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I am a food writer. A young one, just like the one who replaced you. And if I ever submitted anything close to as overwrought and (forgive me) ham-fisted as that, I'd have been fired long ago. I used to be outraged, but now I'm just bored by writers like you -- and it's not just you; there are a thousand others just like you -- who think it's sufficient to describe scallops as sunbursts and truffles as explosions and then call it a night. Yawn; over. The Ladies' Home Journal called; they want their aesthetic back.
So please understand if the tears dropping into my beer (Pinot's been passe for ages -- I'm not sure what world you inhabit, but it sure as hell ain't mine) are a little crocodile.
The problem is not that the world you're covering is banal, but it's that you lack the talent to make it not be. Good luck with the novel.
PS: Salon -- I've been reading you since high school, and a premium subscriber since Day 1. No offense, but what are you people thinking?
