There is a special place in hell reserved for a specific class of exploitative journalism.
It’s the “Places only the locals know” or “hidden gems of the North Coast” genre. The “Journalists” who commit these crimes against locals deserve to be cooked in their pudding. But, instead, they expose us to the Madras short class. You know those rollicking invaders who are desperately seeking T-Shirts and ashtrays with the Bumkin Harbour map emblazoned in genuine artificial gold leaf.
They are foodies, so they invade that little place in the harbor where you go every morning for coffee and a bagel. Pretty soon, your ability to savor your breakfast is gone. In desperation, you seek clandestine locations, but some travel journalist finds you and outs you in the Times or the Post in a few weeks.
Then the restauranteurs move in. Remember Rosie’s? It’s now The Rose Court. Remember Charlie, who used to take your order? He’s a Maitre’D – ” I Truly regret it, sir and madam, but I have nothing open until 10 PM.”
At last, the developers move in. They have a “vision” of how to blend the new verve and vigor of the harbor with the historic vibe of the old mackerel cannery. Pretty soon, all the locals have left for less expensive towns.
I’m on my way to a meeting tonight. A few of us are going to start a “Best of….” watch. Every time our town or our favorite restaurant gets a good review, we’re going to counter the four or five stars rating and give it solid zeroes or ones.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, and it’s them or us!