The missing poetry, passion, and sensory exploration of contemporary food editorial
The thing that sucks about most food writing these days, such as the type of essays you might find in annual best-of anthologies, is that everything seems to have an agenda that is either political, sociological, or otherwise considered newsworthy. I’m sure it’s all very important and should be written about and discussed, but there’s no joy in it, no celebration of food for the sheer love of intoxicating flavors, luxurious ingredients, and painstaking techniques. It has been decided, somewhere by someone, that there has to be some larger meaning or social impact or it’s not important enough to warrant a serious discussion, let alone column inches. Balderdash, I say. Hogwash. Codswallop.
I don’t need another depressing treatise on the socioeconomics of a popular dish or the political ramifications of an entire cuisine. It’s a lot of hard-nosed journalism where I’m looking for poetry and artistic passion. It’s killing my good vibes, not to mention my appetite. A recent edition of Best American Food Writing featured stories on Army rations driving the baby food industry, wheelchair access to DC restaurants, Lean Cuisine, and a guy trying to save a grocery store. There was more chemistry, economics, and politics than actual food. Maybe I’m in the minority, but I like my food writing to be about, you know, food.
I am trying to escape reality by immersing myself in the absolute rapture of a story of how the addition of a fried egg to a bloody skirt steak, finished generously with fleur de sel, and paired with triple-cooked pommes frites, becomes a thing of transcendent beauty and wonder. I don’t need any value-added angst with my steak frites. I’m looking for reasons to keep on living, not another example of the desolation of our humanity. I want to read about salty, gooey goodness until I am forced to get off my ass and make something amazing to eat. I am seeking inspiration, not a lecture. I want to experience vicarious joy, not second-hand despair.
I don’t need any value-added angst with my steak frites.
When we watch food travel shows, we have come to expect a melodramatic reaction from the host every time they taste a dish. Their eyes have to roll into the back of their heads, and moaning is not only expected, but required. We can’t taste if it’s any good ourselves, and we don’t trust them to simply say that it’s good. We have to feel that it’s exceptional, by judging their reaction as an involuntary response to an unbelievable bit of culinary alchemy. It’s not enough to say, “That’s not bad,” or “Hey, that’s pretty good.” It has to be life-altering.
This is not realistic, of course. It’s not the way most of us eat on any sort of normal basis, but if cost wasn’t a factor, and you had an expert guide or renowned chef to identify all the best dishes in a single city, you would probably lose your mind at each stop and with each bite, so we’ll forgive the drama. We’d be rolling our eyes and moaning, right along with them.
What I enjoy about these shows is that they’re rarely pretentious and more often than not focus on street food and accessible regional cuisine. They might throw in a few high-end, chef-driven restaurants to plug the resident expert, but generally, they eat where working-class people eat. Simple, traditional food. It’s a reflection of the culture, and often has a historical narrative, but it’s always about the food. The flavors, the textures, and even the techniques. We learn something and are inspired by what people eat and how it’s made.
I’m not indifferent to the market’s insatiable need for content, the obligation to find new angles into a story, and unique ways to talk about the world of food, but I feel as though the pendulum has swung way too far in the opposite direction. Food writers, and more importantly, their editors, have begun to believe their own hype, that what they’re doing is actually important.
This is the same misguided notion that wants to believe that comedians are the new philosophers. They are not. As John Oliver once opined, the central logic of a comedian is that they will do anything for a laugh, like a sociopath. Philosophy doesn’t enter into it. Food, like comedy, is a meritocracy and stands alone. It’s either good or it’s not.
The problem is that they’ve fallen prey to the liberal fantasy that mere knowledge is power and that uncovering what is wrong with the world will ultimately be the catalyst for setting it right. Let’s just agree that the audience for this type of thinking is quite limited, and that most of us are simply looking for distraction and entertainment. There’s such a concerted effort to force us to take our medicine that we’ve begun to be wary of even a spoonful of sugar. Sometimes, I just want to talk about savoy waffles, salted butter, or pie, not climate change and forced migration.
We used to have characters in American society, larger-than-life men and women who rose above the fray, and challenged us to chase bigger dreams and live fuller lives. They were mythological creatures, resplendent with charm and audaciousness, doing and saying things we could only dream of. Our spirits soared, vicariously driven by their exploits, and we felt refreshed and rejuvenated.
Actors and ball players, entrepreneurs and gangsters, politicians and philosophers. The writers who walked among them were not mere observers, dictating what they saw and heard for posterity, but active participants in the greatest show on earth. Writers like Tom Wolfe, Hunter S. Thompson, Truman Capote, Dorothy Parker, Gay Talese, Joan Didion, and Norman Mailer. They became an integral part of the story, if not the story itself. They showed us the world through their eyes, while they were participating in life, and not just reporting on it. It was dynamic and invigorating.
They showed us the world through their eyes, while they were participating in life, and not just reporting on it.
There were the writers known for their insatiable appetites: Jim Harrison, R.W. Apple, Calvin Trillin, M.F.K. Fisher, A.J. Liebling, James Beard, Ruth Reichl, and, later, Anthony Bourdain. They were all iconoclasts and inserted themselves into the narrative as one of the essential ingredients to every dish. Their personal tastes were just as important as anything they were writing about. It’s how we measured authenticity. They did not aim to please, but to wallow in their own excess. It was glorious.
