Response to "Is There a Crisis in French Cooking?"

            Adan Gopnik’s essay “Is There a Crisis in French Cooking?” was thought provoking on many levels.  Even the title is mind boggling-I had no idea French cooking being in a state of crisis was even a concern (and I still am not entirely convinced).  I am still trying to decide whether I loved or hated reading this piece (which is a good sign because 9 times out of 10 when I say that after giving it some consideration I land on being in love with it).  It questions the politics, social implications and so much more of food.  I feel like to truly understand this piece someone would have to read it 10 times with a careful eye and then do further research on all of the various points it raises.  One subject in particular that caught my eye was the emphasis on “frenchness.”

            When discussing the professor Eugenio Donato, Gopnik conveys his fascination with the so-called “French Food” that Donato doesn’t truly believe to be completely French: “The invention of the French restaurant, Eugion believed, depended largely on what every assistant professor would now call an ‘essentialized’ idea of France,” (Gopnik 72).  I cannot say for certain that I grasped what Gopnik was trying to get at since this piece was very dense, but the way I saw it was that there is such a cliché and stereotyped view we have of French people and French food in our head, which in being so potent becomes Frenchness.  Frenchness is not baguettes and smoking cigarettes, it is us placing that perception on a culture we think we understand.

            This is such a complex and interesting issue to me.  One thing it made me think of was our discussion in class.  We talked about how we don’t really know how to define American food and how American food is, for the most part, other people’s food, just Americanized.  American Chinese food is vastly different from authentic Chinese food.  Same with Italian pizza.  As iconic as French food is, I think it is a similar situation to America.  This essay talked a lot about the aspect of the way food is prepared in France and the tradition of this preparation, but it is difficult to pinpoint an actual food that is French.  This may be my limited knowledge but from my study of French culture and language I find it difficult to come up with an answer.

            This article made me think not only of iconic French food but iconic Frenchness.  In my personal experience, I have been told many times that I look French.  After revealing that the foreign language I speak is French I have been told almost always that that is what people would have guessed.  That it makes sense.  Yet when I ask why that is the case, people don’t really know what to say.  I think they see my last name and then look for things to make me be “French” instead of the other way around.  The point is, among other things this article inspired much thought for me about the projection of Frenchness we put on things, as I’m sure we do with many other cultures.  It is a complex and interesting discussion that I believe is just commenced in this reading.

Reading Response to "Good Cooking"

            As I read “Good Cooking,” the constant thought going through my mind was “Yes!  This is the kind of person I want to be!”  I felt this way because of Julia Child’s modesty, her honesty, and her humor.  But for me, the main aspect of Julia Child’s character that made her as appealing as the meals that she cooked was the humbling way she realized her passions.

            The way in which Julia Child followed her passion of cooking is extremely refreshing to me.  There have been many times where I have felt extremely intimidated by people who have known what their passions were since they were 5 years old.  Julia sort of fell into cooking while living in France and that is when she realized it was what she loved to do.  I kept rereading the line: “Until I got into cooking…I was never really interested in anything,” (Tomkins 131).   It is like she has this epiphany and all of a sudden her life was changed.  She didn’t pretend to know what she wanted in life since she was born, she just followed the road life was leading her on and once she landed on cooking, that is when she knew what she needed to do.

            Along the same vein, I loved the way this story portrayed Julia as such an endearing human being.  I think oftentimes when we are intrigued by art, we look at it as an isolated entity brought into the world of its own fruition, not as an entity attached to its creator.  Whether visual, theatrical, whatever art form it may be, I believe a work of art in some way reflects its creator.  People did not buy Mastering the Art of French Cooking only due to its exquisite recipes but because they loved the person behind those recipes.  When she dropped the dish she had spent so long making in front of an entire audience, it did not make them view Julia as less of a chef, it made her seem like an actual human being instead of this idol we often view artists as.  By following her example I believe we can make art more meaningful.  Being able to convey such a sentiment and inspire me as a reader in such a short reading reflects how genius both Julia Child and the author, Calvin Tomkins, are.

