Food Writing is the End of Food Writers

I am sad that Saveur has laid off some staff. I understand though. I look forward to receiving the magazine, which might be called “foodie” if that term had not become trite. Its writing about food culture, not only what we eat but how and why, within historical and geographical context, is both easy to read and sophisticated in substance and style. The photos surpass the glamour of staged shots of dishes, set within graphic design that is minimally elegant. Its editors treat “ethnic” cuisine as normal rather than exotic. (I have no relationship to Saveur, except for renewing my subscription not long ago.)

I especially appreciate Saveur as a writer. I have been a professional since before my adult life, in the sense that I have been paid, including by the quaint calculation of “per word.” I have even published a piece about food in an academic journal, and apparently I have claimed my place in the scholarly literature as among the experts on dog-eating (no, I have not partaken). 

The truth is that food writing as a genre is among the most difficult I have attempted. I would regard my fiction as better than my food writing, and none of that has entered print since I was an undergraduate. Other than reporting whether I would dine at an establishment again, almost all of the phrases I can summon are cliched, risible, or deficient to describe what was fresh, good, full of umami. 

Probably the reason is that food is too familiar. We all eat. In San Francisco, where I live now, or even Detroit, my hometown, everyone also fancies themselves a critic. We all eat much more of a range and quality (and, regrettably, quantity as well) than our grandparents. Greek, Japanese, even peasant plates from specific regions, are touted on menus to those eager to experiment. Fusion, molecular, organic, raw, and the so on — the expansion of our gastronomic universe is impressive. I doubt that there has been a moment prior in human history when such a proportion of the population is literate and well-nourished, and thus believes in one’s authorship of consumption. Through social media, we can share our judgments about chefs, servers, and whole diets, however much we in fact know beyond our own taste.

I have no doubt that as a business proposition Saveur, like its peers, is difficult if not impossible to sustain. We can read everything for free, however, only if we want to write everything for no pay. The problem is that there is too much of content that is merely good enough for the problem of whether to spend money here or there, when I have a hankering for a pizza in an unfamiliar neighborhood. The readers for what is worthwhile, the texts that can be re-read for edification and pleasure, become accustomed to the dreck that is complimentary. The democracy of the internet ensures that I can access an account of a meal at any hole-in-the-wall I walk by or the Michelin-starred celebrity-operated temple across the street. The prose of M.F.K. Fisher, the short essays accompanying recipes in the New York Times Sunday supplement, and almost all of the pieces in Saveur cannot be compared with the rant of the patron turned amateur reviewer who awards one star (“I wish I could give even less”) because their glass of water was delivered too late. 

I am doing my part. My wife and I still “take” the newspaper (two!) and other periodicals, old-fashioned hard copy print about everything from current events to photography to running, by delivery and in the mail on a regular basis. I intend to support this form of communication, which at its best can be constitute art, because the library of our civilization should be more than what an infinite number of monkeys could type over time. Yet I have become more judicious as an editor of myself. Our opinions should be offered only if they can be expressed eloquently, based on a modicum of expertise.