The Stew: Social media check-ins stir up foodie wrath

If there's one thing that cell phones and personal technology have shown us, it's that the value of human interaction is highly overrated.

We need less communication, not more. Some people think their phones and computer keyboards are their connections to the world. They are not. They are merely tools that amplify our worst tendencies.

This became true again for me the other night.

During a visit to Spaghetti Warehouse in Ybor City, I picked up my BlackBerry to check in on Foursquare to say I was having dinner there.

Foursquare is sort of a social media game where you can let friends know through your phone or computer that you're at a restaurant or bar, store or special event. By doing so, you earn points that don't matter and make-believe badges that no one really cares about. And because everything on the Internet is only one click away from everything else, it tells followers and friends on Twitter and Facebook you're there, too.

It's ridiculous and pointless and works like a crowbar on my mild OCD twitches and my seemingly bottomless need for public attention.

So I check in at Spaghetti Warehouse. And I sit back and wait for the hurricane of abuse.

Why? Because I know the foodies in my virtual midst will not approve of my visit to what they perceive to be the Costco of carbohydrates. Eating anywhere that resembles a chain restaurant is not only a mortal sin, but a de facto jihad against all that is good and holy about independent restaurants and locally produced ingredients.

After announcing my Warehouse arrival, only seconds pass before the eye of the storm makes landfall on Facebook:

Friend No. 1: Ewwwww

Friend No. 2: Yuk.

Friend No. 3: I'm so sorry for you.

Friend No. 4: To be followed with a trip to Cheesecake Depot

On Twitter, someone I've never met before questioned my decision: "Why are you there? Certainly not for the food."

Well, now that you ask, I was there for my sister-in-law's 54th birthday. She wanted family to share in the celebration. Spaghetti Warehouse was able to fit nine adults and a baby with ease for an affordable price. The number of places that can fill both requirements on a Saturday night is pretty small.

The sausage penne pomodoro I ate would never be confused with Mario Batali's version, but our service was outstanding. When two in our group ordered spicier meat sauce for their spaghetti, our server took the time to make his own concoction so they could add it to the dish as they liked.

Same thing happened a month ago when I launched a Foursquare grenade from a high-top table in the bar at Chili's where my family and I found the last open spot.

Knowing the hazing I would get, I joked, "Just ate a pulled-pork sandwich. Because I'm all about authenticity."

The sarcasm was ignored. Reaction was swift.

Friend No. 5: Chili's?

Friend No. 6: Say what?

Friend No. 7: Ditto Michelle - you eat at Chili's?

Friend No. 8: You might as well have the pulled pork at Subway.

On Facebook, someone I never met pinned a scarlet letter to my chest.

"You just lost all credibility with me. I thought you were all about local and authentic foods. Not chain, boxed and canned crap. Bad move, dude. Bad move indeed!"

None of them took into account that it was a Friday night. Or that I tried to get into two independent restaurants with new locations. Both Latin Cafe 2000 on John Moore Road and Angelina's Italian Restaurant on Lithia-Pinecrest Road in Valrico were beyond crowded.

Chili's was a distant third on the neighborhood dining depth chart at 8:30 on a Friday night. I had my 16-year-old boy's empty stomach to fill. Supporting a cause was not high on my agenda.

Again, the server was great. A real pro. If I had a restaurant, I would have hired her away.

That wasn't enough justification for some. One friend whom I love like a sister typed that she was shaking her finger at me. As if I was a toddler who just made boom in my shorts.

I get it. I write about food. I shouldn't be eating at places with the words "warehouse" or "factory" in their names. I should lead by example. My job is to champion the industry's best practices and scorn those who violate the public's food trust by valuing the dollar over nutrition and wholesomeness.

And while I generally genuflect to the new religion of locavorism and the ideals it represents, my job is not to judge what someone eats or where they eat or how they eat. That's their business.

Foodiecrats, for all purposes, have become the third political party in America. Violate the well-meaning platform of their beliefs, and you risk being shunned and mocked, no matter what your justification might be. People who wouldn't dare tell another person what to do with their bodies in the privacy of their own bedrooms have no problems telling them what food they should consume and where they should do so.

That kind of castigation doesn't lead to more followers. It leads to a have-and-have-not rift. Teach a man to fish and he'll eat forever. Beat him over the head for eating the wrong fish and he'll probably stop listening to your preaching.

I'm a big boy. I can take it. But not everyone understands the passion behind the movement – or its potential for being invasive and stifling and downright annoying.

All I ask is that before you cast that stone against me the next time I deign to do drive-thru, do me a favor first, please.

Walk a mile in my chews.