Despite the gradual immiseration of American life over the
past few decades, I think I can safely say that the food has gotten better – the
idea of brioche was something that had to be introduced to me in freshman French,
but now every godawful casual-dining restaurant puts its burgers on a brioche bun.
Same goes for all of the post-Reformation countries that have historically had
the shittiest food – the palate of the average Brit or Swede or Australian has
expanded in kind over the same time period.
And yet we’re at something of an inflection point, as with so many other things in the consumer world. Instagram has provided the perfect venue at which to flex. You are living a healthier, more active, more aware lifestyle because you photographed your post-gym acai smoothie. You are a more sophisticated consumer because you photographed the duck leg confit with a red-wine reduction. Ad nauseam. Pun intended.
As much as it pains me to say it as a long-time fan, the specter
of Anthony Bourdain seems to be a factor as well. His ethos, encouraging people
to travel more widely, eat better, and listen to as many people as you can, is something
I can universally recommend, and something I’ve done my best to live up to. And
yet it seems that while people are doing the traveling and eating, they’re less
keen on listening. I’ve seen a million lazy reposts of his quotes across social
media, typically over a stylized picture of his craggy face staring out over a
desert dune or in a cramped New York apartment, cigarette in hand. But I think
this is the quote we should be reflecting upon a bit more…
“When and if the good guys win, will we—after terrifying consumers about our food supply, fetishizing expensive ingredients, exploiting the hopes, aspirations, and insecurities of the middle class—have simply made it more expensive to eat the same old crap? More to the point, have I? Am I helping, once again, to kill the things I love?” – Anthony Bourdain, “Meat”
It is into this fractious landscape that I began my (very
fun!) part-time gig in professional food writing, a mix of freelance
assignments for hotels and restaurants and regular feature-writing
contributions to a certain well-known restaurant guide… I’ll refrain from
saying the name out loud, having vomited in my mouth a little when a group of fancypants
visual artists went from completely disregarding me to suddenly being
fascinated by me after the name drop.
And it is precisely those artists’ attitude that drives so much of food media nowadays, with Netflix food documentaries being particularly gross offenders. Jiro Dreams of Sushi was good fun and all, but the main emphasis there is not the excellence of the food – that’s something that you’re going to have to taste yourself, and few people outside of Japan have ever had sushi of anywhere near that caliber. No, the emphasis was the exclusivity, the opulence, the visual spectacle, and secondarily the sob story about Jiro’s shitty family (not much deeper or more meaningful than the average American Idol contestant tearing up about how much their mom sacrificed for them). In other words, everything I fucking hate. And the thing is, that’s the best of the genre.
Although the faux-populist opposite is just as bad. While it
is objectively true that taste is subjective, to claim that this makes all
opinions of taste valid is nothing more than anti-intellectualism transformed
into an ideology. Lest one feel bad that one is not dining at Eleven Madison
Park, we are reassured that actually, no, it’s OK, and yes whatever you’re
eating merely by dint of its price point and convenience and your chronically
anxious state is just fine! Are you enjoying yourself? Then it’s OK! Here’s a
gif recipe of some nacho cheese atrocity. The “let people enjoy things” approach
to criticism is a complete abjuration of craft in favor of the lowest common
denominator – a reduction of the public to a kindergarten.
(btw I like Nacho Cheese Doritos as much as the next guy, but they should be recognized as what they are, which is to say not OK)
You can even double down on this… if you want to really dig in,
as countless bloggers and video essayists, some of whom are actual grown
adults, are wont to do, to say that eating well is ACTUALLY classist and ableist
and fatphobic and colonialist, and didja think about that HUH? I think it goes
without saying that I consider this to crypto-Protestant bullshit. If I’m being
charitable and assuming that these are good-faith actors (which is by no means
always true), I understand the desire to point out just how bareassed the
emperor actually is, and I understand the desire to dismantle systems of
oppression, but there’s nothing worth celebrating in the fact that most of the
time we wind up sucking the tailpipe of consumer capitalism.
I think the reason why I found 2022’s The Menu to be one of the most annoying fucking films of all time is that it somehow manages to encompass all three of these perspectives. On the one hand we get the gorgeous farm-to-table island restaurant and beautifully plated dishes that, even when presented ironically, seem designed to whet the appetite, and on the other hand, we get about the most tired, overplayed, obvious social commentary there is, and the reassurance at the end that, no, actually, the burger that Anya Taylor-Joy munches on at the end is better than any of the fussy fine dining being eaten at this chef’s table of the damned.
Because here’s the thing, when it’s done right… fine dining
is pure poetry. Sure, a lot of it is bullshit – I won’t name names, but let’s just
say I have opinions about many of Bangkok’s best-known set-menu restaurants. But
when it’s done well…
A few years ago, I finally got a chance to dine at Maison Rostang, a little bit off the Champs-Elysees. Dork that I am, I made an Excel sheet of Paris’ two and three Michelin star restaurants to determine where I wanted to have the fancy Parisian dinner I’d saved up for, and I wanted something full-bore, balls-to-the-wall classical French. Smoked eel wrapped with foie gras, roast pigeon, the most perfect chanterelles I’ve ever witnessed, wedges of cheeses that only have names in regional French patois washed down with vendange tardive Vouvray that tasted of apricots and morning dew.
Stopping myself here lest the descriptions be more befitting a Brazzers video.
Most days I’m happy with a simple buttondown shirt and my Uniqlo jeans and a nice homemade salad. But damn, sometimes I wanna slip on my linen blazer and fix up my hair and watch slivers of Alba truffle cascade over my plate. And no, I won’t be photographing it, as one should not photograph moments of spiritual ecstasy. To do so would be like taking a confession-booth selfie.
