My heart belongs to M.F.K. Fisher

M.F.K Fisher striking a pose and displaying what
years of raw oyster slurping can do for your complexion.

It used to be that "food" writing was seen as a lesser form of writing; stories about food were relegated to the so-called "women's pages" - a euphemistic term that sounded okay but must have felt like a feminine ghetto. The notion of food writing getting real journalistic respect from the newspaper powers that be didn't happen often back in the day.

Today, this niche we call "food writing" has exploded. Food writers have emerged from their perceived literary backwaters and are taken more seriously, if not turned into outright celebrities. Elite few court fame and fortune, their gustatory turns of phrase capable of selling millions of books. Let's not forget, however, in this heyday of culinary prose, that each Anthony Bourdain and Ruch Reichl, every up and coming writer today follows in the popcorn trail of the A.J. Lieblings, M.F.K. Fishers, and Curnonskys. We all stand on the pens of those before us while they look up at us and our keyboards, tapping away and sending our words into the ether. What must they be thinking?

I enjoy nothing more than curling up with a good book. That's not true. I enjoy curling up with a good book on food, specifically, more than any other kind of book. I may eat my future proverbial Kindle someday but I hope I'm one of the last physical book hold outs, death grip on my Best Food Writing anthologies, the smell of actual paper in my nostrils, a shotgun laid, just so, across my lap.

I find tremendous inspiration in the words of my favorite writers and I dream at night for only an ounce of their abilities. Incredible food writing is, to me, a deadly good combination of acerbic wit, historical context, sharp commentary and lush sensory descriptions. When writers fire on all fronts the words leap off the page, dancing.

I posed a question on Twitter* the other day. Who is your favorite food writer and why? There were no rules, no restrictions and I even allowed people to email me back if 140 characters felt too limiting. The writer could be living, dead, famous or not. The range of responses I got was as diverse as the people who took the time to answer. Their answers fascinated me and I hope they inspire you to learn about a new food writer or reminisce about one of your well-worn favorites.

Elizabeth David, concentrating on what on earth that huge spoon could be for.

Matt Wright @WrightEats

Liz David, was a food writer who emerged after WW2. Known for her complete lack of tact, her cattiness, and her complete commitment to good food, proper technique, and taking the time and focus needed to create good food. She preferred rural rustic preparations over fanciful food served at the Michelin stared restaurants that it seemed like she would get dragged to whilst traveling through France.

Her writing is edgy, witty, constantly hilarious, scathing of shortcuts and workarounds. She has such a way with words that each recipe, each story is so vividly described a photograph would honestly do it an injustice.

Her books are more than just cookbooks, they are complete, vivid travel stories. Perfect books to both cook from, and relax on a beach with.

Grumpy Glutton @GrumpyGlutton

Bourdain is my favorite food writer because he is, at different turns, outrageously funny (body w/ fake wounds made from food in walk-in, Kitchen Confidential) and poignant (going to France in an emotion search for his late father, Cook's Tour). When the food is bad, his writing makes me nauseous (many examples in CT, incl. tete au veau and pretty much any Asian dish that makes a man "strong"). When the food is good, his writing makes me salivate, not to mention, hungry (again, many examples in CT, incl. the meals with his boss's family in Portugal, in Basque country, with his cooks' families in Mexico and, of course, French Laundry). And, he writes with an incredible sense of place. I first experienced wanting to be transported to a particular time and place when I read Graham Greene's The Quiet American, a book Bourdain references. Bourdain imparts the same sense about Saigon as did Greene, albeit for a different era. Bourdain does the same to me for Fez, for Portugal, for the Basque region, for the islands off Vietnam's coast.

Shauna James Ahern @glutenfreegirl

I love Edna Lewis for her plainspoken language. Her descriptions of food are connected to her memories, so each word is the right word. "And when we share again in gathering wild strawberries, canning, rendering lard, finding walnuts, picking persimmons, making fruitcake I realize how much the bond that held us had to do with food." [Edna Lewis, The Taste of Country Cooking] I love Anthony Bourdain's unabashed "fuck you" attitude toward everything in life. He's honest, so you can't be mad. He knows his food. I love how Laurie Colwin invites you into her messy kitchen and welcoming dining nook. Sit down and listen to stories. Comfort food.

