Gasping for food

[Photo: Typical Tejano style food (not BBQ) as served at the Conjunto Festival, San Antonio, Texas, 2005 - click the image to view a larger version]

I recently moved back to California after being in Texas for more than six years. In the Lone Star State, I enjoyed great BBQ and Tex-Mex food. I lived in Lockhart where world famous Smitty's BBQ was only a five minute stroll down the street (yes, it is world famous). Now that I live in Southern California, my menu and social life have taken a big hit.

Lately, I have been attending in body if not spirit various parties and mixers to meet the locals. The functions my wife and I attend often relate to the university or SoCal art scene. I have to admit that in the end, these gatherings leave me empty in many ways.

Like fish gasping for air on dry land, a party can be a desperate place. What do you say to someone who rants about a subject that you’ve avoided for decades? What’s the horrible food I am eating?

I have speculated that all trendy types must shop at Trader Joe's. I guess the food has to be as esoteric as the conversation. If the party hosts were ever to ask me, they would learn that I prefer garlic-mashed potatoes to hummus. However, intellectuals have learned though travel and research that cranberry salsa is better than that hot variety from Mexico. Chomping on reduced carb soy and flaxseed tortilla chips is a great way to separate oneself from the unwashed masses. God forbid that you eat "regular" chips.

At a recent torture session that would make Torquemada proud, the discussion was constructed around Derrida and Lacoue-Labarthe. I know nothing about deconstruction, post-structuralism and postmodernism. I came to the realization that the hosts and most of the guests could care less that I was oblivious. I was invisable.

Eventually conversation shifted to the latest esoteric art film. During the arcane discussion, I kept my mouth shut and nodded politely while they rambled about the Jean-Luc Godard and Francois Truffaut. Oh yes, the French are so civilized. My wife has us slated to attend another so-called party in September. I am quite sure they won’t be watching football or grilling steaks. Maybe I can get a reprieve and stay home.

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