![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
The New Yorker article.
I'm still heartbroken but after years of occasionally wondering if Anthony Bourdain had been sent that story so often that he wanted to throw things at it, it was great to learn that not only had that not happened, but he read it and actually enjoyed it! I never did get to meet him but I read his books and he read my story: close enough for comfort.
Food, like sex, is the most ephemeral of pleasures. You can return to the same restaurant or cook the same dish again and again, but you can only ever eat that particular one once. Maybe the taco should replace the cherry blossom as the symbol of transience. Or maybe a scoop of sakura ice cream in the summer.
And, like sex, we're taught to fear food. To be embarrassed about food. We're told that eating what we like will kill us. That it'll make us fat (the horror!) and ruin our health (if we're not perfectly healthy, mentally and physically, it's shameful and our own fault). To protect ourselves from blame and, I suppose, to live forever, we must not eat for comfort or companionship or simple enjoyment, but must carefully calculate every bite based on medical recommendations that change every year, but mostly, based on social pressure and shame.
I'm not talking about allergies or other known-to-the-individual actual health issues, but of blanket prohibitions on endless lists of arbitrary ingredients, and a general culture of blame which, ignoring actual causes of poor health like lack of medical care, poverty, racism, and sexism, attaches itself to the eating choices of individuals.
Barring recent terminal diagnoses, none of us know how long we'll live or how we'll die. I would be very surprised if Tony Bourdain and Jonathan Gold, my all-time favorite writer on Los Angeles, didn't often get told that their habit of eating anything that looked interesting and fit into their mouths would shorten their lives and they should stop. (If either of them had been women, I'd be 100% sure of it.) But any connection between their deaths and their love of food is tenuous at best, and most likely nonexistent. What food actually brought them, I think, was happiness, connection, and meaningful lives that made the world a better place.
Everyone takes the risks they're comfortable with, but it's complicated because we can't ever know exactly what the risks are. Stress and unhappiness are bad for us too; will the stress of dieting and the loss of pleasure shorten your life more than eating the burrata or chocolate cake? Is it more dangerous to eat whole foods containing fat, or fat-free, salt-free, cholesterol-free concoctions made of unpronounceable chemicals? Is it riskier to eat the taco from the truck (risk of food poisoning), the kale from the supermarket (risk of E. coli), the heart-healthy salmon (risk of mercury poisoning), or nothing but carrots you grew yourself (risk of turning orange and ending up in the hospital, which actually happened to a friend of my parents)?
I'm not advocating totally ignoring health or ethical issues in food. But I am advocating not going fucking insane over them. I'd rather be more like Tony Bourdain and Jonathan Gold than bust my ass trying to be immortal via carb deprivation or an all-banana diet or a ban on sugar. Who wants immortality without bacon?
If you agree, go eat something delicious you've never had before. And come back and tell me about it.
I'm still heartbroken but after years of occasionally wondering if Anthony Bourdain had been sent that story so often that he wanted to throw things at it, it was great to learn that not only had that not happened, but he read it and actually enjoyed it! I never did get to meet him but I read his books and he read my story: close enough for comfort.
Food, like sex, is the most ephemeral of pleasures. You can return to the same restaurant or cook the same dish again and again, but you can only ever eat that particular one once. Maybe the taco should replace the cherry blossom as the symbol of transience. Or maybe a scoop of sakura ice cream in the summer.
And, like sex, we're taught to fear food. To be embarrassed about food. We're told that eating what we like will kill us. That it'll make us fat (the horror!) and ruin our health (if we're not perfectly healthy, mentally and physically, it's shameful and our own fault). To protect ourselves from blame and, I suppose, to live forever, we must not eat for comfort or companionship or simple enjoyment, but must carefully calculate every bite based on medical recommendations that change every year, but mostly, based on social pressure and shame.
I'm not talking about allergies or other known-to-the-individual actual health issues, but of blanket prohibitions on endless lists of arbitrary ingredients, and a general culture of blame which, ignoring actual causes of poor health like lack of medical care, poverty, racism, and sexism, attaches itself to the eating choices of individuals.
