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When he's not guiding the course of a major metropolitan newspaper, Kevin spends way too much time thinking about music, movies, comics, sports, bad reality shows and other aspects of popular culture and everyday life. He does not habitually refer to himself in the third person. Hit him up at kevinmoreau@sundaypaper.com.
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Confessions of a junk foodie


I’m not what you’d call a foodie. Far from it. In fact, if there’s a term for the exact opposite of that—someone who turns his nose up at the very mention of “en croute,” pales at the thought of polenta, cringes at Carpaccio, is allergic to aioli and philosophically opposed to anything “organic”—that’s me.

Call me a junk foodie. Whenever I’m about to visit a restaurant for the first time, I check its Web site to make sure it’ll have something that fits my limited palate. Left to my own devices, I’d start every day at the Original Pancake House on Cheshire Bridge, do lunch at Popeye’s, Eats on Ponce or some cheap Mexican hangout, and split my dinners between the burger menu at the Vortex and the pub-grub offerings at the Local or the Highlander. Suffice it to say, Food Editor Kirsten Ott doesn’t have to worry about me infringing on her territory anytime soon.

I mention all of this as my own twisted introduction to this week’s cover story. It’s no secret to any of us that Atlanta is a great food town, with enough “name” chefs and top-tier restaurants to appeal to the most adventurous foodie. So it should come as no surprise, even to me, that the ATL stands shoulder to shoulder with San Francisco as the only two cities to field three respected chefs for the new season of Bravo’s “Top Chef: Las Vegas,” which starts this Wednesday, Aug. 19.

I’m much more apt to enjoy a local theater production than I am anything containing the words “edamame” or “foie gras,” although I don’t get out to nearly as many shows as SP’s insightful and occasionally incendiary theater critic, Bert Osborne. I’m staggered by the amount of shows Bert sits through in a given year to produce his weekly column—94 this season (down from his usual record of 100-plus). Conservatively estimating two hours for each show, that’s 188 hours—more than a full week spent scribbling in the dark.

The end result of all that scribbling is our annual Spotlight Awards, Bert’s yearly evaluation of the best productions, directors, actors and behind-the-scenes players—not to mention the most irksome trends—of the season. I think you’ll agree it’s well worth the time and effort. So if you see him in the aisle in front of you sometime soon, give him a hand.

And if you see me at the drive-thru, give me a friendly wave.



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