The philosophy of food
Hey all. :) Much has happened since I stopped posting properly, and I won't worry about trying to get you "caught up." I don't know for certain that I'm back, either. But this caught my attention: http://www.reuters.com/article/oddlyEnoughNews/idUSL2063502720080521
Read it. Think about it. Then tell me what you think, where you stand.
I might change my mind about this, but I am quietly on the side of Mr. Santamaria. I think that it is important to treat food with respect, and I think that cooking is an art. But when you reduce--and I acknowledge the charge of the word "reduce"--food to a statement for the glorification of yourself, then... then your object of inquiry changes and whatever you are doing is no longer about food or cooking. It's about you. It's about you wanting to have a reputation, or you wanting your restaurant to make the gossip columns.
There's been talk in New York recently of the $175 burger in a Wall Street burger shop. The burger uses high-quality beef, and truffles, which are of course expensive, but also, the bun has flecks of gold leaf. Now, really. It's a burger. I think that I could make a stellar burger: high quality meat, onions caramelized slowly, artisan cheese, delicate mushrooms, and just-crisp bacon. I bet you I could charge $25 and make a neat profit on it. I bet you my little restaurant would have a great rep. And I bet you I could make a burger that tasted just as good for $15, and used a more accessible cheese, less expensive mushrooms.
That's one thing: putting in rubbish ingredients for pure sensationalism.
But in the article I point to, chefs like Ferran Aidria are changing the way we experience flavor, and they appear to be doing it by drastically changing the texture of food. If hare is reduced--again, "reduced"! I am unable to mask my own bias--to "hare juice," then we omit the feel of the food, the resistance against our teeth and tongue, the ultimate acquiescence of the meat to our mouths. But food is for the five senses, is it not? Food tastes incredibly different when we are blindfolded, for example, or when we have a cold, or when we choose to eat--as in the case of Indian food--with cutlery rather than with our hands.
One might argue that Mr. Aidria and his cohorts are not depriving us of texture; instead, they are reimagining and recreating it, and in the process, inviting us to rethink our own understand of texture. There we are: postmodern art. But, like much postmodern art, the art ceases to exist for itself and exists now as a medium for the artist to say his or her piece. It becomes a soapbox. I have struggled to understand postmodern art, and I have found that it consistently leaves me grumpy. When I eat, I want to sink my teeth into something. I want the flavors to spill into my mouth and expand. I want to be surprised and delighted and, ultimately, satisfied. Not for me the silly little portions served beautifully arranged on expensive plates but amounting to barely a mouthful and costing a small fortune.
No: I want to go to Itzocan Bistro on 110th and Lexington, where I can get a bowl of mussels in a steaming, salty, nuanced broth with cilantro and tomato, where there is an endless supply of freshly baked, soft airy bread with a crisp crust, bread meant--nay, destined!--for dipping, where each briny bite of mussel delights and warms... where all of this costs a grand total of $8.
Mr. Aidria, not for me the chemical delights of your laboratory. I leave you to your art; I acknowledge that perhaps one day I will be a convert to your philosophy. But for now--for all these years and for as long as I can see going forward, I will stand by Mr. Santamaria, whose philosophy of food is centered not so much on sensationalism but on satisfying.
Read it. Think about it. Then tell me what you think, where you stand.
I might change my mind about this, but I am quietly on the side of Mr. Santamaria. I think that it is important to treat food with respect, and I think that cooking is an art. But when you reduce--and I acknowledge the charge of the word "reduce"--food to a statement for the glorification of yourself, then... then your object of inquiry changes and whatever you are doing is no longer about food or cooking. It's about you. It's about you wanting to have a reputation, or you wanting your restaurant to make the gossip columns.
There's been talk in New York recently of the $175 burger in a Wall Street burger shop. The burger uses high-quality beef, and truffles, which are of course expensive, but also, the bun has flecks of gold leaf. Now, really. It's a burger. I think that I could make a stellar burger: high quality meat, onions caramelized slowly, artisan cheese, delicate mushrooms, and just-crisp bacon. I bet you I could charge $25 and make a neat profit on it. I bet you my little restaurant would have a great rep. And I bet you I could make a burger that tasted just as good for $15, and used a more accessible cheese, less expensive mushrooms.
That's one thing: putting in rubbish ingredients for pure sensationalism.
But in the article I point to, chefs like Ferran Aidria are changing the way we experience flavor, and they appear to be doing it by drastically changing the texture of food. If hare is reduced--again, "reduced"! I am unable to mask my own bias--to "hare juice," then we omit the feel of the food, the resistance against our teeth and tongue, the ultimate acquiescence of the meat to our mouths. But food is for the five senses, is it not? Food tastes incredibly different when we are blindfolded, for example, or when we have a cold, or when we choose to eat--as in the case of Indian food--with cutlery rather than with our hands.
One might argue that Mr. Aidria and his cohorts are not depriving us of texture; instead, they are reimagining and recreating it, and in the process, inviting us to rethink our own understand of texture. There we are: postmodern art. But, like much postmodern art, the art ceases to exist for itself and exists now as a medium for the artist to say his or her piece. It becomes a soapbox. I have struggled to understand postmodern art, and I have found that it consistently leaves me grumpy. When I eat, I want to sink my teeth into something. I want the flavors to spill into my mouth and expand. I want to be surprised and delighted and, ultimately, satisfied. Not for me the silly little portions served beautifully arranged on expensive plates but amounting to barely a mouthful and costing a small fortune.
No: I want to go to Itzocan Bistro on 110th and Lexington, where I can get a bowl of mussels in a steaming, salty, nuanced broth with cilantro and tomato, where there is an endless supply of freshly baked, soft airy bread with a crisp crust, bread meant--nay, destined!--for dipping, where each briny bite of mussel delights and warms... where all of this costs a grand total of $8.
Mr. Aidria, not for me the chemical delights of your laboratory. I leave you to your art; I acknowledge that perhaps one day I will be a convert to your philosophy. But for now--for all these years and for as long as I can see going forward, I will stand by Mr. Santamaria, whose philosophy of food is centered not so much on sensationalism but on satisfying.