Barring recent terminal diagnoses, none of us know how long we'll live or how we'll die. I would be very surprised if Tony Bourdain and Jonathan Gold, my all-time favorite writer on Los Angeles, didn't often get told that their habit of eating anything that looked interesting and fit into their mouths would shorten their lives and they should stop. (If either of them had been women, I'd be 100% sure of it.) But any connection between their deaths and their love of food is tenuous at best, and most likely nonexistent. What food actually brought them, I think, was happiness, connection, and meaningful lives that made the world a better place.
Everyone takes the risks they're comfortable with, but it's complicated because we can't ever know exactly what the risks are. Stress and unhappiness are bad for us too; will the stress of dieting and the loss of pleasure shorten your life more than eating the burrata or chocolate cake? Is it more dangerous to eat whole foods containing fat, or fat-free, salt-free, cholesterol-free concoctions made of unpronounceable chemicals? Is it riskier to eat the taco from the truck (risk of food poisoning), the kale from the supermarket (risk of E. coli), the heart-healthy salmon (risk of mercury poisoning), or nothing but carrots you grew yourself (risk of turning orange and ending up in the hospital, which actually happened to a friend of my parents)?
I'm not advocating totally ignoring health or ethical issues in food. But I am advocating not going fucking insane over them. I'd rather be more like Tony Bourdain and Jonathan Gold than bust my ass trying to be immortal via carb deprivation or an all-banana diet or a ban on sugar. Who wants immortality without bacon?
If you agree, go eat something delicious you've never had before. And come back and tell me about it.
, which I highly recommend.
(links go to Amazon), by Adrian Bailey. If you enjoyed that section of my story, you will undoubtedly enjoy his loving tour through British foodways. 
here; hers comes out better than Colwin’s did: 
. The chopped raw meat mixed with butter was inspired by the Ethiopian dish kitfo, though the Wers use Scandinavian flavorings and include pork cracklings. Mother and child is based on koumiss, a Central Asian fermented milk beverage, which is not actually mixed with blood. The name was inspired by the Japanese chicken-and-egg dish oyako-don, or “parent and child bowl.” I don’t think anyone actually eats leeches. 
, by Jonathan Gold, the only food writer to ever win a Pulitzer Prize. If you like reading this blog, you’ll love this book – he’s like a more talented, or at least more polished and experienced, version of me. This guide to hole-in-the-wall, eccentric, wonderful, old-fashioned, cutting-edge, and quirky Los Angeles restaurants can be read with great pleasure as a travelogue even if you’ve never been to LA and never plan to go.
, by Madhur Jaffrey. Atmospheric, beautifully written and photographed guide to Indian regional cuisine, nostalgic, personal, and lovely.
, by Anthony Bourdain. Gonzo chef turned food journalist Bourdain’s funny, scabrous, macho, politically incorrect memoir of a (frequently high, drunk, and/or stoned) life in the kitchen.
, also by Bourdain. While still preserving his jackass, testosterone-overdose charm, this book, about his world travels shooting a show for the Food Network, is better-written and more thoughtful and atmospheric, at times even poignant. The warning for political incorrectness stands, but I appreciate Bourdain’s lack of condescension, genuine love and appreciation for a whole lot of places and cuisines, and recognition of the backbreaking hard work that goes into food production. 
and 
, by Laurie Colwin. Very humane, sweet, gentle, and cozy essays on (mostly American) food and living, cooking for children and invalids and the jetlagged and homeless shelters – the written equivalent of comfort food. The recipes are extremely simple and come out well.
. I like a lot of Michael Ruhlman’s books but this is my favorite, three long essays on the CIA Master’s exam, an inventive Cleveland chef, and Thomas Keller. Great journalism, especially the first essay, which contains an account of terrine preparation that had me literally biting my nails in suspense. Fans of Top Chef would enjoy this.
, by Nigella Lawson. Mostly a recipe book but with excellent essays, multicultural (though primarily British) without pretending to insider knowledge, sensual and often funny. I especially liked the touching, practical essay on cooking for funerals and for people in mourning.
. A solid, well-written, often funny account that reads like a good, albeit lightly plotted, novel.
