Then and Now
Food lit of the past and present
By Jeffrey Steen and Wes Berkshire
In the trying years of WWII, food as a luxuriant art and practiced indulgence was the last thing on American minds. And yet, in the midst of constant 1940s food shortages, MFK Fisher established herself as a food writer—the first of her kind in modern-day America. Orville Prescott, in his review of Mrs. Fisher's How to Cook Wolf (1942), said: “Few indeed have any claims to literary merit. At least, few did until a knowing lady who signs herself austerely M. F. K. Fisher began conducting her one-woman revolution in the field of literary cookery. Mrs. Fisher writes about food with such relish and enthusiasm that the mere reading of her books creates a clamorous appetite.”
But it's an appetite that has waned. Anymore, bookshelves are cluttered with picture-heavy magazines that advertise the elegant made simple, and the esoteric made accessible. Americans are not hungry for narrations of a cook, it would seem, but for a plethora of recipes and easily digestible cooking tips. We want, I think, to take the mystery out of cooking.
Time again to introduce America to the food novel—the deftly written tale where food appears at every knot in the plot. It's time to give ourselves over to the fantasies we harbor, ones where food is the cure-all, or the vice, or both. Most importantly, it's time to see food as a living, breathing, multidimensional, cultural character that inspires as much as it destroys. Eating, after all, has its consequences—and I don't mean mounting calories and soaring cholesterol.
...it's time to see food as a living, breathing, multidimensional, cultural character that inspires as much as it destroys.
In her book Julie & Julia, Julie Powell provides the perfect insight: “Do you know Mastering the Art of French Cooking? You must at least know of it—it's a cultural landmark, for Pete's sake.” Holed up in her parents' house on a forced vacation, Julie catalogues her trials and triumphs as she explores Julia Child's world of French cuisine.
But what she writes is not a pundit's guide to slicing onions, or an insider's advice on proper cuts of meat for a braise. Rather, it's a confoundingly emotional and spiritual journey with food as the guide. Her ever-supportive boyfriend makes multiple appearances, as do her parents, and countless characters who shape the landscape of her days with Julia. This is not, most certainly, a casual checkout line read; it is a vulnerable revelation of what food can do to a person's life. And it's well worth the loss of a few nights of The Food Network.
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Celebrated and widely recognized chef Anthony Bourdain is probably best known in literary circles for his best-selling book Kitchen Confidential, an entirely-too-true first-hand account of the parts of the restaurant industry the average diner never sees. Often overlooked, however, are Bourdain’s literary beginnings—a series of three fictional, mob-heavy, food-filled, comedic crime novels that seem to borrow heavily from Bourdain’s real life experiences in the food world, as well as his dealings in the slightly seedier side of things (Bone in the Throat, Gone Bamboo, and The Bobby Gold Stories). Bourdain’s wiseass, tough guy persona–the same one on display in Confidential—is in full flight here. The mobsters are straight out of The Sopranos, the cops straight out of Blues Brothers. What sets Bourdain's work apart from your standard crime thriller, is its culinary expertise. Where other authors might make mention of an argument in the kitchen, Bourdain stages a sous chef being both verbally and physically abused over the finer points of a beurre blanc. The food talk is thick and exacting, but not quite so much as to overshadow the real plot of drugs, mobsters, and murder. Bourdain paints a world you know he’s more than familiar with, both in and out of the restaurant. It’s equal parts Godfather and Iron Chef; you almost expect to find a recipe at the end of each chapter.
Bourdain’s wiseass, tough guy persona–the same one on display in KitchenConfidential—full flight...
While Anthony Bourdain has set a constant tenor of adventure for himself, both in writing and in television, Abe Opincar prefers quiet reflection. Food, he depicts in his memoir, Fried Butter, clings to almost every disastrous event in our lives; it is our associations with food that secure memories. And so, he hops from vignette to vignette, painting his many formative years in life with wit and poignant punctuation. From his childhood affinity for pomegranate trees to the Passovers where unmarried Jewish women bat eyes at him over gefilte fish, Opincar has given food a lovable personality. It is no longer something just to be eaten, but cherished; it is the reason gay men find each other; it is the torture of small Mexican towns, and the vehicle for a unique brand of hospitality. And for Opincar, it accompanies everything from trysts gone awry to protracted funerals and the birth of restaurants.
What sets this work apart from others centered around food is its bald and unapologetic honesty. The humor that rings true in recanting awkward childhood moments in France is Opincar's own; the emotion is genuine and every scene rings true. For that reason, it keeps you reading—after all, reality is so often crazier than fiction. Fried Butter is living testimony to the crazy potential of food.