I can dish it out, but I can’t take it, so brace yourself.
I have dined at Michelin-starred restaurants (if you weren’t such an idiot American who doesn’t know about other countries, you’d know what those are) in both London and Paris, as well as well as the Five Diamond Victoria and Albert’s at Disney World.
My mother was a chef of sufficient quality that she cooked both for Prince Charles, and for John Major (if you weren’t such an idiot American who doesn’t know about other countries, you’d know that he was the British prime minster from 1992 to 1997).
I was friends with the editor of the hugely respected Good Food Guide in the 1990s and dined at a number of the restaurants they rated most highly.
So I think you’ll find I know something about good food.
Now, let’s turn to the US’s notoriously high quality cuisine. Oh wait. You people wouldn’t know good food if it was shoved down your fat, greedy gullets. Oh wait. It is. In grotesque quantities. Huge lumps of greasy repulsiveness and giant mounts of unnecessary sugar.
So, sure, you keep eating big fat old mounds of barbecued meat and thinking you have a sophisticated palate.