in all directions this weekend. After all, the clothes will still be there, but mad cow might yank all the steaks off America's platters if we believe some media outlets. Eat while the ribeye is hot, I always say, usually with my mouth full.

In fine, you never know when you're going to meet a foodie. You need not approach us with caution, although an offering of good barbecue or smoked salmon will guarantee you quick acceptance. We're found in greatest concentrations at all sorts of food festivals, much less so in weight rooms and aerobics classes. Don't get me wrong: we care about our health, we just don't linger at the health clubs.

So get out there, foodie or nonfoodie, and meet some of your fellows. You might just end up learning something.

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