The United States
of America, as a comparatively young and ethnically diverse country, has earned
a place in the culinary world without having ever defined our national cuisine;
we are renowned for innovation and industrialization, rather than style or
flavor. Our greatest achievements are our simplest; our even greater
achievements are improved on with ideas stolen from other countries. Take, for
example, an American favorite: the donut. Beloved by all, the donut is a
simple, delicious creation that (whether or not it has American origins) has
been whole-heartedly adopted by our people and is generally accepted as our
very own. Most of us didn’t expect American food to get much better – and then
along came the cronut. The brainchild of a chef in New York City, the Cronut®
is the offspring of a croissant and donut. It represents a symbolic coming-together
of two culinary identities, combining the French cooking tradition that requires
skill and training and the American practice of plunking everything into a deep
fryer. Underlying this seemingly silly gastronomic icon is an idea much more
complex than the many buttery interior layers of the cronut. The revered French
gastronome, Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin is remembered for stating, “the
destiny of nations depends on how they nourish themselves” (Brillat Savarin). France
has a proud history of culinary artistry and is fighting today to maintain its
standards in every aspect of food production from farming to presentation. The
U.S., however, has no such sentimental or egotistical feelings toward food –
our nation values convenience and economy above all. By examining the effects of
these differing philosophies, it is evident that a nation’s culinary heritage is
crucial to its cultural identity; deficiency in the former reflects badly on
the latter.
Though it is
impossible to pin the advent of French cuisine to a single dish, chef or year, it
definitively emerged during the later Middle Ages with the Ancien Régime as a
result of social stratification. During the centuries that followed, France’s
distinct regions developed their own rustic “cuisine du terrior,” while the
culinary capitals such as Dijon, Lyon and Paris created a more elaborate “haute
cuisine” (Poulain). The pervasive influence of French cuisine on cooking
worldwide is evident in the universal use of French terminology and techniques;
there are simply no translations for certain practices or dishes. Though we may
mangle the pronunciation of some words and bastardize the meaning of others,
most people are familiar with a range of French terms from “sauté” to
“soufflé.” France is well aware of their eminence. After several years of
lobbying by the esteemed leaders of French politics and food, the United
Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization added French cuisine
– or more specifically the “gastronomic meal of the French” – to the World
Heritage List in 2010. The necessity of internationally recognizing “a festive
meal bringing people together for an occasion to enjoy the art of good eating
and drinking” as a cause worth protecting has been disputed, but French
traditionalists argue it is a defense against globalization and a celebration
of an intangible national treasure. The man who orchestrated the UNESCO campaign,
Jean-Robert Pitte, has had to utilize his experience as president of the French
mission for patrimony and food cultures to quell the protests of critics who
claim the bid serves only to support the “grandiose self-importance of French
restaurants.” Pitte publicly announced that the UNESCO bid was not made as “an
affirmation of superiority” or as an attempt to “conserve the recipe of blanquette de veau or boeuf bourguinon,” but rather to honor the “French way to prepare a gastronomic meal,
with a succession of dishes and association of food and wines” (Iverson). This fidelity
to tradition is inherent to the French national identity. Though the effects of
modernization and globalization are widespread in France, the country
steadfastly (if sometimes, obstinately) clings to historical convention.
If
any comestible has deep-set roots in the history of French food, it is the
baguette. The French revolution was, in part, sparked by the inflated price of
bread. As an ingrained staple of the French diet, a 2013 study showing a
decline in the consumption of bread incited nation-wide panic and the birth of
a campaign to revive national bread morale. The spunky crusade boasts about the
health benefits of bread and reminds French citizens that the eating of bread
at every meal is an honored tradition in their country. However, it is perhaps
a departure from tradition that is the cause of disinterest. Throughout the
twentieth century, bakers devised many shortcuts to the bread making process
that were time- and cost-efficient, but compromised the taste and texture of
the bread (Sciolino). In response to this disconcerting trend, the French
government passed a law in 1993 that has come to be known as “The Bread Law.” This
legislation decreed that baguettes could only be sold as “pain traditionnel
français” if they had “not been frozen at any point during their making, do not
contain any additives, and are produced from a dough” composed of only wheat
flour, water, salt and yeast. Several additional articles within the law
explained other rules for the bread making process and how the baguettes could
be labeled (“The Bread Law”). Though bakeries are now held accountable for
false advertising, lower quality, cheaper bread is still available for purchase
– thus, the law has achieved its goal without causing significant economic harm.
