There are many things I want from a restaurant; love is not one of them. I do not expect restaurants
or their staff to love me, either in that Hallmark greeting-card sense
or that moist adult way. Usually this is fine. I have a number of
defining qualities; lovability has never been close to the top of the
list. When eating in the US, however, nobody seems to notice. There,
almost every chef and waiter will announce that the food being served
has been prepared “with love“.
What? You had congress with my enchiladas? You personally dressed my
cobb salad? Say it ain’t so. It brings to mind the thing the narrator
does to a slab of raw liver, destined for the family’s dinner, in Philip
Roth’s novel, Portnoy’s Complaint. If you’ve read it you know. If you haven’t – oh, just work it out.