I fall in the latter category, but that's only after years of abundant and abusive usage of that food-obsessed term. It seems everyone claims foodie status, because at this point, watching Food Network for two hours a night can verify club membership. Foodie lost its meaning. Foodie became mainstream. The label means nothing anymore.

But that's okay, because food writers insist on creating new categories of eating habits. This past Sunday, New York magazine, in Vegetables Are the New Meat, classified a new league of eaters: vegivores. An outtake:

These chefs and their devoted clientele are less vegetarians than vegivores, a term that connotes fervid vegetable love rather than ardent meat hate. It’s a subtle but important distinction. For the vegivore, a vegetable can occupy the center of the plate, with meat adding flavor or functioning as a condiment.

Writers Robin Raisfeld and Rob Patronite credit farmers markets, famous chefs (José Andrés gets a shout out) and pure deliciousness. "Simply put," Raisfeld and Patronite concede, "the once-meat-obsessed populace is realizing that vegetables actually taste good."

But will this new term actually intrigue people to consume less meat? Did locavore encourage shoppers to buy foods from within 150 miles of their homes? Will locawashing discourage restaurants from jumping on the local bandwagon without actually sourcing in the area? And how come Barbara Kingsolver's "Petrolophobes"— diners avoiding "fuel guzzling foods" — from her 2007 book, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, never leaped from the page and into the mainstream?

Labels can help legitimize movements. Where would the Tea Party be without such a catchy and seemingly patriotic name? Labels help form communities. And communities — whether physical or virtual — allow people to feel connected, to stay strong in their beliefs because someone else out there is also toeing the line.

Where the term "vegetarian" cripples one's eating habits, vegivore breaks the glass ceiling of rigid rules. Vegivore allows room for experimentation, for giving power to choose a sausage, egg, and cheese one day and a spinach quiche the next, without explanation.

In fact, it might be the most freeing label there is.

(And for the record, I internet-spotted a few references to the term "vegivore" before the printing of NY magazine's article here, here and here, although none from recognizable sources.)

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The "liquid olives" at the Minibar

Them's the fighting words of Ben Leventhal.

Leventhal is the Eater.com co-founder who has become a darling of the New York foodie blogosphere by opening the flood gates of information to (and I quote from the Eater site) "rumors, conjecture and opinions, as well as accurately reported factual information. The site may contain errors or inaccuracies. We do not guarantee, and no reliance should be placed upon, the correctness or reliability of Eater's content..."

So maybe I should take Leventhal's latest piece for New York magazine's Grub Street blog with a large grain of Himalayan pink salt. Today, Leventhal published a piece about the five toughest reservations in America, a list that didn't ring many alarm bells for me until Leventhal included a number of honorable mentions. Among them is José Andrés' Minibar, of which Leventhal writes:

José Andrés’s tiny restaurant-within-a-restaurant has just six seats and two seatings a night. Seats open up 30 days in advance, at 10 a.m. If it were located in a more food-focused city, it would easily be the hardest reservation in the country.

First of all, Leventhal has apparently been too busy rolling out Eater.coms in other cities to notice that half of the country's celebrity chefs have opened up shop in D.C. The list includes Eric Ripert,  Laurent Tourondel, Michael Mina, Wolfgang Puck, Art Smith, Alain Ducasse, and now Jean-Georges Vongerichten. Holy shit, has anyone told these dudes that the District is not so food-focused?

Second, the D.C. area has its own celebrated toques, even without the influx of culinary heavy hitters looking to capitalize on the District's (fairly) stable economy and our ever-expanding dining scene. The list includes not only Andrés but also Michel Richard, Cathal Armstrong, Eric Ziebold, Frank Ruta, Ann Cashion, Vikram Sunderam, and, of course, the boy wonder, Johnny Monis.

But third and more to the point, I dare Leventhal to try to snag a seat at the Minibar without using his credentials, his insider sources, or whatever other means he has that may require a disclaimer somewhere on the Eater.com site. I'd love to see Leventhal sit on the phone, day after day, at 10 a.m., hoping and praying and genuflecting before some craven imagine so that he can get one of those 12 seats a day. The process leaves people frustrated and angry.

Oh, and Leventhal, do you think this task has become any easier since Andrés earned four stars from the Los Angeles Times for his Minibar-like Bazaar?

For all the good work Greene did during her four decades, I'm afraid I'll always remember her most for having sex with Elvis Presley. Greene led off her 2007 memoir, Insatiable, with the anecdote. Here's the memorable moment in all its sticky, elliptical details:

He didn't seem to be listening. Silently, he took my hand—yes, still gloved—and led me to the bedroom. I was thinking, Oh my God...this is Elvis...I am going to do it with Elvis. I am not going to be coy. I will not make him talk me into it. He didn't ask. I didn't answer. He closed the door, dropped his pants, and lay on the bed—very pale, soft, young—watching me take off my clothes and, yes, at last, my little white gloves. All the way up on the twenty-fourth floor, I could hear the girls chanting on the street below: "We want Elvis. We want Elvis."

And look who has him, I was thinking. As...it...happened. In a feverish heat. Skin on skin. I think it was good. I don't remember the essential details. It was certainly good enough. I know the reality of it was thrilling beyond anything I might have imagined.