The Bread Law effectively protects France’s culinary heritage because it
reinforces a sense of national identity founded on the customary baking and
eating of bread.
Though
some might ridicule the bread campaign, there is no denying the gravity of
another food campaign propagating through French politics, which stems from a
similar issue. Legislation for the “fait maison” label has recently been
approved and further regulations are being discussed. This “homemade” label is
to be marked clearly on restaurant menus in France, certifying that the meals
have been prepared fresh at the location. Menu items that are not designated
with the label have been created in part through industrial food production.
Some activists are advocating for further demarcation that clearly identifies
which foods are partially prepared with packaged and frozen foods, though it is
unlikely that this motion will succeed (Alderman). While the reaction to the
law has been overwhelmingly positive amongst the French, the opposition is
understandably less vocal with their opinions; on the one side is a crowd
buoyed by national pride, on the other are the monetarily-minded restaurateurs
who have integrated industrial food into their menus and will feel the economic
repercussions of the law.
That
some restaurants may suffer financial damage when their cooking practices
become public may seem unfair to establishments that prepare fresh, authentic
meals with the fairly innocuous aid of the occasional frozen fish or
vegetables; but in order to serve its purpose of imposing transparency on the
French restaurant industry, the “fait maison” legislation must be unyielding. People
have a right to know what they’re eating and to be served the quality food
they’re paying for. As recounted in the New
York Times, one restaurant representative explained, “ a 50-cent
factory-made molten lava cake was made to ‘look homemade’ and could be microwaved
and sold for 6 euros.” Malpractices such as these, which justify the
legislation, are not only an affront to the illustrious reputation of French
cuisine, but an offense to the innumerable people that travel to France for fine
dining. International recognition for the value of culinary heritage is evident
in the proliferation of information pertaining to food tourism and professions
in the field. In particular, the rise of the so-called “food Sherpa” as a guide
and advisor indicates that the goal of travel is often to partake in unique gastronomic
experiences (Gordinier). The “food Sherpa” is paid to escort tourists to dining
venues that serve quality, regional dishes catering to the locals, rather than
mass appeal. Whether or not a tourist employs such a person, the ambiance of a
restaurant shouldn’t deceive them. So long as they do not choose to dine at a fast
food chain, they should be served an authentic French meal – not the same dish that
they could defrost at home.
Authenticity is a
key component in culinary nationalism, but with modern technology it becomes
harder to verify. The rapid intercontinental sharing of food products and
information has somewhat blurred the “indissoluble link between history and
cuisine”. We define “authenticity” based on current and historical social
constructs. The ambiguous nature of “authentic” forces us to question the
aspects we attribute to it – in cuisine, such characteristics include the
regional location, the chef and the ingredients. Though we may buy a variety of
pre-prepared ethnic foods and exotic ingredients at our local supermarkets, we’d
hardly feel like calling our own home-cooking authentic foreign food. Contrary
to what may seem logical, the widespread availability of simulated ethnic foods
has augmented the notion that cuisine is connected to its place of origin. Rather
than causing the destruction of authentic cuisine, “the movement of goods and
the blurring of borders” have instead reinforced “culinary distinction as a
marker of identity” (Ferguson). As globalization homogenizes many aspects of
society, a nation’s cultural values often depend heavily on their culinary
heritage.
