Photo by Ian Shalapata.
(TORONTO, ON) – As a wine writer, I really enjoy getting invited to winemaker’s dinners, stemware producer’s dinners, and a whole host of events where one might say over the top food is prepared. I have had my fair share of truffles in the last two weeks.
If it is honest and traditionally prepared, I relish it. But, when it is presented as art on a plate, I am afraid there is something that makes me recoil from the table. I believe this art form began with nouvelle cuisine and took twists and turns with Feran Adrià, at his now defunct El Bulli Restaurant in Catalonia, Spain.
I don’t consider myself an old geezer who likes his slices of beef, mashed potatoes, frozen peas, and gravy all set out in lifeless lumps on the plate. I like a bit of creativity. But, on a continual basis, just give me some honest and tasty bistro food.
Why do we eat? Because we are hungry. But, there are some of you who forget this basic instinct. You receive thrills from elaborately presented dishes, which look more fanciful than mere hunger supressing.
Do you really want miniscule portions adorned with exotic foams, flowers, and herbs? They dazzle you like a deer in the headlights, but leave you looking for a slice of pizza. That’s the result of ingesting art rather than food.
Photo by Ian Shalapata.
The best food I have had was found in diners, mom and pop restaurants, and what might be referred to as “holes in the wall”. But the passion to satisfy and the gregarious ambience of these establishments may leave the snooty and moneyed diner dissing the proletarian eaters who are wandering like a lost tribe in the culinary desert.
I have travelled North America and Europe far and wide for five decades, and the most enjoyable food is not in the Michelin starred restaurants (with one exception). Instead, it is in far humbler establishments.
I will say the best food I have eaten, aside from what my wife and I prepare at home, was in the countryside of the Douro Valley in Portugal. A simple dish of roast pork, boiled cabbage, and the best roast potatoes in the world. A dessert of crepes drizzled with port wine sauce has been branded into my mind.
Served with Douro wines in a quinta (estate) overlooking the Douro River is my dining experience of a lifetime.
There are no sommeliers wearing cute suits and narrow ties fussing over a massive wine list. Even when the pace picked up at more formal dining in the Douro, waiters and waitresses serve on the finest china and pour into the best stemware, it still remained visually simple. You know exactly what you are eating.
And, not to be dramatic, but it strikes you to your soul that this is enormously delicious yet simple food.
Photo by Ian Shalapata.
In any case, let’s move closer to home.
In Toronto or New York, I have eaten where the critics recommend. I see there those who wish to be seen at the latest hot spot. They can’t tell the difference between a mushroom or a truffle, however.
Usually they are young and moneyed, or they’re the cash heavy foodie types who eat where the press tells them to eat. A foodie goes where he or she is directed to go to. It may be a great meal, but needlessly presented with an excessive flair.
I have a vivid memory of visiting The Dutch in New York City with my anti-foodie foodie friend Mr G and his wife. It was highly reviewed by the New York Times, but I’ll accept the blame for the visit. The food was mediocre and the place was crowded with 30-year olds who had more money than brains or taste buds.
Mr G is a New Yorker of Russian descent and he was trained to eat well. His aunt could cook up a storm, and caviar was aplenty. You can just about drool hearing his stories of his feasts with his aunt. He can also afford to eat at just about any restaurant in New York, but he doesn’t.
In fact, he prefers his local bistro, where he feels at home with his neighbourhood crowd. He gets good solid grub at reasonable prices and exits happy as a clam.
Mr G is an anti-foodie foodie, meaning he loves well prepared meals, but has an instinctual recoil from critic-palavered restaurants. This may be wrong, but usually from Mr G’s experience, it is right. He loves a well prepared Martini and this is his initial gauge of a restaurant.
Photo by Ian Shalapata.
I keep digressing, so let me sum up.
A foodie loves well prepared and tasty food. A foodie is drawn, like flies to a beef carcass hanging in an Hanoi marketplace, because a critic has lavished praise on a particular restaurant.
An anti-foodie foodie loves food, but distrusts the herd mentality caused by the food critic, who is often seduced by presentation rather than content. Many high-end critics worship the idea of food as art.
This is no war, but rather a matter of preference. On occasion the foodie can lead us to a great dining experience despite the theatrics of presentation. Yet, on the other hand, the foodie is suckered in by media reviews.
As a parting word leave the foodies alone. If they are happy so be it. Do they think they can change the face of modern cuisine? Never.
There are just too many of us anti-foodie foodies around. Perhaps we’re an even greater tribe of “as long as it’s food I ‘m happy … just slop on the gravy.”
Set the Bar 