ELEVATE/EMBRACE
About Others' Food and Food Writing Etiquette
Published on Cook_inc. 34, 03/2023
Glenn Roberts - former Air Force pilot and trumpeter in the San Diego Symphony, sailor and jockey, chemist, and lover of food history and architecture - founded Anson Mills in 1998 to resurrect the production of Carolina Gold, the most prized and endangered American rice. He dreamed of again serving his mother a bowl of this precious rice, one of her most cherished childhood memories. If it sounds paradoxical that one of the most renowned rices of all time was falling into oblivion, it is because the history of Carolina Gold is indeed contradictory. And painful.
The South Carolina Lowcountry is a vast marshy area on the Atlantic coast characterized by an intricate geometry visible from space: tidal rice fields with mazes of canals, dikes, and drains covering thousands of acres. This massive agricultural effort was carried out throughout the 18th century entirely by forced labor. No other human endeavor had shaped the landscape so titanically. In these fields, an African rice variety flourished through the exploitation and expertise provided by the victims of the Transatlantic slave trade. Coveted on the tables of the global elite, the export of Carolina Gold from the colonial plantations reached figures as high as 45,000 tons per year. Following the abolition of slavery, the know-how for farming Carolina Gold disappeared, and so did the rice. When Glenn Roberts revamped the production a century later, it was an immediate hit. In Heritage: Recipes and Stories, Sean Brock describes it as "the most flavorful rice I've ever tasted." Without Roberts - a white man - we would no longer be able to appreciate this magnificent grain; without the stain of slavery, the American Carolina Gold would not have existed in the first place. Once recovered, Anson Mills could have trademarked the rice and sold its seeds. As a personal act of reparation, Roberts decided instead to gift it to anyone who reclaims the right to farm it. In food history, controversies like this are like bread and butter.
There was a panel in East Harlem recently where chefs, journalists, and producers were gathering to discuss the complexity of rice as both a powerful connector and a misunderstood, downgraded food. They argued that, despite being the perfect blank sheet to write one's preferences, origin, and influences, rice is ultimately perceived as a 40-pound bag of Goya or an instant rice package by Uncle Ben's. It can be paella, bibimbap, risotto, jambalaya, biryani, sushi, or being reduced to bland human fuel. For chefs and restaurateurs on the stage, the key to stripping rice of its wrongful diminishments lied in how professional kitchens manipulate this ingredient. By elevating it, they argued, rice could finally emancipate itself from the stigma and climb to the exclusive status reached by caviar, foie gras, or truffle. At the end of the Q&A, a young African-American woman turned to the speakers, asking, "When you talk about elevating, what do you mean, exactly?" After a few seconds of subtle tension, the speakers started articulating their perspectives. To sum it up, to elevate means to put love into every dish. It can be achieved using the best available ingredients, pursuing the finest technique, or even "placing an edible flower as a finishing touch."
When I asked Sasha Marx - chef and culinary editor raised in Rome and trained in some of the best restaurants on the East Coast - about the term, he immediately wrinkled his nose: "I hate that word." Whenever we think about elevating a recipe, we inherently attribute to its original version a connotation of inferiority or, at best, incompleteness. It is just another verb, not controversial per se, but try inserting it into a context where a recipe from a culinary excluded culture is taken by gastro-elites and rearranged to please the canons of the circle. Whether dressed with French or avant-garde techniques, plated in a certain way, and included in a tasting menu, will that recipe be elevated or gastro-gentrified?
"It is a crucial issue that should concern the entire culinary world. Not just restaurants, but also publications," Sasha continues. "For far too long, only people who looked like me have had full control over everything, including food. People who had operated without restraints or counterbalances when they chose to approach other cuisines. Presenting themselves as food authorities, anything coming out of their mouths or kitchens was considered the truth. There are celebrated chefs who are ready to open a taqueria after a weekend trip to Mexico. I mean, no borders can prevent you from cooking anything you want. Still, you shouldn't parachute yourself into another culture. The process must pass through thorough study and research and an attitude of complete respect. Otherwise, it's mere culinary colonialism: go, take, come back home, and profit from it.”
Some people have approached cuisines from cultures distant from their own and have created impeccable works. They have often dedicated their lives to studying and unconditionally loving these cuisines and wrote about them with care and respect. Take Darra Goldstein, a professor of Russian literature and author of several books on cooking and culture in the former USSR countries. During her Ph.D. in Slavic Languages and Literatures at Stanford, Darra spent a year in Moscow to familiarize herself with the language. It was 1978, and she was an American in the Soviet Union during the height of the Cold War. "I was ready to give up everything, including my studies, and return home. It was challenging emotionally, intellectually, politically, and even physically." The winter of '78 was one of the harshest in history, and the tightly rationed food was often of poor quality. "After receiving threats from the KGB, my resilience was seriously shaken. It was the people's generosity that gave me the strength to continue. Despite the lack of food in the stores, they invited me into their places and managed to prepare extraordinary dishes."
