Posting photos of your meals while travelling? Sorry, I don’t get it

I don’t get it. I don’t understand why people who own a smartphone feel compelled to post photos of their food on social media. Are they flaunting their photography skills? Is their dish unique? Is it because everyone else is doing it? Tell me, please. I want to know.

I ask because I’d much rather see a lovely photo of an elephant stomping across the Serengeti. A palm-fringed beach. A beautiful rainbow.

Illustration: Jamie Brown

Ever since the Master Chef revolution in 2009, food has never been sexier. Even in the travel space, it has become a destination selling point. My brother and I once spent a week surfing near San Sebastian in Spain’s Basque region. These days it’s better known for its food scene.

Same with Peru, home to the Lost City of the Incas, Machu Picchu. Now it’s just as famous for its highfalutin’ eateries exploding into the World’s 50 Best Restaurants lists, including top gong for Central in Lima last year.

When I research a destination before I travel, it isn’t so I can learn where to eat; it’s to find out what there is to see and do. I’d rather spend my money on a hot air balloon ride than a fancy dinner. But there’s a lot of people out there who travel specifically to countries like France or Italy for the food. I go to see the Eiffel Tower. They go to dine by the Seine at Plenitude.

The truth is: I don’t care what other people are eating. And the reason is that I’m not that fussed myself. To a large degree, food is fuel for me – something my body needs to function.

Some people feel compelled to post photos of their meals to social media. Is it just because everyone else is doing it?Credit: iStock

I enjoy cooking at home, especially when accompanied by a glass of beer or wine and some background tunes. But I’m lazy in the kitchen. Dinner when I’m cooking is often a choice between half a dozen favourites.

As a youngster, I was a fussy eater – an affliction that’s been cured largely by travelling through foreign cultures. Now I’ll eat anything. Horse meat in Mongolia. Fried crickets in Cambodia. I’ve devoured guinea pig in Peru and eland in Nairobi.

For years, I couldn’t stomach eggs. Then I realised I was unable to escape them. Chickens are everywhere, providing readymade nourishment in even the poorest villages. In the Himalayan foothills of Nepal, eggs were occasionally my only choice of breakfast, so I learned to swallow my prejudices and get the energy required to march up those mountains. On a campervan road trip through Europe, easy-to-cook omelettes became readymade meals.

I guarantee one thing … I’ll never be a foodie. Any time I see a story about food, I’ll skip over it. It’s not a subject that greatly interests me, even though I’ve written the occasional food-related story. And when I read a menu, I don’t need to know the provenance of every item on the plate. Would I notice if my oysters weren’t from Coffin Bay or my potatoes from Bungaree? Does it matter if my wagyu steak isn’t free-range?

In Peru, I once dined at an upmarket restaurant in Cusco, the former Inca capital. It was founded by a celebrity chef who is credited with bringing Peruvian cuisine to the world’s attention. The backstory was interesting and the atmosphere cosy. But if I’m honest, the food was on the bland side.

Nothing an extra pinch of salt couldn’t fix.