What price a good meal? The question posed in the preface of The American Home Cookbook of 1932 is readily answered by its publishers: “Barring the obvious cost of materials, there is that priceless ingredient—interest.” Oh, those sage prophets of cookery books replete with gems like deviled sardines and jellied venison. They had no idea how “interest” (to put it mildly) in a good meal would come to be a defining characteristic of the latter half of their century. The simple idea of paying attention to one’s food, seemingly radical for that generation, was destined to evolve into a burning curiosity—even an outright obsession—that would fuel a number of industries, usher in the era of the celebrity chef, set off a paradigm shift in farming, and ignite an American food revolution. And it was all started by a sassy, 6’2″ coed who used to sneak into speakeasies.
Julia Child, who passed away this August, is clearly the mother of the revolution. For every morsel of foie gras, every slice of flourless chocolate torte, we owe her. During a time when the American cuisine meant hot dogs, frozen dinners, and Velveeta, Julia coaxed us to embrace the leek and demand it from our grocer. For those whose nonna didn’t teach them how to cook, she was a comforting mother figure to count on in a weekly timeslot. She not only demystified the process of cooking, but with her easy, convivial ways she educated a generation in the art of good eating. It’s not about slapping a protein, a starch, and a veg on the plate and eating in front of the TV. It’s about appreciating what every ingredient has to contribute, about the joy of the perfect bite in which a host of flavors commingle symphonically, about the complex passion of creativity and the simple delight of sharing meals with others.
As the interest in fresh and exciting food developed, the focus turned from eating in to dining out. The eighties’ money glut, which spawned the desire for luxury versions and designer brands of everything, caused a surge in high-end restaurants. More people had more cash and they wanted a slice of the good life accompanied with good food. Dining became an event in itself and chic eateries tried to outdo each other with extravagant wine lists, daring menus, and funky concepts that would lead to the sometimes scary world of “eatertainment.” Well-heeled investors threw money into restaurants that they could show off to their friends. The Young Turks in the kitchen began stacking food into elaborate towers, melding French creations with Asian dishes in a flurry of fusion, debuting exotic ingredients flown in from all corners of the globe (enoki mushrooms, huitlacoche, eel skin). All of a sudden, food had a pedigree, and so did those who prepared it.
Much credit for chefs’ elevation to celebrity status has to go to a short Austrian cook who became one of the most recognizable names in America. It helps that Wolfgang Puck rose to fame in Los Angeles, the locus for the cult of personality, where he turned the idea of fine dining on its ear by opening Spago. The glitterati expected a typically elitist, uptight gourmet restaurant; he gave them patio furniture, familiar but ultra-fresh ingredients, and, most shocking, an open kitchen that allowed diners to experience the sights and smells of the food being prepared. He gave them what they didn’t know they wanted, which is clearly one way to become an icon.
With the rise of other chefs—Charlie Trotter in Chicago, Daniel Boulud in New York, Todd English in Boston—people began to define food and cooking not by country of origin but by vision of chef. No longer held as chain-smoking misanthropes with scowling demeanors to be hidden behind the line, chefs have risen to the station of “artist.” This transition is easily understood when you consider that theirs is an accessible art. Few people have money to spend on fine art, and many wouldn’t know what to buy if they did. Sculpting or composing music is not a daily activity for most of us. We do regularly eat and cook, though, and virtually anyone can get a reservation at Babbo in New York and sample Mario Batali’s silky, vibrant puttanesca, which is cause for a moment of reverence—a work of art in its own right. It’s this unique intimacy and accessibility that makes us keenly appreciative of those who can turn out culinary creations beyond our own capabilities.
For true food zealots, the chef is a shaman, a guide on the path to finding the divine in the daily details of life. On a more worldly level, we want the food to bestow upon us not only flavor, but sophistication and the superior sense of being in-the-know. Stylish food and smart restaurants carry a pedigree that reflects on us; name-dropping (“this is a Jamie Oliver recipe”) wins you kudos and credibility. In the era of the Food Network, what you eat says as much about you as your clothes or your car.
We like to think that our children’s pop stars are disposable, and that our allegiance to a celebrity chef is as unwavering as his line of frozen soups. But is it? The world of food now produces a steady stream of media sensations. Last October, the venerable Gourmet notoriously posed a quintet of chefs as rock stars on its cover—and then offered a feature story not on their expertise but on the photo shoot. Julia’s humble public television show has evolved into the Food Network, an essential element in creating buzz and cultivating “foodies.” Emeril, the network’s early poster boy, now plugs Crest toothpaste. There are book deals, cookware lines, movie cameos, talk show appearances, and other amazing opportunities for the chefs-of-the-moment. As long as they don’t mind spending much less time in the kitchen.
