Jack Dorsey, the man who gave us Twitter, a digital conspiracy to keep us distracted from achieving greatness, eats as much in a week as I do in 24 hours. One square meal a day for five days, followed by wild weekends spent OD’ing on water.
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It’s crazy how much his lifestyle mimics that of a poor farmer, minus his bathing routine, that is more complicated than Cleopatra’s. Jack Dorsey alternates between a mini sauna and an ice bath every few minutes, till the Bay area runs out of water.
Like any average below-poverty-line Indian, the not-so-poor Jack Dorsey walks five miles to and from work, and toils under the searing heat. Only in his case, it is an infrared light bulb which makes him sweat, and cleanses his body of toxins. It appears, Dorsey’s kidneys and liver are too posh to do their normal job.
A Foodie’s Worst Nightmare, Courtesy Jack Dorsey
I'm all for Jack D’s love for deprivation to keep himself sharp and focused, but imagine a world where eating becomes something that we only do occasionally! As a foodie who spends a chunk of my time either thinking of the meal I've just had, or the meal I'm about to have, or fantasizing about a dish that I should be having, this is completely unacceptable.
God forbid, if this trend catches on like wildfire, my life will become as bland as hospital food. Right now, my life is drizzled liberally with the extraordinary. Like any new age foodie, I’m a simmering hot pot of many talents – a whiff of gastronome, a sprinkling of a chef extraordinaire, a prime cut of a food critic served with fine juliennes of a photographer.
Like any culinaire, I spend considerable time and resources acquiring hand-plucked veggies, eggs that went to Oxford and lamb that was baptized at Notre Dame for that Insta-worthy end product.
My plating is so stunningly beautiful, it deserves to be on the walls of the Louvre. Don't even get me started on my taste buds that have such a high emotional quotient, they can feel the butter-laden, cognac-kissed suavity in the pumpkin soup, and shed tears of ecstasy as I bite into a juicy, succulent, rollicking-with-flavours, tangdi kebab.
Joy of Being the Best ‘Food Critic’ on Zomato
However, what’s the point of consuming so much fabulousness, if I've not documented it for posterity. So I pick the toughest words from the dictionary, and string them together to make sentences that make no sense, to chronicle my dinner at the newest fine-dine that serves their dishes on dog-plates, and then proudly cite my Zomato reviews to call myself a food critic.
The ethereal luminescence of an Atlantic scallop quivering atop a layer of luscious legumes, with a dainty sprinkling of Dead Sea Salt.
Jack Dorsey and his tech-bros' love for starvation poses a serious threat to the world’s number 1 pastime – eating. Especially after they've given it a cool spin and re-branded it as ‘bio-hacking’: a convenient masculine way of making extreme dieting acceptable. But I digress.
Do they even care to know, our passion not only brings us together, it also helps us assert our superiority over others. The other day, I invited a neighbour over for lunch – she refused to leave until she had described in great detail, all the Michelin-starred meals she'd had since 1967.
Our coolness quotient skyrockets to Mars when we say – can I interest you in puréed nut spread with grape relish reduction paired with brioche, instead of peanut butter jelly sandwich.
When I land in New York, MOMA, MET and Guggenheim can wait till I have found out for myself, if the jhalmuri at Greenwich – that my favourite food influencer can't stop raving about – is really the best.
My Obsession With the Unusual Has Given Birth to the ‘Industry of Bullshittery’
My love for the extraordinary gives me a sense of purpose. It makes me feel special, even though my bag of accomplishments is as full of air as the sourdough I'm about to have.
Thanks to my constant craving, I can exchange life stories with my Swiggy delivery guy, who spends most of his time outside my door with a new treat that’ll jack up my happiness index.
My chest inflates with pride knowing that my obsession with the unusual has given birth to the industry of bullshittery – cake conceptualiser, culinaire extraordinaire high on meth, mithai craftsman and ‘how to make plain old poori chhole sound super exotic’ fiction writer...
As a food educator, my nostrils flare with excitement as I explain the difference between a meunière and a mirepoix to the rustics.And Lord, am I glad I’m not some batshit crazy billionaire high on raw water, who seeks his thrill by hanging upside down from a Banyan tree in his quest for the higher truth.
Why should I, when I can get it in an earthen pot layered with fragrant long rice, enrobed in butter oil and succulent goat meat, smothered with hand-ground spices, topped with golden onion shards – cooked to perfection in its own steam.
My Purpose in Life Will Always Be To Be Fully Fed
Thank you, but no thank you, Jack. I do not want to discover a post-food existence that'll free up my eating time for more important pursuits. What if I find out I have no other important pursuits?
But I do want to thank Dorsey for making me realise how blessed I am to be rich enough to be able to order Tuna tartare, but not rich enough to accept that money can’t buy happiness.
Unlike him, I will not be looking for it at Vipassana camps in Myanmar, and mosquito-infested swamps in Nicaragua. My purpose in life will always be to be fully fed – preferably at a fine-dine run by a celebrity chef who combs his hair once every leap year, and cuts his nails with a machete.
(A teacher not so long ago, Purba Ray took to writing on a whim after leaving her job. Has an opinion on nearly everything, fact or fiction, beginnings or ends, light or heavy, long or short. She tweets at @Purba_Ray. This is an opinion piece and the views expressed above are the author’s own. The Quint neither endorses nor is responsible for the same.)
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