If
someone were to divide America’s culinary history into eras, one of the major
points would be the start of the “defrost” epoch. The frozen food industry
emerged in the U.S. during World War II, though it took several years and some advertising
improvements to turn it into the commercial behemoth it is today (Gust). That
frozen food saves time and effort for many American citizens at the dinner hour
is obvious, but its “role in changing the way we view both food and the act of
eating as a social activity,” in particular “our perception of meals,” is
harder to concretely document. The convenience factor that makes frozen products
so appealing is the very thing that alienates food from most of its pleasures. Laboring
in the kitchen may not be in and of itself an enjoyable act for some people,
nevertheless, cooking is gratifying; it makes the meal a reward for one’s
efforts and heightens awareness of flavor and texture. Cooking fulfills a
profound human need to be creative and to nourish others, but our indolence and
need for instant gratification (and conversely, our tendency to put a lot of
hours in at the office) have overshadowed these needs and altered the very structure
of mealtime. Instead of preparing the meal, sitting down to enjoy it and
lingering at the table to digest and socialize, Americans tend to eat as
quickly as possible, usually alone. The frozen meal has greatly contributed to
the American notion that food is fuel and eating is a chore, rather than an
indulgence of the senses. This ideology is reflected in the inattentive manner
that we consume many of our calories. The ritual of sitting down at the table for
the sole purpose of eating or to share a meal with others has largely
disappeared in the U.S.; mealtime is regularly an exhibition of our best multi-tasking
skills – fork in one hand, the other occupied with an electronic device – and
interactions often take place over social media rather than over the tabletop. This
devaluation of food and the act of eating is an integral part of America’s
conflicted culinary heritage.
The United States was
essentially born with the first English colonies that settled on the East
Coast, many of whom starved to death in the unfamiliar environment. Those that
survived began a farming tradition that would characterize our nation, even as it
came to be known as a “melting pot” of different cultures brought over by
immigrants. Following the two World Wars, the U.S. emerged as an industrial
nation, an identity that extended to our food production. In light of these
events, it is understandable that America never created a solid foundation from
which to build a sense of culinary nationalism. As a result, Americans have
developed a complicated relationship with food that has unhealthy consequences.
Over the years, Americans have notoriously experimented with countless “fad
diets” and people tend to define themselves by what they don’t eat (gluten, dairy,
meat, carbs, etc.), rather than what they do. Many people aspiring to better
physical health have ascribed to the pseudo-scientific theory of “nutritionism,”
wherein the value of food comes from the sum of its nutrients. Michael Pollan,
a leader in the intellectual discourse of food politics, has spoken out against
this belief, asserting that the pleasure of eating should not be surpassed by
the science of eating and, moreover, “even
the simplest food is a hopelessly complex thing to study, a virtual wilderness
of chemical compounds, many of which exist in complex and dynamic relation to
one another” (Pollan, “Unhappy Meals”). That food, in the minds of Americans,
is rife with confusion and often resentment reveals the ways in which we suffer
in the absence of culinary nationalism.
The
disparity between French and American food philosophy can be observed to some
extent in the 2011 Society at a Glance study performed by the Organisation for
Economic Co-operation and Development. Americans spend approximately 30 minutes
a day preparing their meals (cleanup time included) and approximately 1.25
hours eating. The average French citizen, however, spends roughly 48 minutes
cooking and over 2 hours eating (OECD). These differences may be small, but a 2009
study jointly conducted by the U.S. Department of Agriculture, World Bank and
Euromonitor International showed that Americans spend 6% of their household
income on food, while the French spend more than double this amount at 14% (Battistoni).
The price of food items depends on a number of factors – namely government
regulation of agriculture, importation and production – which accounts for some
of the difference in percentage between American and French grocery
expenditures; however, cultural conventions play a significant role, too.
Traditional French meals include a variety of regional cheeses, charcuterie and
produce that must be kept fresh and are, therefore, expensive; in contrast,
meals in the U.S. often center on packaged, canned or frozen foods. It’s not
surprising that Americans are spending the least of their money on food but are
consuming the most calories (Kuang). We can see the effect of this disparity
based on our comparative national obesity rates. In 2011 the American obesity
rate was recorded as the highest in the world at 28.5%. The obesity rate of
France was less than half that: 12.9% (Franco).
