The Newest Way to Show Off: Go Locavore

By now you’ve probably heard of the locavore food movement, generally defined as only eating food grown or raised within a 100 mile radius of where you live. Great if you live in, say, San Francisco where the movement began. Not so wonderful if you live in the thorn brush of deep south Texas, unless you really enjoy prickly pear puree and javelina barbeque.

The idea behind local eating is that the food is fresher and it’s more environmentally friendly, not only because it promotes varied land use but because the food doesn’t have to be trucked or flown great distances in fossil-fuel burning trucks and planes. It’s also good for the local farmer and rancher who, as we all know, are a dying breed.

Part of me, the crunchy con part who shops at Whole Foods and takes long nature hikes, wants to laud this movement. The other part of me, the wise-ass contrarian part, wants to point and laugh at the pretentious urban hipsters who have found yet another way to broadcast their privilege while acting all concerned for the Earth.

Can you imagine what kind of effort and expense it takes to only eat food from within 100 miles? When you drive a Lexus, you’re saying “I have more money and better taste than you.” When you go locavore you’re saying “not only do I have more resources and better taste, I am more morally attuned.” Too critical? Of course. But it’s hard to deny the element of snobbery in the locavore movement.

Guess I’ll just have to stick with my Whole Food artisanal French cheeses and line-caught Atlantic salmon. That’ll make me look so much less pompous than those arrogant locavores.

If Heaven Were Beef, It'd Taste Like This

One of my greatest joys in life is food. I enjoy fine dining. I enjoy a good greasy spoon. I enjoy spending four hours in the kitchen cooking up something entirely new. I’ll eat just about anything and I believe the best part about traveling is trying new restaurants. So I don’t say this next part lightly:

Two nights ago, I ate the most amazing steak I’ve ever tasted.

Succulent, as a word, falls embarrassingly short. Life-changing is better. Some have called it an epiphany. Imagine a steak that actually melts in your mouth. You have to eat it slowly like you might sip a 30-year old scotch, letting it waltz in your mouth before finally, regrettably swallowing.

The beef is called Akaushi and, yes, it’s pretty much the same cow that produces the famous, much over-hyped Kobe beef. Expect Akaushi doesn’t have to travel half-way around the world. It’s raised in Texas and served at San Antonio’s most-accomplished steakhouse.

Oddly, the ranchers of Akaushi market it as much for its healthiness as for its transcendence. But, honestly, if they told me it was so high in cholesterol that I’d need bypass immediately upon finishing my steak, I’d still eat it. It’s that good. I’m already plotting my next experience.