            What I gathered from this reading is that Julia Child was not just a chef.  She was an entertainer.  She was a visionary.  She was a teacher.  She was a human being.  She is not iconic because she cooked to perfection; she is iconic because of her imperfections.  We admire her because we are in awe of her self-assurance.  I may not want to pursue a career as a chef, but whatever I choose to be I hope to follow in her footsteps, bringing my humanness and personality to what it is I create.

Finding the Perfect Meal in a French Cafe (final draft)

            Freedom tastes like a steaming hot plate of fresh salmon with a crispy caramelized top, washed down with a cool glass of Orangina.  It feels like a calming breeze blowing away the beads of sweat on your forehead and plush, cushioned seats to rest your tired legs on after a day of travel.  Freedom sounds like the buzz of foreign accents and the clash of plates meeting a table.  It smells like the urban scent of a busy city street and the culmination of several meals wafting together to create an aromatic blend of flavors and spices.

            It was the summer after my junior year of high school.  I looked up at the hot Parisian sun that was melting my friends and me as we scrambled to find a café during our hour-long lunch break.  We had just completed a tour of Notre Dame and observing all of the delicate architecture had made us famished.  We squeezed our way through the streets of Paris that were packed as tightly as a too small pair of jeans.  The café had to meet three basic requirements: it had to be reasonably priced, large enough to accommodate eight people, and it had to be close because I really had to use the bathroom.

            The walls of the café were covered in floating fabrics that shimmied in the wind.  Although there wasn’t much separating the inside and outside of the building, it was incredibly dim.  I relaxed my tired legs on a comfortable seat between my friends Nolan and Deanna.   The shade of the café combined with the openness of the layout created the perfect warm, breezy temperature to relieve us from the hot August sun.  It was our fourth day on the trip and we all were drunk off the intoxicating concoction of exhaustion mixed with thrill.  Paris was a drug in it of itself.

            The feeling of traveling in a foreign country for the first time is one that is impossible to predict.  Growing up I had gone as far as Florida but that had been the extent of my voyages.  The same could be said for my parents.  Not that that was a bad way to live.  I was always content in the comfortable safe haven that is Sterling Heights, Michigan.  I never knew how much I wanted more until I received it.  Going as far as Europe seemed like a far off dream that would only happen once I was old and rich.  But when my principle announced he was planning a trip to France and Italy and my parents said I could go on the condition that I got a job and paid for part of my trip, this far off dream became my imminent reality.  Not only would I be spending two weeks on another continent, I was going with seven of my closest friends.  Suddenly the once comforting lines that divided Sterling Heights from the rest of the world made me claustrophobic.

            I skimmed the short menu as the server went around taking everyone’s orders.  I quickly decided on the salmon with a side of rice and a bottle of Orangina: a carbonated orange drink that tastes like a thirst quenching glass of orange flavored Pop Rocks.  In France, people go out to eat and take their time enjoying the meal not only for wonderful food but also for the ritualistic act of coming together and sharing the experience.  So instead of acting on my American impulses and complaining that it took thirty minutes for my salmon to come to the table, I sat back and slowly enjoyed my delicious and refreshing Orangina while laughing with my friends.  The majority of the conversation consisted of my friend Matt making fun of my poor decision to only bring a pair of Crocs (not the stereotypical ones, they were at least disguised to look like flats) that had begun to shrink up and blister me due to excessive use and the strong summer heat.  When my food did finally arrive I had forgotten I had been waiting for it in the first place.  I hadn’t been expecting much from the meal, just something to fill me up.