Jake Kosseff @Jake Kosseff

Craig Claiborne because I learned to cook using one of his New York Times Cookbooks, and have a warm, sentimental feeling about his writing. He was witty, and urbane and treated food like a worthy pursuit, and was snobby in a very inclusive and fun way.

Ruth Reichl (hair not photographed to scale)

Kairu Yao @Kairu

I was probably in third grade when my mother bought me a copy of Encyclopedia Brown Takes the Cake! I had read the earlier books and was totally hooked, but this one was different. All the mysteries had to do with food (starting with, if memory serves, a missing birthday cake and a loaf of garlic bread). To celebrate the successful conclusion of every mystery (for when did Encyclopedia ever fail to catch the culprit?), Encyclopedia and his friends would get together and throw a party, cooking up a feast to match the case. (...)

Encyclopedia Brown Takes the Cake! (taught me) practical things, common-sense things like using potholders, asking grownups for help, turning the handle of a pan away from the edge of the stove so you couldn't knock it over. It taught me words like dice, chop, mince. Above all, I learned to chop an onion, and every time I reach for one now (some twenty years later) I think about Encyclopedia Brown and his friends, and what I learned from them. (...)

A few years later I discovered Gourmet Magazine, and Laurie Colwin, who remains one of my greatest influences. Much later came the gently acerbic guidance of Elizabeth David, and then Jeffrey Steingarten, who made me laugh until I cried, and Anthony Bourdain, and countless others. But it all started with Encyclopedia Brown, and the proper way to chop an onion.

Solving crime, pointing at milk, and making girls swoon.

Jacquelyn Kiszewski @amantedellapa

Laurie Colwin had me at the word, ‘eggplant’. I’m referring to her essay from the book, HOME COOKING: "Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant". What woman, in her Barbie-Sized first apartment hasn’t attempted a small dinner party under less than optimal conditions? But mostly, it was the way she spoke to me about dining solo; an experience most single women have for the first time when they move to the big city. After reading Laurie, I didn’t feel quite so alone…

Gwen Ashley Walters @ChefGwen

I love Alan Richman's voice because he can be biting without being smug. I love his voice because he writes with authority and confidence as a professional eater. He honestly and openly proclaims that he doesn't cook. And he's quick to call chefs on the carpet for not eating the food they are cooking.

Porche Lovely @LC_Denver

I like Jason Sheehan from Denver's Westword.

Marilyn Naron @simmertilldone

Waverley Root. "The Food of France" (& Italy) sweeps what food is made of - land, history, language, people. MFK Fisher elevated everyday, Laurie Colwin deceptively humble everyday. Both speak to heart & mouth.

Ron Zimmerman @Herbguy

Richard Olney, A. J. Liebling, Roy Andries de Groot

A.J. Liebling's appetite was never fully satisfied. Here he is displaying
some non-nutritive pen sucking behavior, likely between meals.

Rebecca Staffel @rstaffel

AJ Liebling, Colette Rossant, Colman Andrews, Barry Estabrook, Ruth Reichl, M. Ruhlman, Bourdain, Colwin, MFK Fisher.

Don @foodiePrints

At the moment, my favourite is Anthony Bourdain...the man is a gifted writer

Marie McKinsey @mylefthip

Ruth Reichl gets my one of my votes for fav food writer

Sarah @jo_jo_ba

I really like Bourdain's stuff so far.

Lisa Kennelly @LisaKennelly

I love Laurie Colwin. She made me laugh, but it's bittersweet too because she passed away so young.

Bourdain squeezes himself reassuringly around the middle to simulate
that time he had a 10 foot tapeworm living in his gut from an ill-advised
snack of tepid skewered unidentifiables on a train to Saigon.

Naomi Bishop @gastrognome

Calvin Trillin and Bourdain- both see the absurdity in everything, yet still embrace finding basic but delish foods.

Michael Eriksson @swedishmike

If it's food writing and not 'recipe writing' it's gotta be Anthony Bourdain and Michael Ruhlman.

Leslie Seaton @FreshPickedSEA

J. Steingarten. C. Trillin is one of my faves, & this article on Shopsin's still stands out as one of my favorite pieces ever.

Larry Liang @DJPegLeg

This may be somewhat cliche but I really love Ruth Reichl and Michael Ruhlman's writing.

Jennifer Heigl @dailyblender

Moehringer's 'The Tender Bar' really spoke to me. But more drinking, less food.

