Have some 'foodies' lost the plot?

The Underground in London is not usually a place for reflection. It is a place of transit, of tired faces and annoyed glances of people moving with purpose.

Yet on a recent visit, in an almost empty carriage, I found myself drawn unwillingly into a conversation that stayed with me long after I left the train. Two couples, unmistakably American, were dissecting what they described as a culinary disappointment. A tasting menu (it could have been part of a special event) had failed to meet their expectations.

Their tone was not just critical but performative, each remark was laced with an air of arrogant authority that suggested they were not simply diners but arbiters. The sushi had been “confused”, the service “overly reverent”, the entire experience “almost a wasted trip”. It was less a conversation than a verdict.

What struck me was not that they disliked the meal. Disappointment is part of dining, just as much as delight. It was the manner of their critique, the assumption that their role extended beyond appreciation into instruction.

They spoke as though chefs existed to satisfy their personal benchmarks, as though an evening’s work in a professional kitchen could be reduced to a checklist of perceived flaws. The term ‘foodie’ came to mind, a label once worn lightly and even affectionately. At its best, it describes curiosity, openness and a genuine love of food in all its forms.

A true food lover relishes discovery, whether in a Michelin-starred dining room or at a street stall. They understand that food is shaped by culture, by place, by the hands that prepare it. Above all, they approach it with humility.

But somewhere along the way, the term has shifted. For some, it has become a badge of authority rather than enthusiasm, a licence to judge rather than to experience. Social media has also played its part, encouraging a kind of culinary one-upmanship where every meal must be ranked, every dish analysed, every chef measured against an ever-moving standard of perfection.

Listening to those voices in the underground, I felt a quiet sympathy for the restaurant in question. Not because it could not withstand criticism but because it had been denied something more valuable than praise: good faith. There was no sense that the diners had met the experience halfway, no willingness to engage with what the chefs might have been attempting to express.

For me, a genuine food lover begins from a different place. They do not arrive armed with expectations so rigid that anything short of perfection becomes failure. They allow themselves to be surprised, even challenged. They recognise that not every dish will resonate but that each carries intent, effort and a story worth considering.

This is not to say that standards should be abandoned or that criticism has no place. On the contrary, thoughtful critique is essential to any creative field. But there is a distinction between critique and condescension, between engaging with a meal and dismissing it.

What unsettled me most on that journey was the sense that something simple had been lost. Food, at its heart, is a shared human experience. It connects us to others, to places, to memories. To reduce it to a performance of expertise is to strip away much of its meaning.

I found myself wondering whether the label matters at all. Foodie, gastronome, enthusiast, they are all just words. What matters is the approach. Let’s keep curious about food.