I’m going to call him Chaz the Gourmet, though he modestly declines the title.

He likes to explore restaurants, bakeries, reads about a place, what customers say about it, what the place says about itself. He evaluates, tastes the words because he knows them well enough, he writes books which you can buy around the world if you have enough money and can speak or read the language they’re often translated into, so he’s a gourmet of words too. He knows the taste and the recipes.

He goes out and hunts and forages, he likes to go places, sees what’s new and / or old, tracks down what he read about, stands in line, and watches everything, the other people, how they’re treated, listens to what they say, smells the air, scrutinizes the display, then buys selectively and brings it home to Kristina and me.

Kristina is my Daughter, which you already know. I love her even more than Chaz. I love Chaz too. More than just a Son by law, he’s a friend. And he has good taste, he chose Kristina.

Kristina, now, is so smart she knows stuff I’ll never know, which is the way it’s supposed to be, the child supersedes the parent. She also knows food, too, “This is better,” and cooks it up real good so I eat like a gourmet when there’s time to fix it up.

But I was talking about Chaz. He’s the Modest Gourmet. He says, “Focus on the food.” He can tell from the scent from the kitchen whether to stay or not.

But he’s not snooty like those dilettantes with their nose in the air and feed on their own ego. They raise a little finger, take a little bite, spit it out, and yell, “Fire the chef!”

Chaz does say things like, “It was better yesterday,” or, “It’s better than it will be tomorrow.” Unless, of course, it’s something that improves with age.

Like me. Not always, or in all ways, but you know what I mean, you catch my drift.

And he, like me, is of the old Don’t Waste Food School. He cleans his plate.