Lorna Yee @lornayee

Steingarten. Find his pseudo self-deprecating writing most entertaining esp. when contrasted w/ know-it-all comments on Iron Chef.

Dana Cree @deensie

I hate to love Jeffery Steingarten. I know, he's pompous and outright sexist at times. But his writing is great.

Hungrygrrl @hungrygrrl

I love how anal Jeffrey Steingarten is, roasting chickens again and again. Definitely can be a snob. Somehow love that too. Love Colwin and Reichl for their warmth, Fisher for her poeticism. (Also) Jay McInerney on wine. Love the image of a mellow paul mcartney-like merlot balancing a tough john lennon cab.

Thank you to everyone who submitted. If you didn't get a chance to, please feel free to continue the conversation in the comments section. I think I speak for everyone when I say how inspiring it is to hear about what we love about great writing and great writers.

And finally...

*a note on the wonderful and wacky world of Twitter...

Say what you will about Twitter. Say that it will surely cause more and more people to shutter themselves indoors to interface with a lifeless computer screen or to bury their heads in their phones while on buses, at dining tables, or (horrors) when their lover isn't looking. Say that it is anti-social on one extreme, or pathetically and unnecessarily self-revealing at the other.

I'm not denying that there is truth within these accusations. Oh hell, there is more than a modicum of truth within these accusations. At the least, Twitter can be a monumental time suck of gigantic proportions. But anti-social? I beg to differ. In the last few months, I've made many new friends on Twitter from Australia, Canada, England, New York, San Francisco, and Portland. I've gone to the houses of two people I met through Twitter, planned a Scrabble game (just this morning), helped someone eat some donuts just out of the fryer (alerted on Twitter), and shared some cocktails with someone that I met through Twitter, someone who gave me excellent advice for when I have to kill those ducks in September.

D-Day

I've been on a roll, lately. When I say roll, I want you to think of a soft, squishy bun piled high with tasty vittles. Vittles that are carefully selected, with extra points going to meaty bits with an address of origin I can visit. Last time I wrote, we were driving to Olympia, Washington to pick up 1/4 of Lil'Runt, a steer from a rancher named Gary Iverson. The whole way back to Seattle, with over 200 pounds of local beef weighing down the back of our Lil'pick-up, I envisioned that quintessentially perfect hamburger; the iconic one that appears in your mind while you're driving home, vying for precious real estate with the co-opted McImposters on billboards. There was a time when the meat from the quintessentially perfect hamburger didn't have a home address that I knew of, or a name. But those days are fewer and farther between. Which is both easier and harder. Better and less convenient.

So, despite my best intentions, those co-opted burger encounters still sometimes happen. Case in point: this past weekend, April and I arrived - starving -at a local hamburger joint on Orcas Island. I was hungry and grumpy; a recipe for mindless wolfing. To play the game of instant gratification (without all that messy consciousness-raising), all I had to do was pretend, despite all signs to the contrary, that the source of my hamburger was happy and just had one, very, very bad day.

It's a fool's game.

I know this.

But it helps with the digestion, so I play it every once in awhile.

Contrast this with a recent experience that is more commonplace for me these days. My buddy Jet and I took a day trip to Anacortes last weekend and found ourselves at the docks, talking with a woman about her catch of trapped, local, spot prawns. We asked for a few pounds and she presented them. Live.

I've killed many things in my career. More crab than I care to count. If there is a hell for me, it is run by a very large Dungeness crab with a tiny chef hat perched jauntily on his crabby head. In this hell I'm Lily Tomlin in The Incredible Shrinking Woman and I'm being pinched around my middle by a pair of tongs twice my size. There's lots of steam and hot, hot water and then everything goes black. Just like in the movie, Consuela can't hear my screams.

Puget Sound Spot Prawn, live. For now.

I've killed sea urchin, abalone, geoduck, billions of mussels, clams and oysters and some small finfish from my youth. But, as of last week, I'd never killed a live prawn. You might think you'd just throw it in some boiling water. You'd be wrong. You need to keep spot prawns alive or else the head can cause enzymatic breakdown in the flesh. We didn't have a cooler with us and a few hours separated us from home. "Simple," said our helpful fisherman, "here's how you twist the head off." And with that, she cleanly dispatched our first prawn, twisting its head off with an adroit snap of the wrist.

