Random Thu Oct 10 2013

Finding the Meaning of "Chef" and "Food Writer"

By Judy Wu

For the longest time, I romanticized chefs -- tattooed, solitary rebels living off six-packs, cigarettes and half-eaten Whoppers. With their black-n-white bandanas and stove scars, they were the vulgar pirates of the kitchen that enabled the ship to glide effortlessly across the sea. And for some, this concept remains true. But in my endeavors to understand chef culture (which stems from an abnormal, teenage-like fascination with crossbones and whiskey), I've realized the concept of a "chef" is frustratingly complex.

Not too long ago, I would've vehemently disagreed with Lisa Guerrero and David J. Leonard's statement: "Though the contemporary cliché surrounding the "chef narrative" is that they are the "new rock stars," it is largely a romanticized version of professional chefs stoked by the ever-increasing fascination with commodified foodie culture, and is reified by a performative rebellion that isn't linked to any substantive notions of danger."

Bullshit. Chefs were late-night vampires who plated salmon ceviche for privileged philanthropists, but drank blood in the kitchen. They were the true, honest artists of the world.

But after attending illustrious galas, touring the back kitchens of restaurants, and chatting with everyone from line cooks to hot shots, my idea of a chef quickly became more nuanced. Is one still a chef if he's on his third cookbook tour and endorsing the latest Hamilton Beach blender? How do I classify people in the private catering business or entrepreneurs in midst of building a restaurant empire? Why do foodies masturbate over Paul Kahan and Stephanie Izard when the people actually prepping and cooking their orders are Latino chefs and fresh Kendall grads? Do Korean mothers stewing soul-warming kimchi chigae in small ethnic eateries still count as chefs? For some reason, I was extremely perturbed that my romantic notion of a chef was compromised. (First world problems, I know.)

I partially blame White Heat and Kitchen Confidential; Leonard and Guerrero write that the "'bad boy' chef who is rude, rule-breaking, and crass...is a much hotter commodity than the staid notion of chefs as proper, regimented, and classy." I clung tightly onto my narrowly defined concept because 1) it was easier that way, and 2) because the idea of a "chef" implied solid integrity, ballsy creativity, and indestructible passion-everything that I strove for as a food writer.

With the Internet replete with lousy food blogs (and good ones as well), I vowed to strive beyond quinoa recipes, HOT NEW restaurant openings, or some other lifestyle crap that no one takes seriously. Mark Kurlansky said, "Food is about agriculture, about ecology, about man's relationship with nature, about the climate, about nation-building, cultural struggles, friends and enemies, alliances, wars, religion," and I wholeheartedly believed it. Yes, I would compose extraordinary narratives that would make the JBF judges crumble to their knees in speechless wonder. But just like chefs, I've strayed far from a romantic context.

As with most industries, the restaurant business is a complex interplay between art, fame, and economics. Not all chefs have a culinary background; some don't even speak English. And not all chefs aspire to cook in the kitchen forever, especially for wages that rival those of Chinese factory workers. Living a difficult life for the sake of principle isn't practical, and writing for the sake of pure art is narrow-minded.

And I suppose I shouldn't feel guilty about that. Chefs are rebellious punk rockers with a bad attitude. But chefs are also businessmen, socialites, and underground artists. Some chefs are immigrants while others have barely hit puberty. And food writers are equally diverse -- some will always stick with the best 50 sandwiches in the US while others will write groundbreaking exposes on organic farmers in Baja California. As for me, I'm still discovering my own preference along that spectrum.