The chef's job is to make the food interact well with the tongue.  I'd purposely vomit at a “well-plated” dish. Twirl your fingers in it as much as you want.  Put sprinkles and leaves and drizzle, drizzle, drizzle.  I don’t give a shit about drizzle.  I don’t scoff at a smudge.  I can handle the occasional hair flossed through the stir-fry.  But don’t give me frill and dandelions in my macaroni, expecting praise.  I will not photograph the artistry.  I may even go as far as to scramble the whole thing with a fork the instant it is set in front of me.

Taste is what I’m after.  Give me duck lips and platypus gallbladders.  Fry, bake, barbecue — so long as it doesn’t break my teeth or my curdle my intestines.  The rest is nonessential fanciness.  Don’t put unripe rhubarb in my cereal for the novelty.  Anyone can be novel.  I’m perfectly capable of peeling and putting the children’s menu crayons in my spaghetti.  If I want novelty, I’ll drizzle my pocket change, lint, and car keys into the soup.

Pretend innovation, that's all this is.  Sure, there’s an argument that requires creative.  But it’s not a wonderful, higher frequency mind that comes up with the supreme art of ringing out salami juice, for aroma and allure.  A new way to slice, stir, or pile just-so isn’t an impressive act.  Remember the inevitable end game for the dish.  It will be chewed into brown putty and swallowed.  That's where the “allure” should happen.  While it is being broken down and salivated upon by some fat-jowled nobody and their wine-stained dentures.

Maybe it’s all for tips, extra cash.  Some people are hypnotized by chic aesthetics.  They will clamor over a plate of well-smeared shit, noticing the delicate placement of the corn and the tufts of hair that stick out so elegantly.  They’ll throw their necktie over their shoulder and stuff their paper napkin down the collar of their shirt.  Then they’ll devour it, licking the plate. Not mentioning, let alone noticing, the sticky unpasteurized texture of the shit they’re actually eating.  They’ll smile and tell their friends about it.  In that regard, I don’t blame the chefs who’ve decided to take this route to short-term success.

At the end of the day, all I ask is that whoever is preparing the food, understands the hierarchy of taste first, and everything else after.  Is that too much to ask to an entire culinary industry?  I won’t even delve into the world of portions, bites per dollar, clean silverware, and service.  Those accessory sentiments should receive direct feedback in the form of a post-meal tip.  The taste, however, would be better factored into the bill, on a sliding scale.  If it tastes like a hot hamster cage, it should slide right into the garbage.