Jet and I took our prawns to the other side of the dock, swung our legs over the side and steeled ourselves for the job at hand. I won't lie, it was sort of brutal. Especially the first few. I never realized how powerful their tails are. They are beautiful, in their own way, and taking a life - even a shrimp life - is still taking a life.

I hope I'm not disturbing you here. I don't mean to. What I mean to do is open a small window onto a path most of us are on - usually indirectly- that includes the taking of life. On September 12th I'm looking forward to cooking a farm to table dinner at Dog Mountain Farm in Carnation. I will be serving duck, every part used, over 6 courses paired with Alexandria Nicole wines. We went out there a few weeks back and while touring the place and visiting the horses, ducks, turkeys and chickens I made a decision. If I am to serve duck on that long farm table in the middle of the fields, then I need to do something I've been reluctant to do. I need to kill those ducks myself. I am not looking forward to this, and I'm not insinuating that if you eat meat, you must kill it yourself, directly. However, as someone in the position of teaching people about cooking, and cooking for many, many people each week I feel like I need to do this.

Dog Mountain is raising 10 ducks for my dinner. One week before the dinner I will go out there and kill those ducks. It will be a hard day for me and a harder day for those ducks but a farm to table dinner is just the kind of venue to challenge myself to do what I haven't. If I'm going to eat meat and teach people how to cook meat, I need to do this. Stay tuned.

The Standard Deviation of a Steak

Photo Credit: Lara Ferroni

101 of you answered my question about how much beef you consume. You may be wondering why I was inquiring. Let's leave that for a moment and first check my study design and its inherent flaws.

I'm going to have to channel my college self here. Walk with me through memory lane as I plumb the depths of my past to find 20 year old me sitting in a Statistics class. It's 1991. My professor's nose is pinched, a thick mop of black hair hangs down threatening to de-throne his very round John Lennon spectacles. I'm sure I'm wearing flannel or at least thinking about wearing flannel real, real soon. I'm listening to the Indigo Girls on my bright yellow Sony Walkman, playing college basketball and wondering why I can't seem to get a date with a guy.

I'm a sociology major at a liberal arts college. I think it's fabulous and fascinating that I'm majoring in a science that studies people and groups. Despite this, I'm completely clueless about myself. I minored in English and Political Science, which means I'm now college-qualified to write a blog on how awful our past presidential equivalent was. But now's not the time for that.

I remember a few things about my statistics class; I'm getting a flashback of my professor saying that sample size is very important. For example, having 101 people tell me how many times they eat beef (34% report 1-2 a week) is probably too small, but what the hell, I'm not publishing this in the Annals of Beefological Inquiry. I remember that you are supposed to randomly select participants. I think just the fact that you read my blog makes you not random. And not random isn't random. Study design Fail, part #2.

My "scientific" inquiry is further confounded by the fact that I bet a representative sample of non-beef eaters probably don't read my sometimes meaty blog (except for Stacia, hi Stacia!) So that sort of skews my responses. Skew was a very important word in statistics. My friends and I would say "doesn't that just skew the bell curve?" every opportunity we got, regardless of context. As in, "doesn't that nasty white tofu on the salad bar skew the bell curve of tasty delights towards jiggly nastiness?" We thought we were oh so smart and sociologically relevant.

Now that you know that the sample size was too small and the results skewed because it wasn't a randomly selected group, do you still think there is any credibility in analyzing the results? Probably not. But back to why I asked you in the first place. Mostly I was just curious. I was wondering how much beef we're all eating, here in these days of E-coli scares, greater education about the treatment of animals in confined feed lot operations, and other health concerns. But I didn't ask you all what kind of beef you were eating and that's a significant question to overlook. All beef is not the same. Big difference between commodity beef and local rancher down the street beef.

I'm working on an article for Edible Seattle that I've been writing for the last few weeks. I had 4 chefs come to my house for a blind steak tasting of local Washington beef. I think many of us can agree that we need to learn more about the origins of our food. When you begin that investigatory process you should be prepared to have your eyes opened, quite wide. We eat a lot of beef in this country, far too much for what we can produce in any kind of humane, ecologically sound manner. Most of us have no earthly idea where our beef comes from.

I conducted a blind beef tasting because if I'm going to limit my intake from my current amount (1-2 times a week) then damn it I want to pick the best tasting, humanely raised beef from a rancher whose name I know. I even want to know the name of the steer.

