Unfortunately, similar one-word alternatives to "foodie" flop for other reasons: phonetically speaking, "foodist" is one letter away from "nudist;" a "foodster" sounds like a runaway hot-dog cart souped up with a diesel engine.

a house party in the Mission- are these guys foodies?
A house party in the Mission: Are these guys foodies? Photo by Michael Chopko

my house- what about this lady? is she a foodie?
My house: What about this lady? Photo by A. Simmons

"Foodie" makes me think of hedonists with healthy appetites and strong opinions, but only a fleeting, superficial interest in food as anything more than a source of sensory delight. I'm not prescribing any Michael Pollan. The unexamined sandwich is still sometimes worth eating, but to me, "foodie" as a label implies frivolity when food is actually quite serious: an essential human requirement in which we've merely evolved to seek and derive incredible joy. Our relationship with what we eat shapes a text as rich as any other, a tapestry of taste woven across time through history, language, science, and art -- reflective of, as is the case with most of what's really important, everything humans have experienced. From fire-pits to Ferran Adria, food preparation is much older than music, art, and theater; it's right up there with sex and violence. Being in touch with the role it plays means you're engaged, not elitist. Seeing a dude on the bus with a grease-smeared McDonald's bag in his lap and sneering because he doesn't appear to value good food is elitist -- and presumptuous. Maybe that guy knows more about food than you. Maybe he's more passionate about his quarter-pounder than you are about Mission Street Food. Maybe he eats those weak burgers and, with every savored nibble, whips up waves of fond memory -- road trips, family vacations, burger-y smells filling up the car and fogging up the windows, styrofoam folders of steaming breakfast munched on the school steps before homeroom -- and puts him back in places he likes to keep close. Maybe he's not what some people would call a foodie. Maybe he's more than that.

Last week, I enjoyed a dinner with dedicated eaters. As the first course landed, I asked them what they thought of the word "foodie." Predictably, a few embraced the term, a few dismissed it, and the rest shrugged and said they did not care. The newish Mission Burger came up an hour later, right after dessert, once a bottle of whiskey had begun making the rounds. "Oh, you should check it out," I said, perking up. "It's in a market, next to the meat counter." I went on. "Sounds like something a foodie would say," a friend immediately remarked wryly once I'd paused. "Right -- and then blog," said another.

People vulnerable to the foodie label like to discuss food and break news of hidden favorites. As we sat in my dining room, stuffed, half-drunk, talking about food, I thought of my late great-aunt Florence from Barlow, Kentucky. A large, funny woman with a tiny kitchen and pecan trees out back, she used each meal as an opportunity to plan the next. Sitting at the table tucking into bacon, eggs, and toast, she'd wonder aloud: "now, we'll have green beans for supper, with potatoes and maybe a little ham." She wouldn't have known the difference between gazpacho and a can of Campbell's, but she really liked to eat and talk about eating. Was she a foodie?

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