Food journalism is not just food criticism; Percy Pig’s cult of personality; and why octopus might be back on the menu
Professional gluttony exists in various forms, plus the usual assortment of local food intel for this month’s paying WFJ subscribers
When I first meet someone, the ensuing exchange almost inevitably goes something like this:
“So what do you do?”
“I’m a food journalist.”
“Oh you get to review restaurants?!”
“Well not quite… I did a bit of that years ago, but…”
“Tough job. Someone’s gotta do it!”
“I write features. What makes a restaurant tick; how animals fit into sustainable farming practices – that sort of thing.”
*Confused stare*This has been more or less the story over the last decade. Writing about food – its pleasures, its issues, its culture – is, comparatively, eternal (Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, one of the first ‘modern’ food writers, was around long “before restaurant discourse got its legs”). And yet, the title ‘food journalist’ – in the view of the general public – applies to no one other than those like Giles Coren or Grace Dent.
How can that be, when reviews from the Corens and the Dents of the world pale in importance to other food journalism? Whether we’re talking about – off the top of my head – the “modern slavery” manifesting in what was once the world’s best restaurant; what happens when British pubs and indian food come together; the cultural insensitivities of Anthony Bourdain; how our diets have put bird species at risk of extinction; the writing about food writing; or a much less serious (very funny, even) mother’s take on sugar and hyperactive kids.
The job of a restaurant critic is, in Jay Rayner’s words, to “sell papers”. This gives us a clue as to why it might be the most recognised form of food journalism (side note: “selling papers” is a lot easier when you absolutely dump on a restaurant), but also that food writing is perceived as entertainment or what the industry might call ‘service-based’ – therefore, not generally taken seriously enough to deal with any serious subject matter, such as holding food corps to account, or helping people understand where their food comes from. Much more likely could ‘food writing’ be the punchline of a joke.
Or do I mean the subject of apathy? Another thing people say when I tell them I’m a food journalist is shrug, smile, and astutely point out that “everyone eats”, inferring that it must be good or honourable to write about something everyone is interested in. Based on the kind of food writing people tend to consume, I would suggest the majority of the UK populace aren’t curious about food at all, despite its part in their daily lives. Or possibly because of it – I have at least two friends who’d sooner eat a pill that sated them of hunger until the next meal (or next pill) than have to think about what they’re going to eat.
At least they’re in the minority. For the rest of us, I suspect all our interest in food, to whatever degree it might ultimately take, is derived from the sheer pleasure of eating. More than just for the purposes of survival, food and sex are our “primary sources of pleasure”. It’s therefore a highly emotive topic which, again, makes me wonder why the correlation between our health, our diets, and the fate of the planet aren’t as aligned accordingly.
Perhaps people engage with restaurant criticism more because the writer tends to put themselves within the story – this being an effective literary device rarely used in food journalism. But, on the whole, food criticism is fairly reductive. I’m not fully on board with the idea that one person’s experience of a restaurant can accurately reflect another’s, especially when the person in question (usually) has an extremely developed palate, and therefore an extremely high bar. Sure, if they like something, then there’s a chance their readers will too. If they don’t like something, I’d hazard that it wouldn’t otherwise be enough to put others off. I have no proof of this, other than anecdotally – there are a lot of restaurants in Somerset that I don’t think are of good standard, but is that not irrelevant if most my friends say they like it?
Instead of telling people what’s good, I’d like to continue offering them the tools to be able to identify that for themselves. It varies from place to place, but there are a few outward signs that suggest a restaurant is likely to provide a worthwhile experience – depending, of course, on what you’re looking for. The standard indicators being things like shorter menus (focusing on a few things, and doing them well), adjectives or lack thereof (a ‘creamy’ creme brulee is redundant and suggests a restaurant wants to force a certain experience on you), and a head chef who’s previously worked at a reputable restaurant or two. As for Somerset in particular, farm restaurants are a reliable measure of freshness and traceability, while restaurants sourcing from local producers suggests little want for compromise, and an appetite for what’s good and readily abundant. Knowing what to look for, you can confidently assess whether a restaurant is worth going to before you’ve even been there.
Amounting food journalism to nothing but restaurant criticism is a perfectly natural response to someone who doesn’t know much about what food writing can be. This doesn’t reveal anything incriminating about them per se, but it does say something about mainstream media’s attitudes towards what food and restaurants entails, and how those attitudes inform our own assumptions.
Below the paywall: Percy Pig’s cult of personality; French cuisine is a hoax; Somerset’s eating out profile on the up; why it’s worth ignoring Michelin star awards; and much more besides.