The article comes out in September so stay tuned for more amazing photos from Lara Ferroni and the results of the tasting. A recent steak tasting I attended with the passionate Carrie Oliver of the Artisan Beef Institute was with the ranchers themselves, most of whom had never tasted their own steaks as compared to others. It was a fascinating experience. On the one hand you had the wine goddess, schooled in vigorous weekly wine tasting sessions (as she prepares to take the Advanced Sommelier Exam in October) saying she's getting flavor notes of fish, corn nuts, hay, earth and mushroom from the steak; on the other, you had the ranchers saying, "gee, it tastes like a steak to me!" Still, the ranchers did have ones that they favored more than others and it was a learning experience for all of us.

One stood out above all others to me, it fired on all fronts. On Saturday for the first time ever, April and I are taking a little road trip just south of Olympia to pick up a 1/4 steer. His name was "lil' runt" which is some sort of rancher inside joke because he weighed 800 pounds. It's time that I really walk the talk here. I felt the need to discover the provenance of my beef even if that means knowing his name.

A fairy tale dinner

My knight in shining armor (or a long sleeved gray t-shirt, but whatever)

Most of the following events happened. Some are exaggerated well beyond the truth. I call it "creative" license. You would probably call it lying. My family might call it "telling a good story". Let's agree to disagree.

My biggest complaint in this life is that no one, save for a few special people, cooks for me. Even though I travel forth around this land telling anyone who will listen that I'm especially fond of such simple foodstuffs as grilled cheese sandwiches, tomato soup, macaroni and cheese, and hamburgers. Simple stuff. I don't need someone to get all fancy-pants on my account, in fact I prefer it if they don't.

In case you couldn't tell from all of this blather, I'm trying to make you feel sorry for me. I can hear you thinking, "oh, that poor, poor, girl, wasting away because so few people will give her a bite of bread, or a sip of their tea." And then you start thinking, "She's so frightfully skinny, so unnatural for a chef. We can't trust her!"

I know, right? It's totally horrible.

Until one day, several weeks ago (cue dramatic music and sweeping shots of my long, flowing hair blowing in the Star Search industrial fan pointed at my face) I was invited over to the house of a chef by a mutual friend. Chef Trevis was more than happy to cook for me even though we had never met. In fact, he planned a lavish feast. I mentioned to the mutual friend that she should tell him about the garlic-onion allergy I have. Note my use of foreshadowing here.

The day of the dinner arrives (cue royal trumpets). I'm whisked into Trevis and Caryn's home and seated at the head of an elegantly appointed table. The juice of the gods starts to flow and it is only then that we find out our mutual friend sort of kind of oopsie forgot to tell Trevis about my "issue" until 2 hours before the dinner. The whole thing could have been rather awkward but I'm convinced chefs, like kings, sort of get off on this shit. I mean what other than a total change of plans or a burning village can prove your chops. Leaders thrive in times of crises.

Of course - naturally - he had practically planned a multi-course homage to the stinking rose which was well on its way before it got the kabosh. Garlic was everywhere. It was a fragrant virus, run amok through his dinner. I shrank back in horror, like the vampire I am, when I heard what he had planned for the meal.

What would have been my last meal.

Luckily, as fate will have it, I was spared to tell you this very important story. Trevis erased all traces of garlic from the meal, scrubbing the floor on his hands and knees like a simple kitchen wench to remove all remnants and I was subsequently treated to a most excellent repast.

He had me at the first course. I love a dish that is simple, but still has a twist. Large prawns were wrapped in Parma ham, broiled and dipped in warm extra virgin olive oil infused with one each of Serrano & Scotch Bonnet peppers, lemon zest and cilantro

Behold! Above is pictured an ancient dish that has been so bastardized throughout time you might not recognize it. It's called Fettucini Alfredo and no, it's not the gloppy, soupy muck you're used to. It was a glorious balanced combination of al dente fettucini, high quality butter, Parmesan, sea salt and love. I ate so much I hurt. I hurt a lot.

The rest of the dinner included: Tournedos with mushrooms in a beef demi, Frisee salad with whole grain mustard vinaigrette and Chocolate and berry "trifle" with coconut cream diplomat.

Nothing short of a trebuchet was needed to get my royal lard butt out of my chair.

It took all the willpower in my scrawny body to not pocket these awesome copper pans on my way out the door. If Trevis didn't have a few inches on me and a hundred more pounds I might have considered doing an "ashlyn" on him. My friend Ashlyn taught me to hold your right arm way out to the side, wiggle it around like a crazy fool and when your prey is lost in your ridiculousness you steal their shit. It could of worked.

