It's a truism of the postmodern American age, the cynical American mindset.
Of course I'm always dining at a favorite location when my mom rings my phone. Here's another truism: nobody ever calls with good news while you're eating. Enjoying that steak? Your dog died. Fancy restaurant first date? You're a father. Forgive me for having my cake and eating it, too.
Every Monday I get a phone call. Usually around 1pm, the time I am having lunch. Without looking I answer, hey Mom, and I lay down my fork or set down whatever finger food is in my hands. No greeting back. Just a list being read to me.
Did you hear CiCi's got a 70 on their inspection?
I choke back greasy pepperoni and stale crust and try not to think about rat droppings beneath the layers of cheese.
Panera scored a 72 last week; don't you eat there on your lunch breaks at work?
Not anymore. From the table in the break room I arch my wrists and toss a bowl of potato soup a good five feet straight into the trash.
Sometimes we're better off not knowing certain things. There are levels of expectations we should have about our food—make it clean and sanitary. Stop dear newspaper editors, please stop printing these every week. If you simply must, sell it sealed so actual work has to be done to find out.
Because honestly.
I can't eat anywhere anymore.
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