Americans
are paying less for their food and ingesting more caloric products because we
are a nation largely populated by apathetic consumers. We knowingly and
unknowingly accept many food industry practices that the French have declared
illegal, or at the very least, abhorrent. The news shows us impassioned
protestations against genetically modified organisms in France and we shrug our
shoulders. Here, few have tried to ban GMOs because few are aware that we use
them and even fewer are at all concerned about their possible adverse effects. In
our country, we abide by the Costco way of thinking; we like mass quantities
for reduced prices. Sometimes our methods, particularly in the meat industry,
aren’t very pretty: we stuff our cows with GMO corn and hormones, feed our pigs
antibiotics, and rinse our chickens in chlorine – but we don’t mind, so long as
we don’t have to see it (Beville, Charles, Fahsi). When it comes to food, we’ve
adapted the French philosophy of “laissez-faire” much better than the French
have.
Though
Americans want nothing to do with the food production process and have little
respect for the act of eating, we adore the spectacle of food. In a land where
no one has the time to prepare dinner from scratch, it’s normal to devote hours
to reading food blogs and watching other people eat on television. It seems we
love food all the more when we don’t prepare it. This love is made public on social
media sites, such as Instagram, as the sinful, often messy, sometimes beautiful
images of “food porn” seen on most feeds. Michael Pollan documented this
phenomenon in his article “Out of the Kitchen, Onto the Couch,” wherein he
discusses how cooking has become a “spectator sport” (Pollan, “Out of the
Kitchen”). The history of cooking television shows began in the United States
with Julia Child’s, “The French Chef.” It was an honest attempt to educate the
American populace, but Child failed to instill the average American with her
appreciation for cooking. The last original episode of “The French Chef” aired
several decades ago and since then, the creation of the Food Network has
adapted with, or perhaps influenced, American tastes such that entertainment,
not education, is what we want when we turn on the television.
In what may seem
like an ironic twist, some of France’s finest dining establishments have begun
a movement to ban photography in their restaurants. The global obsession with
“food-porn” should, in theory, align with the French sense of pride and passion
in the culinary arts, but it conflicts with the French notion of eating as an epicurean
experience. Harkening back to the UNESCO recognition, the French meal is as
much about how one eats, as it is what one eats. The chefs of these
Michelin-starred restaurants assert that a diner must disconnect from technology
to wholly enjoy their meal. This idea directly opposes the personal habits of
most Americans, as well as trends within American restaurants to introduce more
technology. Applebee’s, for example, has begun adding tablets to each table in
their restaurants so that customers can order with a touchscreen and provide
immediate feedback on the internet (Munarriz). Such thinking is sacrilegious to
the French concept of dining and would undoubtedly be protested in France, but
most Americans (always interested in a new technological experience and quicker
service) have regarded it positively. Whereas restaurants in the U.S. recognize
smartphones out on the tables as an opportunity for free publicity, several
French chefs have spoken out against customers taking “food porn” pictures of
their dishes. These chefs believe that their dishes are their intellectual
property and that amateur photography undermines food as an art form (Agence France-Presse). This
fundamental difference – food as merchandise versus art – is at the heart of
the dichotomy between American and French restaurant culture.
Cultural sociology
expert Priscilla Parkhurst Ferguson elegantly stated, “what and how we eat is
essential not only to the way we live but also how we think about life, about
ourselves, and about the worlds that we inhabit” – it is for precisely this
reason that culinary heritage is crucial to cultural identity (Ferguson). Hunger
is what makes us human and how to satiate this hunger is unique to every culture.
Though the effects of globalization and technological innovation threaten the
idea of “authentic” ethnic cuisine, meal preparation and the act of eating are
still entrenched in tradition for many countries. The United States has
prospered without building a sense of culinary nationalism, but the people of
America feel the consequences of our unconscious consumer culture. Our
irreverent feelings toward the sit-down meal and our disregard for the sanctity
of food products reflect badly on our health and our integrity. We do not have
the gastronomic legacy of France, but we can learn from the French example and
fight to raise our standards for food quality.
Works
Cited
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