Upon returning to the United States, Darra proposed a dissertation on the relationship between food and Russian literature to her academic advisors. They dismissed the proposal as ludicrous and her as unserious. She ended up writing her dissertation on the poet Nikolay Zabolotsky, but even before defending it, she published the cookbook "A Taste of Russia" (Random House, 1983). "It was a way to celebrate my love for such a beautiful and complicated country and honor all the people who courageously opened their doors, hearts, and jarred pickles to me." As an added bonus, it was a liberating redemption in the eyes of her academic committee.
Darra's role was comparable to that of a translator: "What translators did with words, I did with recipes. When I started writing the book, all the recipes had to be faithful to the originals. Now, however, I see the concept of authenticity as a burdensome monolith. Authenticity dwells in the specific moment; it is the uniqueness of a person cooking something in that distinct space and time. As such, its replicability is highly improbable." Did you think only fierce BBQ or ragù flag-waving existed? Try it with borscht. "There are thousands of versions, and everyone is ready to swear that theirs is the most authentic. In such cases, I can only acknowledge the immense diversity and write my personal version. I combine elements from various recipes that convince me the most into a single guideline. Under my borscht, I will write about its history, specifying that it is my version and giving credit to all the sources." Darra still maintains contact with the same people who once hosted her. Today, just as during the year they first met, they communicate with great caution.
The range of subjectivity in recipes is vast. It is within these gray areas that complications arise. For Sasha Marx, authenticity is just one of the components. "When I embark on a new project or develop a new recipe in an area where I feel I am not fully prepared, I first ask myself: am I the right person to do it? If I know there's someone with unquestionably better skills and knowledge, I mention their name. This is how we create space for more voices and bring historically marginalized perspectives into the conversation. On the other hand, it is important to learn new things and not get stuck in our comfort zone. We need to grow, but we also need to recognize when to make room for others."
I have often heard the metaphor of cooking as writing. Removing rather than adding, achieving the best possible result with the fewest sentences or ingredients. Those ingredients, therefore, matter. Sasha agrees: "I can't help but suggest which ingredient is most suitable. Let's take the Amatriciana pasta as an example. I have to point out guanciale as the first choice, and I can even provide links to vendors who deliver it to your home. What I cannot do is be strict, especially with the current rampant inflation in groceries. Notes and asterisks serve this purpose: if you don't have access to guanciale, you can use pancetta. Can't have that? Go for bacon. Will it be an Amatriciana by the book? No. Will it be delicious? Of course." Another example he offered is the Pad Kaprao Moo, a recipe that calls for kaphrao, or holy basil. In the US, Thai basil - far more common than holy basil - is often suggested for this recipe. You can certainly use Thai basil, and you will undoubtedly create a delicious dish, but can you still say that without kaphrao – the ingredient that gives the name to the dish – we are talking about the same thing? There are no Amatriciana or Pad Kaprao Moo police out there ready to raid our homes and seize the bucatini cooking water or the prik nam pla. "In the private space of our kitchen, anything goes, but as soon as we enter the public sphere, rules must change."
When we approach new foods, our gastronomic past follows us like a shadow. "We all have a definition of what is good. However, it is crucial to remember that 'good' is an acquired notion. It is cultural, not absolute," explains Darra. "To fully immerse ourselves when studying a new cuisine, we must free ourselves from bias. Naturally, not everything we taste will blow our minds, but we must be constantly aware that our reactions are conditioned by our individual history."
Darra has no doubts about the importance of outsiders: "They often see the remarkable more than an insider. While insiders understand the subject more than anyone, they don't necessarily grasp its significance. The extraordinariness of those things is perceived as ordinary, not worthy of witness."
When facing uncomfortable arguments, an instinctive burry-the-head-in-the-sand reaction often kicks in. But waiting for the dust to settle or dismissing a topic as too complicated to engage in a conversation cannot be the answer. Intentions matter, but being ready to confront opposing perspectives also matters. Glenn Roberts intended to give a gift to his mother; it so happened that the gift was the inheritance of a historical tragedy. Tradition should be documented, but let anyone enjoy a pineapple pizza. Chefs should be free to express their creativity, but choosing to elevate dishes that are not fully understood in the first place is a lazy shortcut to a dead end. Anyone who desires to grow and evolve in this industry should be able to do so without having their previous achievements acting as stale specializations. The hybrid nature of food will inevitably succeed, but the risk of playing the telephone game with others' recipes without first documenting is to reduce them to dysmorphic specters. Those who populate the food space should be as voracious as sensitive. As curious as they are generous.