Caryn, Tracey and Jodi (our mutual friends) pose red-cheeked and happy for the camera.

Trevis and his lovely queen Caryn were wonderful hosts and before they sent me on my way, poured me little nips of their house distilled Rainier Kirschwasser and Bing Cordial. For more information, please check out Chef Trevis' blog. This dude is a king and hasn't let MS stop him from lording over his kitchen. Check out his writing on living with MS.

Typical Chef

The wine goddess and I have this ongoing argument. The kind that when you get into it, you know it’s completely pointless and that one of you - the one feeling most mature at that moment - should sound the beep beep beep, this truck is backing up sound and leave the scene. Some days both parties dig their heels in, checking their footing to make sure it’s good and secure.

The quicksand in our argument trap is that she thinks that most chefs are - wait, how was it? oh, right - arrogant, hot-headed, ego maniacal narcissists. I think I have that right. It’s a common front-of-the-house critique of the back. She tells me that she doesn’t think this of me, of course. Just most everyone else to ever put on a chef coat, in the history of people putting on chef coats.

The converse of this opinion is that bandied about by the back of the house. Namely that most servers are lazy, selfish, money-chasing suck-ups. I think I have that right, too. It’s a common back-of-the-house critique of the front. I don’t think this of her, of course. I just think this of most everyone else to don a servers uniform, in the history of people donning servers uniforms.

We can all point to plenty of admirable examples of altruistic, humble chefs and hard-working, generous servers. I’ve had the pleasure of working with many of them. Behold the nature of stereotypes. There may be some sizable truth in them, but their indiscriminate use necessarily throws a lot of innocents under the bus.

I haven’t worked in the restaurant business for 5 years, so perhaps I’m out of touch. But when I did, I felt that these stereotypes, these attitudes that sit so thinly veiled beneath the surface are almost built into the poor design of the restaurant machine.

Work with me through this clunky analogy: When a car is built there are many hands involved, all the way along the assembly line. It’s cliche, I know, but everyone is doing their part to get the car built. What if, imagine, at the end of the line, the person who took that car and delivered it to the customer, and yes, dealt with their bullshit, just as the car-builders might deal with the factory manager’s bullshit, was the one to receive the entirety of the payout for a job well done. Imagine how that arrangement might cause some team dynamic “issues”, to say the least.

What I want to know is when and who, in the history of restaurants, decided that it would ever be a good idea to separate two highly interdependent working units into two distinct camps? It seems so obvious to me that cooks should be given the same monetary incentives to get good food out in a timely manner that servers get to seal the deal and handle the people and their issues.

My sturdy chef clogs are dug deep into the trenches of this argument.

To be fair, there are some houses that “tip out” the back of the house, my local favorite place sends back 3%. This is very much appreciated, I’m sure, and can help to add a buck or two to a typical cook’s hourly which is around $12, in these parts. At the end of the day it’s a good symbolic step but it still leaves me shaking my head. The problem is that any major systemic changes would have to be tackled in most restaurants, or places risk losing their front of the house staff to restaurants where they can earn more. It’s the American way, I know this.

Still.

Consider this thought: What if you went into a restaurant and at the conclusion of your meal, your check had two tip lines, one that said kitchen and one that said service. Some nights the food is horrible and the service wonderful. Your tip would go to the right person. Similarly, sometimes the food is great and the service dismal. Now you can feel somewhat better that your tip has gone to the 50% of the equation that got it right.

"That would never work!" says April, "What server is going to stay in a job for so little? Servers get paid minimum wage."

Point taken.

Consider a different, much more radical thought: What if restaurants paid all their staff an hourly wage based on experience, hard work, and seniority. All tips that come into the house are pooled, the restaurant owners take some to reimburse themselves for paying everyone a living hourly wage. When tips are over a certain percentage, they get distributed equally to every single person working in the restaurant, because - every single person in that restaurant has a hand, a big hand, in the enjoyment of that customer who leaves a tip.

Would good servers work in places set up like that? After the precedent of getting the lion’s share of the gratuity when they deliver that proverbial car to the customer, who can blame them if they didn't?

Interestingly, for all our attitudes about each other’s professions, April and I chose each other. Fodder for the therapist’s couch aside, I think that, in the end, we don’t want to think these things of each other’s professions. We want to be the one to not only defy the stereotype ourselves but to think better of the other half of our team.

