Nothing worse than having to travel with the contrarian coworker who "doesn't do chain restaurants." The guy who pretends he's too good for Chili's, Starbucks, and Chipotle, who will make you spend an extra 45 minutes in traffic driving to the hole in the wall coffee shop on the other side of the metroplex for a $12 Americano brewed by a communist polycule that tastes exactly like (free) Marriott lobby coffee. The guy who claims to loathe the suburbs due to the lack of adequate fine dining options, and who raves about his favorite Lebanese spot downtown where him and his equally pretentious Macbook-job wife shove carrots and hummus down their screaming iPad toddler's throat ("He loves it!") . These are my least favorite people on the planet. At the end of a long day of work, I want a triple dipper for $15 and 14 Coke Zeros, not a deconstructed 2 oz. mushroom risotto with algae crisps and a boba tea. These people deserve to be airdropped into the Amazon Rainforest.