As one would hope and expect at an establishment where all the sandwiches are named after Wilco songs, the chat between counter guys and customers at Sky Blue Sky usually revolves around music.
(Come to think of it, they may actually pay the guys who hang around passing the word on cool new bands. Like the performers who wander amusement parks dressed as cartoon animals.)
The other day, as I was waiting for my Kingpin, I overheard the following revelatory exchange.
Counter guy: You’ve never heard of Jack White?
Music fan: (shaking his head, but smiling) Nah, that’s not my real flavor.
“That’s not my real flavor.” It’s what you say when you want to indicate your lack affinity for something without dissing it. A friendly acknowledgment of taste’s essential subjectivity.
The complicated die mechanic in that story game? Not my real flavor.
I tried to watch that adaptation of the classic ghost story last night, but it was not my real flavor.
It carries the same meaning as “not my cup of tea” but without the aging pedigree, and the unspoken connotation of withheld condemnation.
Now, that saying, music fan, that is my real flavor. Thank you. And consider it stolen.
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