When April mumbles “typical chef” under her breath about some (admittedly) ego-crazed, knife-wielding megalomaniac, I want to agree with her, but I don’t because I want even more to change this paradigm. I want to toss up the front and back of the house pieces and have them fall down in completely new arrangements.

And, okay, yes, he was a total asshole. A complete narcissist! But, shhhh, don’t tell her I said that.

Hungry Monkey

He had me at this line:

"I won't buy strawberries from California, not because I'm a dogmatic locavore but because strawberries from California suck."

Well, Mr. Amster-Burton, author of Hungry Monkey: A food-loving father's quest to raise an adventurous eater, I couldn't agree more.

Matthew is a friend, an uber-talented writer and a most excellent father. I read his book in like, oh, 4 minutes. I saved the last few chapters for a few days because it felt too cheap and dirty to consume his off-color observational humor so quickly. I doled it out at the end, a chapter here or there, like so much book-crack while sitting at Volunteer Park, laughter erupting every now and again. Each time I laughed, it was worth the weird looks I got (I have a distinctively loud guffaw).

What makes Hungry Monkey so thoroughly bad ass is that he was able to write a book all about food - good food - and raising his daughter to love good food without being controlling, snobbish or inaccessible. Missing are the power struggles. Gone are the punishing "sit at this table until you finish everything on that plate young lady!" threats. (That didn't happen to me. Well, okay, yes, yes, that did happen to me from about, oh I'd say 1974-1978, heretofore known as the "dark years"). Nonexistent are high brow, urban-centric paeans to precious, expensive ingredients. (Gone are even high brow words like "paean".) Instead, Amster-Burton talks about food. Real food; Ethnic food; Hot dogs; Mackerel one minute, pancakes the next.

His writing is as approachable as the recipes that are included at the end of each chapter. Most kids are picky, it's true. Hell, I would pick every last speck of anything "odd" out of my food before I'd eat it. I especially loathed tomatoes, beans and anything green. But what's the use in making your kid eat foods they hate? It's no fun for anyone. (Are you reading this Dad?) Amster-Burton seems a bit bummed that his daughter Iris' picky stage is not as much fun as her 2 year old worldly palate stage, though he doesn't dwell on it. He just keeps plugging along, engaging Iris in the process of loving food, making food, eating it and talking about it.

Let's be real: what do we really have in common with 5 year olds anyway? They eat. We eat. It happens many times a day, more than 3 if you are so lucky. Matthew and Iris have several opportunities built into their day to share something they both love and I can feel their bond through food in this book. It almost makes me want to have my own kid to share with them the discovery of food. Almost. Then I remember how I like to wake up (late), have coffee, in peace, and plan all sorts of fun, adult activities for the day and I come to my senses.

More important than anything else I've mentioned, the book is damn funny. You know when your friend with kids talks your ear off all about how cute their little Johnny is and all the funny things he says and blah and blah and blahblahblah? Hungry Monkey has its share of these stories but they are carefully selected for humor, real humor, not that cocktail party ohhahaha you're SO funny! kind of humor. They don't engage my gag response with their over the top cuteness. Rather, the little snippets of conversation recorded between father and daughter appeal to me because they evoke that most universal of observations: kids say some really fucked up funny things.

At Halloween, for example, Iris becomes obsessed with the Grim Reaper display at the local supermarket. She says, "its name is Beth."

"You mean, Death?" asks her father.

"Yes, Beth." says Iris.

In her world, there is no earthly reason why the Grim Reaper can't be called Beth. Shit, from now on, as far as I'm concerned, that's what I'm callin' her.

Perhaps I'm biased. I know Matthew. I've met Iris. I know Laurie, Iris' mom. I've cooked in their kitchen and watched Iris delight in the way the smoke from dry ice curled around the edge of her soup bowl. Yet, I don't think I'm biased. In a world awash in books about food, kids, food and kids, somehow Hungry Monkey feels totally and completely new. Stories about the limitless food discoveries between father and daughter have never been written.

Until now.

Food Movies at the Seattle International Film Festival (SIFF)

Go on, if you live in Seattle, go git your tickets early.


