He’s baack! Hope you’re hungry because we’ve got another searing scribble from DLT’s proudly-persnickety contributor, Eric Eats Out. Check back the first Wednesday of every month as Mr. Eats Out chews up life’s greatest mysteries, including the joys of lowering your standards. Warning! Slightly risque words after the jump.

I declare 2011 as the Year of Mediocrity!  Down with “great,” just bring me “pretty good.” 2010 was disastrous on so many levels, so it is fitting that my New Year’s Eve dinner at one of Phoenix’s top fine dining restaurants followed suit by delivering a less-than-stellar experience.

I’m not naming names (hint: the name starts with “Q” and ends with “uiessence”), but I should really learn to be happy with empty water glasses, waiting 10 minutes for my server to arrive at my table when I’m seated, foie gras terrine served ice cold, sloppily-served lobster bisque and food that isn’t hot. When I asked my server why they were not doing wine pairings with our tasting menu, the answer was a cheery “Just because.” I mean, really, why should I expect more? I’ll just be disappointed, so I might as well set my expectations low and be satisfied by “okay.” Just because!

The fact is, there are so many pedestrian restaurants that are simply doing it better than elite destination dining establishments. They don’t aim for eco-friendly-locavore-farm-to-table-gluten-free-happily-raised-lettuce. I love to use Chili’s as an example, because they never fail to nail it. The chicken in my fajitas may be sizzling in a froth of hormones and preservatives, but at least it arrives hot. My server might not seek a future career in the food business, but she never fails to refill my iced tea before I get to the bottom. And you can be damn sure that the teenage hostess will thank me for coming even if she and her friends would make fun of me if they saw me at the mall. Living without expectations means that you’ll almost always be happy. It’s the new Prozac, and it’s free!

And while we’re at it, lets drop labels like “farm to table, artisan, locavore and craft-brewed.” My inner-optimist loves the idea of my food being sourced from my own community, but I call “bullshit” on many of these labels. I’ll give credit where it’s due; Seacat Gardens grows some awesome produce and Queen Creek’s Olive Mill and Pork Shop are worth the drive. However, the fact is this: not every climate is suited to producing the whole range of products needed to supply a restaurant. I’ll take my lamb from Colorado or New Zealand, my foie gras from the Hudson Valley and my Provel Cheese from a large greenhouse-gas-emitting-factory somewhere in the Midwest, thank you very much.

Truth be told, I love the idea of eating happy steers who were smiling when they were slaughtered because the rancher cared enough to give them blow jobs while he simultaneously delivered an electric shock to their brains. But if I really spend any time thinking about it, I wouldn’t eat any animals at all because, quite candidly, I generally like animals a lot more than I like people. I hate factory farms as much as the next guy and love the idea of raising the food we eat in a more humane manner, but let’s not get too cute with it, okay? I don’t need to know the name of the pig I ate and couldn’t care less than he was raised in Arcadia and taken to the slaughterhouse using the light rail system.

Let’s come together, dear readers, and set our sights lower. A year from now, we’ll look back on 2011 and say “it was pretty good.” And that’s great.

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