Bad economy, good food !

Could tough times and eating well be mutually inclusive?

In thinking about the past year in food, it’s impossible not to put things into the framework of the economy. In my line of work, I think a lot about food as privilege, but I don’t often get a chance to write about it. I dine out every day, sometimes multiple times per day, as an occupational necessity (although I do admit that it is also a hobby, lifestyle choice, and yes, privilege.)

There are days where penning jaunty little articles about eggs benedict and sushi rolls, fun as it is, can feel a little oily. When you start contemplating the complicated issues around food and hunger, it really doesn’t matter what chef is very into fennel pollen at the moment, or if the tuna at the newest neighborhood bistro came out overcooked. The real, important, story-worthy ideas about food have more to do with what people aren’t eating, than what they are.
I’m no expert on such matters, and it would be foolish of me to try and tackle such difficult subjects as the fact that about 10 percent of Minnesota households are food insecure. And yet, as I look back on this year in food, it occurs to me that the economic reality we currently live in (more people having less) has begun to close the chasm between the haves and have-nots—which may have some surprising implications, not all of them negative.

I love food because I think it is the one unifier where we can see everything: culture, history, society, family, emotion. In looking at the world through the lens of food, and even dining, everything else can become fascinatingly clear.

Roughly four years ago, when the economy began to implode, those of us who pay attention to such things began to notice a proliferation of burger joints and a simultaneous informality taking the place of once-“finer” places. Around that time I wrote an article titled “White Tablecloth Blues,” where chefs confessed to paring down the tone of their menus in order to suit simpler tastes and tighter pocketbooks. Some even took the white tablecloths out of their dining rooms to remove even a perception of pretense. It’s when Steven Brown was (briefly) slinging burgers at Harry’s, Alex Roberts opened Brasa, and Levain morphed from haute, fine-dining Restaurant Levain under the experienced Brown to Café Levain, with a straightforward bistro menu executed by a young gun.

As most of us probably know by now, in a down economy the superfluous tends to fall away and what we’re left with are elemental things. While being broke is certainly no fun, I tend to feel a fondness for this particular byproduct. Had we all not had an acute need for solid food at a fair price, today we may not have such phenomena as Victory 44, Travail, the neighborhood beer pub trend, or the explosion of street food trucks. And while there will always be a place for inventive, creative cooking, I have never once thought: “What the world needs now is another celebrity chef.” I actually get a singular thrill from watching cooking go back to basics, to having enough reverence for a dollar to ask oneself where beans are grown and by whom, or to bother with the notion of possibly growing them oneself, and then use them to cook a big, satisfying soup.

In one of the most memorable food experiences of my year, we hand harvested our own produce and shot and dressed our own fowl, and it wasn’t my imagination that the meal stood head and shoulders above every restaurant dish I had all year, put together, hands-down. The food-related DIY movement has not only brought about the resurgence of canning, pickling, fishing and hunting, but it has brought us such genius ideas as the food-swap, where one batch of canned tomatoes can get you an armload of handmade goodies of every single stripe, and probably a few new friends to boot.

Speaking of friends, I’m loving the resurgence of the neighborhood pub. Pat’s Tap, the new Muddy Waters, Republic, and Pig and Fiddle only to name a few, are the sorts of joints where a beer and a burger (or an inventive salad, sandwich or pizza) can be yours, including tip, for under $20. This price point means you might be able to visit a couple times a week, and before you know it, everyone knows your name. Which to my mind is the true value—the burger and the beer are secondary to having a gathering space away from home—a place to commune with neighbors, or even simply fellow diners, to break bread amidst a community, to take a pulse on society at large, to sip a little nectar and help the medicine of life go down. The recent opening of Rye Delicatessen (where, by way of full disclosure I also work as a cook) received 450 guests on opening day with a line out the door and down the block. The long-empty Auriga space was now thrumming with life and community again. Clearly, this was not only about sustenance, which can be had at a handful of grocery stores in the area. Instead, it seemed more about anchoring the neighborhood, about the confirmation that things in the world are still alive and well (and, that the world is more delicious with lox and bagels.)

I also love watching crowds of corporate types, ties flapping in the wind, gather round the downtown taco and banh mi and noodle trucks, coming down from their corporate towers, getting out of the gerbil runs, taking in fresh air and laughing as they pass around the bottle of Sriracha. What $30 white tablecloth luncheon could be this much fun? Five bucks for your burrito, and you’ve got yourself an experience along with your lunch. It’s tough to afford dinner and a movie anymore, but good conversation is free.

In the coming year, I foresee more of the same, with perhaps an even greater condensing of food communities—all one has to do is look at our big sister communities like Portland and Brooklyn, to see where things are trending. In the radius of one block, we might see food craftspeople doing one thing only, and doing them very well. Maybe the pickle store will swap chocolate with the chocolatier for hot peppers, and then you’ll be able to pick up both in one stop. Maybe, in working less and having less, we’ll make less haste out of mealtime, and spend a bit of trouble on our dinner like our grandparents did—bread from the bakery, meat from the butcher, and veggies from the farm.
When I fantasize about such things, I can’t ever seem to escape the argument that it costs more to eat this way, that processed and fast foods are cheaper, and therefore more accessible to the masses. And, that sad fact is indeed the truth. And yet, statistics tell us that the average European spends roughly one quarter to one third of income on food, while Americans spend less than half that amount. (Personally, I spend perhaps twice that, eschewing nice clothes, vacations, and driving a car for the daily pleasure of breaking good bread over good conversation with people I like).

One fact none of us can escape is that you gotta eat. Eating is the one thing that unites us as human (and animal). Without sustenance, we die. We can go without concert tickets, a new pair of boots, or even a nice home in a safe neighborhood. Eating is the only constant—every person in history, in every society, in every culture must do it. The whole world is right there on your plate. I look forward to what the coming year has in store, with more thought given to this elemental thing.