I find the pleasure quotient in this year’s Food Issue
noticeably skimpier than in previous years. The prose is still delicious, but
it’s used to express anxiety rather than food love. John Lanchester’s “Shut Up and Eat” sets the tone. He writes, “Most of the energy that we put into food, I
realized, isn’t about food; it’s about anxiety. Food makes us anxious.” Other
pieces in The Food Issue illustrate Lanchester’s point. Michael Specter, in his
“Against the Grain,” writes about “gluten anxiety” (“Gluten anxiety has been
building for years, but it didn’t become acute until 2011, when a group led by
Peter Gibson, a professor of gastroenterology at Monash University and the
director of the G.I. unit at the Alfred Hospital, in Melbourne, seemed to
provide evidence that gluten was capable of causing illness even in people who
did not have celiac disease”). Dana Goodyear, in her “Élite Meat,” says, “More
than any other food, meat focuses cultural anxieties.” She goes on:
In the seventies, beef caused heart attacks; in the eighties
and afterward it carried mad-cow. Recent decades have brought to light the dark
side of industrial agriculture, with its hormone- and antibiotic-intensive
confinement-feeding operations, food-safety scares, and torture-porn optics.
The social and environmental costs, the moral burden, the threat to individual
health—all seem increasingly hard to justify when weighed against a tenderloin.
And when pleasure is expressed, as it is in Adam Gopnik’s
“Bakeoff,” it’s never whole-hearted. Gopnik undercuts his sensuous description
of the Cronut’s taste (“intensely sweet, interestingly textured, almost
unbearably rich in ‘mouth feel’ ”) with the later observation that it “sits
right on the edge of being slightly sickening.” David Owen’s excellent “Floating Feasts,”
an account of his cruise on the Royal Caribbean’s Oasis, includes a section on
Norwalk virus.
And yet, there are
pleasures in this anxiety-ridden Food Issue: Jiayang Fan’s “Bar Tab: Drunken Munkey” (“a Bollywood flick plays, the churidar-outfitted waitstaff deliver
railroad chicken on placemats mapping British India”); the delightful last
paragraph of Gopnik’s “Bakeoff,” in which he imagines Antonin Carême, the early
nineteenth century chef, standing in line for a Cronut (“One sees him outside,
waiting for hours, furiously scribbling new ideas for pièces montées—perhaps
a triumphal procession in pastry, with a temple of Art and Appetite made of
pretzel croissants, blessed by Love in the form of three or four crusty Cronut
Cupids, smiling down, for novelty’s sake”); the superb noticing of “the milk
coming out of a white rubber hose that was un-pinched when you lifted the metal
paddle,” in Chang-rae Lee’s “Immovable Feast”; and – my favorite – Rivka
Galchen’s wonderful description of the operation of an ice-cream bar vending
machine, in her “Medical Meals” (“Mike and I would listen to each coin fall.
Then came a whirring sound as the freezer chest opened slowly, like a vampire’s
coffin. A robot arm descended, suctioned up glycerides on a wooden stick, then
released the treasure into the dispensing slot of the machine. ‘I’m so glad I’m
here,’ Mike would say”).
But none of the above is comparable to the double bliss of reading delicious prose describing delectable eats, e.g., Lauren Collins, in the 2012 Food Issue, writing that a bite of Poilâne miche “reverberates in the mouth for a few seconds after you’ve swallowed it, as though the taste buds were strings” (“Bread Winner,” The New Yorker, December 23, 2012). Next year, less anxiety and more food love, please.
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