            It was the best thing I had ever tasted.  The fish was tender and juicy with a caramelized top that gave the perfect crunch so that when you bit into it, it was like every texture one could hope for in food was condensed into this one little bite.  The rice was a perfect compliment to the salmon: just simple enough that the meal was not overwhelming.  It brought out the saltiness of the salmon that exquisitely complimented its sweet top layer.  I couldn’t get enough of it.  There is something about the perfect meal that brings out your inner animal.  It kept telling me to devour the caramelized treasure that lie before me and lick the plate clean.  But with every ounce of restraint I possessed, I instead slowly savored every sweet, juicy, salty, crunchy bite and washed it down with the contained sunshine that is Orangina.

            My friends’ amusing chatter began to buzz into the background as I treasured my meal and began to reflect on where I was.  The vacation had been so busy up to this point the immensity of what I was doing did not hit me until that moment.  I thought about what I would be doing now if I were at home.  I’d probably be sitting on the deck of my pool, sipping on some iced tea and eating a ham and cheese sandwich with my family.  It was a nice image.  Comfortable.  I had never thought I’d want anything different.  But the taste of that succulent salmon brought me back into the present and reminded me that there was something much better than comfortable.  Because after all, it really wasn’t the salmon or the Orangina that had made that meal great.  Looking back I see that the salmon could never have been that perfect.  I have had Orangina plenty of times in my life and never had it tasted as good as it did in that moment.  The thing is, I wasn’t just eating this meal.  As much as I tasted that salmon on my tongue, I was feeling the sweat from a long day of wandering the streets of Paris glide down my back.  I was listening to my best friends talk about the stained glass windows of Notre Dame that were so beautiful you wanted to cry.  I was watching Parisians walking past the open spaces of the very first real café I had ever eaten in.  I tasted more than a perfectly prepared fish; I was tasting freedom for the first time.  And let me tell you, it tastes damn good.

Finding the Perfect Meal in a French Cafe (Workshop Rough Draft)

            Freedom tastes like a steaming hot plate of fresh salmon with a crispy caramelized top, washed down with a cool glass of Orangina.  It feels like a cool breeze blowing away the beads of sweat on your forehead and plush, cushioned seats to rest your tired legs on after a day of travel.  Freedom sounds like the buzz of foreign accents and the clash of plates meeting a table.  It smells like the urban scent of a busy city street and the culmination of several meals wafting together to create an aromatic blend of flavors and spices.

            It was the summer after my junior year of high school.  I looked up at the hot sun that was melting my friends and me as we scrambled to find a café during our hour-long lunch break.  We squeezed our way through the streets of Paris that were packed as tightly as a too small pair of jeans.  The café had to meet three basic requirements: it had to be reasonably priced, large enough to accommodate eight people, and it had to be close because I really had to use the bathroom.

            The walls of the café were covered in floating fabrics that shimmied in the wind.  Although there wasn’t much separating the inside and outside of the building, it was incredibly dim.  I relaxed my tired legs on a comfortable seat between my friends Nolan and Deanna.   The shade of the café combined with the openness of the layout created the perfect warm, breezy temperature for our hour-long break from the chaos of trying to fit as many touristy activities into one vacation as possible.  It was our fourth day on the trip and we all were drunk off the intoxicating concoction of exhaustion mixed with thrill.

            The feeling of traveling in a foreign country for the first time is one that is impossible to predict.  Growing up I had gone as far as Florida but that had been the extent of my voyages.  The same could be said for my parents.  Going as far as Europe seemed like a far off dream that would only happen once I was old and rich.  But when my principle announced he would planning a trip to France and Italy and my parents said I could go if I got a job and paid for part of my trip, this far off dream became my imminent reality.  Not only would I be spending two weeks on another continent, I was going with seven of my closest friends.  It was more than I ever thought I could possibly hope for.

            I skimmed the short menu as the server went around taking everyone’s orders.  I quickly decided on the salmon and a bottle of Orangina: a carbonated orange drink that tastes like a thirst quenching glass of orange flavored Pop Rocks.  In France, people go out to eat and take their time enjoying the meal not only for wonderful food but also for the ritualistic act of coming together and sharing the experience.  So instead of acting on my American impulses and complaining that it took thirty minutes for my salmon to come to the table, I sat back and slowly enjoyed my delicious and refreshing Orangina while laughing with my friends.  When my food did finally arrive I had forgotten I had been waiting for it in the first place.  I hadn’t been expecting much from the meal, just something to fill me up.

