Bests of Burden

In the awfulness that was calendar year 2020, I deleted my Facebook account of fifteen years. Between COVID madness, conspiracy theories, and a presidential election, I felt fatigued. I remember a minister at my church in college once gave a sermon that asked, “What if you had a billboard above your head that flashed up all your thoughts and showed them to the world?”

In 1999, we laughed nervously at the idea. Now, social media has brought it to life. I was so unbelievably worn-out, in 2020, of watching families argue themselves apart in comments sections; friendships end; human connections flicker and then disappear.

Unfortunately, I help manage our social media accounts at work, so a complete Irish goodbye was not possible. I set up an anonymous account, did my work, left Facebook largely behind. As the craziness of this decade’s first year receded into the background, I started to revive my little Zuckerburgian online presence. A profile photo here; adding a good friend or two there. But I limit my engagement and my time, and I almost never post anything at all. It feels like a nice balance.

Hoping to expand my personal and professional circles of knowledge and interest, I also joined some groups. Many of them were Oklahoma based: Oklahoma Hiking, Oklahoma Off-Roading, Oklahoma music. But it’s the Facebook groups centered around food I was most excited to find. They’re unbelievably helpful in letting me know about great new restaurants—or great old restaurants I’ve been neglecting—as well as food trends in other parts of the country and world that I’d like to keep an eye on.

But I’ve noticed something in all these groups. Nearly every post contains a word I don’t like to use: Best. What’s the best spaghetti in Tulsa? What’s the best coffee in OKC? What’s the best this, best that, best best best. Here a best, there a best, everywhere a best best, bests of all kinds. Where’s the best Thai food? Where are the best birria tacos within five blocks of my house? Where’s the best ice cream?

I get it—if you can find someone doing something better than anyone else, they probably deserve your money. The problem is, food is too subjective and intimate an experience to be stripped down to rankings. I remember once when Greg and I were out repping Oklahoma Today in public, and a dude came up and asked, petulantly, “OK, so what’s the best restaurant in Oklahoma?”

Greg’s one of the foremost authorities on food in this state. I’m not on his level, but I’ve eaten at locally owned restaurants in most of the counties in Oklahoma and all its biggest couple-dozen towns. I’ve eaten my way across this state from the plum pudding at the Pioneer Woman Mercantile in Pawhuska to the heat-lamp food at the gas station in Binger. Both were deeply, deeply satisfying. I’ve BurnCoed and nonesuched, Hochatowned and Guymoned. Neither Greg nor I could tell you what the best restaurant in Oklahoma is, because in addition to the fact that great places open and close every single day, we don’t know what you mean when you say best.

Here’s an example: Let’s say you ask me, “What’s the best cocktail in Oklahoma City?” I’d have to answer your question with a bunch of other questions: What kind of liquor do you like? Are there any kinds that you categorically do not like? Do you prefer fruity cocktails, smoky cocktails, or maybe something truly off-the-wall? Are you a sipper? What of mocktails?

Because if I tell you, for example, that the best cocktail I’ve had in Oklahoma City in quite awhile is the Jack Kerouac at the Library of Distilled Spirits, the gorgeous basement bank-vault restaurant at The National, you very well might run out and try it. It’s tequila, agave, guava, lime, and pineapple—but if you don’t like tequila, or lime, or pineapple, or fruit of any kind, or bank vaults, or nineteen-dollar cocktails (this one is worth every penny, no cap), it wouldn’t be the best cocktail you’ve ever had in the city.

From left, the Jack Kerouac and the Colette at the Library of Distilled Spirits in downtown Oklahoma City’s The National

Or let’s say you ask, “What’s the best pizza in Oklahoma?” I’d likely just tell you a story about how, shortly after I joined the staff of Oklahoma Today, our then-publisher, Joan Henderson, declared Humble Pie in Edmond “the best pizza in Oklahoma.” So dutifully, wanting to try this best pizza, I went to Humble Pie. And while Humble Pie no longer exists, I can say that what they did, they did very, very well. Here’s the rub, though: It was Chicago-style pizza, and I don’t really care for Chicago-style pizza. I’d much rather a big, foldy slice of New York—that’s my preference. It doesn’t mean I think Chicago is bad or Humble Pie was doing a poor job; it’s just not the pizza for me. (And if you want a truly great slice of New York-style pizza, oh my goodness, can I tell you how well they’re doing it at Rendezvous Pizza in Bricktown? Yow!)

This girl gets it.

Food is far too subjective and personal to rank in terms of bests. There are too many variables. If I tell you the “best” restaurant is such-and-such, and you go there and have a bad experience—and every restaurant has off nights—maybe you’d think I didn’t know what I was talking about. This is actually something that’s happened to me on a number of occasions.

I propose we strike the word best from our food vocabularies. I prefer to ask people, “Where’s your favorite [insert thing here] and why?” The and why is important: It gives me something to look for on the menu. It tells me what to look for. Even if the and why is, “Because I’ve been eating there my whole life, and it’s a place of love and home and nostalgia for me,” then I can go and try to see it through your eyes. We all love a lot of things that aren’t by any rights the top of the game, but they do what they do well and consistently.

Food isn’t just food, after all: Restaurants are third spaces that nurture communities as well as bodies; friendships as well as careers. They’re where we do business, where we gather, where we celebrate our joys and mourn our sorrows. As long as someone is doing what they do well, they get respect from me (and in a topic for a whole 'nother blog: If a place is a shining star of culinarianism, but their staff is rude or their service is poor, I lose my enthusiasm for them quickly). Experiences like these can’t be distilled down to a series of numbers and ranked thusly. They’re meant to be lived, enjoyed, savored, and—if they’re good—repeated, preferably with as many of the people we love as will join us.

Written By

Nathan Gunter

A sixth-generation Oklahoman, Weatherford native, and Westmoore High School graduate, Nathan Gunter is the magazine's editor-in-chief. When he's not editor-in-chiefing, Nate enjoys live music, running, working out, gaming, cooking, and random road trips with no particular destination in mind. He holds degrees from Wake Forest University and the University of Oklahoma. He learned how to perform poetry from Maya Angelou; how to appreciate Italian art from Terisio Pignatti; comedy writing from Doug Marlette; how to make coconut cream pie from his great-grandma; and how not to approach farm dogs from trial and error. A seminary dropout, he lives just off Route 66 in Oklahoma City.