Last week I sat in a praised restaurant in Chamonix. The Pasta Carbonara arrived as if it was microwaved. A dash of parsley on it. No guanciale to be found.
They asked €30 for it, but it was absolute shit. Meanwhile the restaurant has 4.3 stars on Google.
And this is not the first time I had food this bad in France: ‘Zhe’ Capital of Fine Food, they say.
The same France that loves to bash the Dutch about not having a food culture.
This essay is about how food became the last acceptable identity marker for people who have abandoned every other element of their culture. European civilisation built cathedrals, universities, legal systems, and global empires. But we cannot talk about any of that. So we pretend knowing the right spice blend makes you cultured.