One of the reasons I find our present predicament so disheartening is that it seems to coincide with so many examples of homogeneous menus and uninspired restaurants. Outside of a few ethnic options, simply because they are culturally unfamiliar, there doesn’t seem to be much in the way of creativity coming out of most kitchens. Within classes of restaurants, the menus appear to be largely interchangeable. Same shit, different menu. They don’t even make half of what they serve, but instead rely on international conglomerates that mass-produce frozen food in factories. The kitchens just thaw and heat so many dishes that in many cases, it can hardly be called cooking. There’s certainly no soul to it.
Even when it’s passable as edible food, the difference between one restaurant and another is hardly distinguishable. Burgers, cheesesteaks, wraps, salads, and fries for lunch; salmon, tuna, pork chops, and steak for dinner. A BBQ restaurant over here, and a taco shop over there. Nothing is homemade. None of it has a real history. It’s mostly factory-farmed and finished in a lab somewhere. There’s no character to any of it.
Many restaurants no longer even run specials, and when they do, it’s an attempt to get rid of food before it spoils. Rarely is the chef trying something new to flex their creative muscles or expand the menu. It’s all a calculation based on fixed costs and profit margins, which is understandable financially, but not at all inspiring.
On top of it all, I have seen an alarming rise in restaurants that now charge you 3% to use a credit card, even though 98% of people use credit cards rather than cash. Service businesses and retail operations traditionally factored in the cost of accepting credit cards as a convenience to the customer and a cost of doing business. Now they’re passing that cost along to their customers.
We are essentially being charged for the honor of spending our money with them. What’s next? They start charging us extra to wash the dishes and plate the food? They’re already asking us to subsidize their staff’s pay by tipping extraordinary amounts on top of the cost of the meal. They don’t hesitate to ask for a 25% gratuity, a full quarter of the cost of the meal, including tax and alcohol, which is downright obscene.
Eating out has become so expensive that even a mid-grade, casual gastropub is charging $25 for appetizers and $45 for entrees. Burgers and cheesesteaks are $20, and they come with low-budget potato chips unless you want to upgrade to fries for an additional $7. Just a month ago, my wife and I ate at a fine dining restaurant nearby, and the bill came to over $500 for the two of us. Granted, we ate and drank well, and the wine was certainly a substantial part of the cost, but still, the sticker shock was a bit much. It was very nice, and the service was great, but is it really worth the cost?
I have come to believe that dining has become less about the food and more about the convenience and experience of eating out. Except for the true fine dining outlets, where you’re really getting raked over the coals, restaurants are not where things are happening when it comes to food.
To anyone truly interested in food, it’s no secret that some of the most mind-blowing dishes can be found in the lowliest of places. Street food, ethnic cuisine, and specialty foods are where it’s at when it comes to discovery and flavorful rapture. These are rarely temples of gastronomy, but pedestrian storefronts, carts, and food trucks. They might not even bother to offer seating, or if they do, it’s an afterthought, thrown together for people to sit while they wait for their takeout order.
In the past, I rarely ate out somewhere that didn’t serve alcohol, or that I was planning to bring my own. Eating out wasn’t about speed, convenience, or nourishment. If I felt the need to eat on the go, I’d either do a shitty drive-thru or grab a sandwich from Wawa (local chain). I wasn’t parking and eating in some hole-in-the-wall taco shop. I’d be more likely to just go home and eat. Now, I’m reconsidering my entire strategy.
To anyone truly interested in food, it’s no secret that some of the most mind-blowing dishes can be found in the lowliest of places.
In the past, I’ve considered reviewing dishes rather than entire operations as a way to engage my monkey mind with the food, but I think I want to go a little further and seek out purveyors who specialize in a single thing or a niche cuisine. I love the people who choose one thing and work to perfect it, whether it’s donuts, BBQ, cheese, sausages, or bread. I just prefer the concept of a place that sells a limited selection of things and does them exceptionally well.
If the economy ever goes to complete shit, I suppose I could manage to build a small food cart and sell pizza or chicken wings. I can deliver on both. I’d need to do a good bit more work, but I’m confident that with some practice and better equipment, I could bake a mean loaf of bread. I’ve even considered asking a local baker I know to let me apprentice a bit with him. Let me do some grunt work, and possibly make use of his ovens.
I have a new running list of places to try, many of which are in the poorer sections of the region, which, unsurprisingly, is where all the interesting food is. Wildwood, Atlantic City, Millville, Vineland, and Bridgeton. These are all places with immigrant populations and exciting new flavors. Caribbean, Asian, Mexican, Indian, and Soul. It’s time to spice things up.
I want to approach the food honestly and at face value. Is it flavorful and balanced, interesting and delicious? Forget the socioeconomic or political bullshit. I want to celebrate the food. I’ve even thought of showing up with a portable photography studio, which I have, and photographing the food as if it were a culinary masterpiece. I’ve done this before.
It’s a food adventure, and I’d like to venture out into the wild blue yonder.
In the meantime, I’m interested in hearing about your favorite local delicacy or shameful indulgence. Publish an essay about your passion, and leave a link in the comments. I’ll read it.
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