With all this exposure, chef has become a dream job, right up there with NBA superstar, although seemingly much more attainable. Countless cooking schools have opened across the country, and competition to get into the most venerable institution, the Culinary Institute of America, has reached Ivy League levels. As accountants and teachers chuck their former lives to follow their “passion” for food, many find that the actual work—hours on their feet peeling dozens of shrimp and chopping hundreds of onions—is far more grueling than throwing a dinner party; as a result the dropout rate for culinary schools is also higher than ever.
The “Almost-Famous Chef Competition” is simply the next logical step in this conflation of media and celebrity and food. Lucky finalists from various national cooking schools are sent to celebrity-chef boot camp, where they spend a weekend with renowned chefs and media wranglers who offer culinary newbies valuable advice on creating buzz, working it for the camera, and dealing with agents. Students are also judged on their success in creating a stunning dish in record time—but it’s the chef’s “star potential” that is worth twenty percent of the total evaluation.
It’s only fitting that the competition is held in Las Vegas, which, in its most recent reincarnation has styled itself as a paradise for gourmands, built on the foundation of celebrity chefs. Wooed by hotels like the Bellagio, big names throughout the country have opened outposts in Sin City. With Tom Collichio down the corridor from Todd English and across the street from Jean-Georges Vongerichten, it’s like a chef’s shopping mall. While some have flourished in the desert heat, others, like Charlie Trotter’s, have already closed. Critics have described the trend as a bait-and-switch deal: Once the restaurant is open, the renowned chef jets back to his landmark establishment, abandoning the Vegas joint to management by support staff and using it as a cash cow to fund other ventures. Is this where the food revolution is headed? Is its future in the hands of media darlings who believe their own press and feel free to slap their names on any old burger to keep the masses on the hook?
There are, of course, larger lurking questions: Who is really
cooking your food? Bobby Flay is ubiquitous on the Food Network and Iron Chef, but can you ever glimpse him in his kitchen at Mesa Grill? Are those paying top dollar for the name of a celebrity chef getting their money’s worth? Those questions are especially germane right now with regard to the buzz surrounding Thomas Keller. As head of the French Laundry in Napa Valley, Keller became known for controlling the entire experience of his restaurant, from the linens to the lingonberries, and creating a cult-like following among patrons and employees alike. One critic even deemed the French Laundry the Best Restaurant in the World. Then Keller opened Per Se last spring in the vaunted Time Warner complex in Manhattan, leaving his Bay Area following befuddled: How could he adjust the garnish on their truffled duck confit from three thousand miles away? It’s more than a certain bitterness in having to share their signature Keller salmon cones with New Yorkers—there’s a fear that the artist has sold out to fame and fortune and that his art will suffer. But the best chefs know that strong leadership and inspiration are the keys to running a great kitchen, whether they are present or not. Keller, and others like him, can flourish in multiple locations as long as people believe more in the food on the plate than the name behind the line.
As always, a true revolution is rooted with the people. While the splashy side gets played out on TV and in top-dollar restaurants, the real change comes from millions of eaters buying the books, watching the shows, and upgrading their kitchens at Williams-Sonoma. A generation of latchkey kids with working mothers who didn’t have time to cook makes for a beautifully blank slate, eager to try new foods and cuisines. Leaders like Alice Waters and Tom Douglas have promoted the values of organic, locally produced ingredients, and the information age has furthered our interest in food beyond its flavors and textures. We want to know its nutritional value, where and how it was grown, which farming methods were used, for whom it was named, and what role it played in history. So another question may be: Are we consuming or are we being consumed?
The local version of this national drama includes small-scale but nationally recognized artisans, such as B.T. McElrath Chocolates, and processed-food legends like Pillsbury. Some chefs find stardom here—Tim McKee of Solera is one of Food & Wine’s “Rising Stars,” and it’s looking like David Fhima is almost our own Rocco DiSpirito—and yet we allowed the cutting-edge Aquavit to close. The Oceanaire Seafood Room, Campiello, Caribou Coffee, and Buca di Beppo, now recognized across the country, started right here at home. In the recent documentary Eat This New York, two Minnesota boys go through the hell of opening their own little bistro in New York. In a way, they embody the ever-striving, hard-working Minnesota ethos that has helped shape our food scene. We are always dreaming of being a part of the big time, but it’s often the smaller starts that shine brightest.
The key to living the good life, however, comes back to a lesson Julia taught us: All things in moderation. Man cannot live on béarnaise sauce alone; burritos and M&M’s still have a rightful place in many a food lover’s diet. But for those who happily claim to be clinically food-obsessed, there is no better time than now. The term “new American” refers not to T.G.I. Friday’s, but to restaurants that are turning out fearless food with remarkable flavors that challenge the eater’s expectations. Our cuisine is ever-evolving, much like our obsession with fame, new and shinier icons, and the search for the best of everything. Who knows what’s next, celebrity auto mechanics?
Stephanie March is The Rake’s food columnist.