Once upon a time, being called a foodie felt like a badge of honor. It meant you were in the know when it came to all things food, with tons of bells and whistles. You could wax poetic about the delicate citrus notes of yuzu, sprinkle truffle salt on anything and everything, or debate the superiority of Neapolitan pizza crust versus New York style. Foodies curated their dining experiences like art collectors, obsessing over where to find the crispiest duck confit or creating asymmetrical balance when plating their food off-center and high to the sky with embellishments. Meanwhile, eaters? Well, they were just … eating. Poor souls. Mere mortals eating their meals without ceremony or critique. At least, that’s what I used to believe.
The deeper I got into my own culinary journey, the more I started to question this so-called hierarchy. Why was being an eater considered lesser? Why did the love of food have to be tied to a relentless pursuit of what’s trendy, obscure or “elevated?” Wasn’t the simple joy of tasting, savoring and experiencing just as meaningful, if not more?
Firstly, foodies, please don’t come for me. I get it. In fact, as a chef who often cooks for private dinner parties, being a foodie comes with the territory. I love delivering all the glitz and embellishments for clients who crave that experience. And when I dine here in town or travel to larger cities, you bet your sweet hiney I’m spending some time and money on a fancy meal! There’s something magical about enjoying a dish that makes me pause mid-bite with tears in my eyes, savoring every layer of flavor.
The beauty in what I do is that I can pivot from making smoked shiitake onion ash to a good ol’ heaping plate of spaghetti and meatballs. That’s the art of it all, and I respect the thrill of the chase. But I certainly don’t eat like that at home unless it’s a special occasion or a reason to celebrate. Most days, my joy in food comes from something far simpler: just good ingredients, cooked with care and eaten with appreciation. And after those long days of work, I happily snap open a can of bean dip and rip into a bag of Fritos.
So, what made me recognize being an eater as potentially more meaningful than being a foodie? Food isn’t just a hobby or an aesthetic. It’s connection. It’s memory. It’s survival. The best meals I’ve ever had weren’t plated with tweezers or sourced from a chef with Michelin stars. Those stand-out meals were cooked by hands that knew love better than technique—just like my mother’s homemade tortillas, slathered with butter. They were the perfect bite of something messy, eaten standing over the sink. Now that’s eating. And it’s sacred.
Foodies love to intellectualize, and there’s nothing wrong with that. But I’ve learned that being an eater isn’t about simplicity or sustenance. It’s about presence. It’s about relishing a ripe peach in summer without knowing its brix level. It’s about letting a bite of something nostalgic stop you dead in your tracks—not because it’s artisanal, but because it reminds you of childhood. Ahh, what I’d do to walk around today with a popsicle stain ring around my mouth for all to see.
So, by now, you probably know if you’re a foodie, an eater, or a little bit of both (like me). How does an eater embrace the eater’s life with intention? How does one stand tall in the face of the truffle-infused, sous-vide-loving foodies of the world and say, “I, too, am a lover of food, but I don’t need a foam garnish to prove it?” Simple. You pay attention. Cook and eat with presence, awareness, and the kind of appreciation that doesn’t need a tasting menu to feel special. It goes a little something like this:
Start with good ingredients, but don’t overthink it. Choose ingredients that look and smell good. A ripe tomato should make you weak in the knees. A loaf of fresh bread should make that crunchy sound when you squeeze it slightly. Find the beauty in simplicity because nothing ruins a meal faster than agonizing over whether your olive oil is “extra” enough.
Use your hands. No, really … touch the food! Before you even turn on the stove, take a moment. Feel the weight of an onion in your palm. Press your fingers into a cold stick of butter. Tear fresh herbs with your hands instead of chopping them into oblivion. Cooking is not just a visual art—it’s tactile, primal and gifts us with loads of sensory experiences. Engage with it. And yes, you have full permission to lick the spoon.
Season like you mean it. An eater knows that kosher salt is not just a seasoning, it’s a lifeline. Don’t be afraid of it. Same goes for fat, acid and heat (shoutout to chef and author Samin Nosrat). Taste as you go, and adjust. Trust your instincts. The beauty of being an eater is that you don’t need to intellectualize it. Your tongue already knows what it likes.
Eat with your full attention. (Put the phone down, Becky.) This is where the eater shines. Sit down. Breathe. Smell your food before diving in. Close your eyes for that first taste if you have to. Let your body register all of it—the crunch, the creaminess, the warmth, the spice. Because this meal, however simple, is an event. And the best part? No one’s judging your reaction except maybe your dog.
Find joy in the messy, imperfect and real. Not every meal has to be plated like it’s auditioning for Chef’s Table. A good eater knows that, sometimes, the best meals come from things thrown together with whatever’s in the fridge. Believe it or not, a slightly burnt edge adds character. And licking sauce off your fingers is a sign of satisfaction, not poor etiquette. Eaters aren’t bound by the constraints of food trends; they eat what makes them happy. And that, my friends, is a power move.
I’m just gonna say it: Eaters are the real MVPs. So, no, you don’t need to call yourself a foodie to prove your love for food. In my opinion, being an eater means cooking with heart, eating with intention, and embracing the beauty of every simple, unpretentious, finger-licking bite. It’s about connection, experience and, most importantly, joy.
Now go forth, fellow eaters. Cook something, taste everything and let yourself love it without a dissertation on its origins. That’s the real magic.