            It was the best thing I had ever tasted.  The fish was tender and juicy with a caramelized top that gave the perfect crunch so that when you bit into it, the texture was indescribable.  I had a flashback to watching Jimmy Neutron as a young girl; the episode where he is able to create the perfect piece of candy, somehow combining textures and flavors perfectly to create a candy so good the people of Retroville became addicted. That is what this salmon tasted like.  It was just salty enough to exquisitely compliment the sweet top layer.  I couldn’t get enough of it.  There is something about the perfect meal that brings out your inner animal.  It kept telling me to devour the caramelized treasure that lie before me and lick the plate clean.  But with every ounce of restraint I possessed, I instead slowly savored every sweet, juicy, salty, crunchy bite and washed it down with the contained sunshine that is Orangina.

            Now whenever I am asked what my favorite meal I’ve ever had is I describe that moment.  But the more I think about it, the more I realize it is all a lie.  The salmon could never have been that perfect.  I have had Orangina plenty of times in my life and never had it tasted as good as it did in that moment.  The thing is, I wasn’t just eating this meal.  As much as I tasted that salmon on my tongue, I was feeling the sweat from a long day of wandering the streets of Paris glide down my back.  I was listening to my best friends talk about the mind-bogglingly amazing adventures we had just experienced.  I was watching Parisians walking past the open spaces of the very first real café I had ever eaten in.  I tasted more than a perfectly prepared fish; I was tasting freedom for the first time.  And let me tell you, it tastes damn good.

A Review of Anthony Bourdain's A Cook's Tour

            I think it is safe to say that most people while reading Anthony Bourdain’s book A Cook’s Tour find themselves thinking “Did he really just say that?”  He is oftentimes offensive, insensitive and highly controversial.  But say what you want about him, one thing he is not is a coward.  As much as I may want to yell at him for the crude thoughts he depicts on the page, I have to applaud him.  He has the courage to do his job to the best of his ability: to portray his perception of events candidly, as they occur.

            As I traveled with Anthony on his culinary tour of the world I found myself drawing comparisons of his observations to my own experiences here at Kalamazoo College.  There has been a lot of talk lately about people feeling as though they can’t express their opinions.  I think in some ways we have created a community where fear of not following the status quo forces people into silence.  In some cases this is not a bad thing, for example if people share some of the offensive views Bourdain shares in his chapter “Where Cooks Come From” it is probably best that is kept to themselves.  But when Republican students on campus are afraid of voicing their political beliefs due to the backlash they are sure to face, that is not creating a space for healthy debate.

            A Cook’s Tour offers quite a different scenario.  One thing I also give Bourdain credit for is his candidness not only concerning the people around him but his admittance of his own faults.  He begins the book with a disclaimer of his shame: “Here’s the part where I reluctantly admit to something about which I’m deeply conflicted-even ashamed,” (Bourdain 12).  He even admits that he would keep this a secret if he could but he is sure we as readers would find out anyways.  Getting the candid view from the eyes of Anthony Bourdain may not always be a pretty picture, but it is an accurate one that gives us an honest reading experience.  We have talked a lot as a class about using sensory imagery to make the reader feel as if they are truly experiencing the story as we did in the moment.  I believe Bourdain’s brutal but honest portrayal has the same effect.  By not sugar coating his thoughts the experience of reading is more authentic and I think that takes quite a bit of bravery.  We may be shocked and appalled when we hear that he feels that his parents’ “love was what was holding me back from all those psychedelic drugs, free love, and hippie-chick pussy,” (30) but I think it is very important to keep in mind that his goal is not to justify these rude ideals but to express them honestly so his portrayal is as authentic as possible.