Excerpt:
A friend of mine sent back the duck confit we ordered the other night in a restaurant in Toronto. He told the maitre d’ it wasn’t salty enough. He’s a serious and discerning foodie, and I admired his send-backcojones even as I cringed with embarrassment. Perhaps it was the fact that we’d begun the meal with an $18 plate of horse tartare, an excess on any number of embarrassing levels. (Not least of which was my habit of saying “Hi-ho, Silver!” after each bite.) I understand his right as a paying customer to return the brine-challenged duck. But it felt like too much privilege by half, and one more glaring example of self-indulgent foodism.
