Back at the innocent dawn of social media, the intellectually superior would say: “Why would I want to read about what someone had for breakfast?” like it was the most absurd thing ever. But it turns out that is exactly what I want to read. That, plus what they had for second breakfast, lunch, the feral fridge raids, and midnight toasties. I can’t stop reading other people’s food diaries: they are irresistible – digital Pringles – but also long and full of unexpected details, like a marathon tasting menu. I can lose hours, emerging guilty and absolutely starving from my food-snooping fugue state.
I am a pretty indiscriminate consumer. The person doesn’t need to be famous – it is intriguing, sure, but the pressure on non-civilians to look a certain way means their diets are often a samey mix of woo-woo and roughage. I enjoy being baffled by taralli or muffuletta (savoury Sicilian biscuits and a New Orleans sandwich, apparently) and wondering what a “popover with strawberry butter” tastes like, but the food doesn’t have to be interesting. You had potato waffles, a glass of water and a Fibre Now brownie, you say? Tell me more.
