For a while, I was keeping up with Alex Witchel’s particular flair for self-loathing and misery in the New York Times Dining section. Then, miraculously, she seemed to get a little more upbeat, and I forgot all about her.

Maybe today’s essay is just a desperate bid for my attention? First of all, the hed, “The Hunger and the Hostility Vanish in One Bite,” is a little alarming. Because if I know La Witchel, there ain’t gonna be no hostility vanishing.

This essay is ostensibly a light-hearted look at just how hilariously small NYC’s restaurant scene is, but, guess what, the great food makes up for all those awwwwk-ward! encounters. But there’s a token mention of only two food items–a bistro chix liver dish and Nobu’s miso cod–and then it’s on to a distressing tour of Witchel’s bitter psyche.

I thought the lowest point was when she dwells on the wrongs dealt her in high school, going so far as to call out a rival from those bad old days, a woman who ruined Witchel’s meal at the Palm by saying hello and praising her writing:

Dear Devoted Reader: I know that you slept with my boyfriend 24 years ago, and I have not forgotten.

I think I’m meant to say, Oh, snap! But I’m really thinking, Oh, sad. Witchel is older than I am, and she’s still pissed about this? Can’t we all just collectively agree that most everything we did in high school was foolish, and that we’re actually pretty decent people after all?

But then she goes on to tear apart a trashily dressed woman from L.A., bridle at the fact that said lingerie-clad hussy was speaking to her husband (who’s a little famous–people want to talk to him for more reasons than female rivalry), and then do that crazy, for-ladies-only “I hate you but instead I’ll smile and offer my umbrella, and then later dis you in a national newspaper” trick that I assume girls learn at summer camp?

And, again, we’re also treated to Witchel’s extremely problematic relationship with food…which always makes me wonder why she gets to write a food column, when it turns out she doesn’t really like to eat it. The instant some chicken livers pass her lips, she feels obliged to self-flagellate:

I went straight for the chicken livers and mushrooms, which I love — they have an Old World, homey taste, like something my far-from-French grandmother used to make — and which I almost never let myself order, hewing instead to the straight and narrow green salad. But desperate circumstances call for extra calories, not to mention extra cocktails.

There’s just nothing more unattractive than women publicly disavowing their meals. Just eat the damn thing and like it! Don’t make me feel obliged to say, “Don’t worry–your ass doesn’t look fat in an Old World, homey way.”

And then the last line of the essay, after she does the hypocritical umbrella escort to the boudoir-couture woman, she pats herself on the back:

On a full stomach, I’m actually a forgiving girl, myself. At least until breakfast.
Which I don’t eat.

Alex. Honey. No wonder you’re such an eye-scratching bitch. Starvation is a fast track to crankiness. Just eat some goddamn eggs and toast and sit in a sunny window and drink your coffee. I bet you’ll feel a whole lot better about high school.