Food, Inc.
USA, 2008, 94 min.
4:15 p.m. May 30, Egyptian
7 p.m. May 31, Egyptian

You are what you eat, the saying goes. But do you really KNOW what you eat? Filmmaker Robert Kenner lifts the curtain on the unsavory practices of our nation’s food industry. The film illustrates how the corporate purveyors of food products have literally gotten away with murder—and all with the complicity of our government’s regulatory agencies. As Kenner shows in detail, the food supply in the United States is controlled by a handful of corporations that often put profit before health—not only of the consumers of their processed foodstuffs, but the economic health of farmers and food workers, and the health of the environment. Drawing on the works of authors Eric Schlosser (“Fast Food Nation”) and Michael Pollan (“The Omnivore’s Dilemma”), Kenner’s film details the cozy relationship between agribusiness and government—a relationship that allows the corporate behemoth Monsanto to monopolize soybean production and litigate aggressively against small farmers who harvest their own seeds rather than buy Monsanto’s genetically engineered seeds. Food, Inc. paints a vivid picture of the wages of unsustainable food production—obesity, diabetes, and E. COLI poisoning. But for all its outrage, Food, Inc. posits a hopeful (and delicious) future, highlighting a burgeoning organic farming movement that has made it all the way to the White House lawn.


What’s On Your Plate?
USA, 2009, 73 min.
4 p.m. June 12, Pacific Place
11 a.m. June 13, Pacific Place

This provocative and entertaining documentary follows two 11-year-old African-American kids as they explore the politics of food in America. Director Catherine Gund (whose daughter Sadie is one of the exploratory duo) knows how important it is to inform the younger generation and understand the way food gets to the family table. With the audience as their companion, the girls talk with each other, farmers, food activists, and their families to learn what ends up on our plates and how it gets there, from cultivation to market. There are revelatory visits to grocery stores, fast food restaurants, and especially the school lunchroom, where they become involved in encouraging their school district to improve their mystery meat in favor of healthier alternatives. In addition to these traditional venues, the girls examine sustainable food systems through farms and community-supported agriculture programs. They quickly discover social awareness has a multitude of positive effects: the environment, jobs for farmers, and affordable local food. With tremendous sophistication and compassion, these culinary enthusiasts inspire hope and active engagement from all members of the family, laying the groundwork for a future of healthy habits and tasty flavors. Recommended for all ages.

Modern Life
France, 2008, 88 min.
11 a.m. May 23, Uptown
7 p.m. June 2, Harvard Exit

As small family farming disappears from the French countryside, the people who have worked the land for generations refuse to give up and let their livelihoods crumble around them. Director Raymond Depardon travels between families and farms, feeling the pressure of the changing times as families attempt to cope with the devastating loss of their lifestyles. Over the course of ten years, Depardon returns to each family to catch up on their stories, allowing the passage of time to play a major role in the film. We meet octogenarian brothers who struggle with the daily task of maintaining their farm despite their age and the evolution of their trade. Depardon takes on the role of filmmaker, interviewer, and narrator, coaxing the traditionally reserved farmers to open up about their lives and feelings of despair over the decline of their industry. Visually astute, Depardon imparts his sincere affection and respect for his subjects through sprawling shots of the countryside’s natural beauty as well as striking images that divulge the naked truth of the situation.


The Garden
USA, 2008, 80 min.
7 p.m. May 28, Pacific Place
11 a.m. May 30, Pacific Place

Constructed just after the devastating 1992 riots in South Central Los Angeles, a 14-acre community garden was built on a former dumping ground at 41st and Alameda Streets. What started as a step in the post-riot healing process soon became the largest urban farm in the United States. This community miracle brought together families and neighbors as they grew their own food and nourished their families, creating a shining light in one of the country’s most blighted neighborhoods. However, only a few years after achieving success and sustainability, the garden’s existence was threatened by a developer’s plans to construct warehouses on the site. In a follow-up to his well-regarded debut documentary, OT: Our Town, director and producer Scott Hamilton Kennedy follows the garden’s mostly Latino farmers over a period of four years as they organize and fight back to save their hallowed patch of ground. The Garden is an emotional and demanding documentary that takes viewers through urban politics, racial grievances, and the lives of ordinary people willing to put up a long fight in order to keep their oasis alive. Featuring Danny Glover, Daryl Hannah, Antonio Villaraigosa, Dennis Kucinich, Joan Baez.


Thanks to Mary Embleton of Cascade Harvest Coalition for bringing these movies to my attention. Movie synopses from SIFF's website.