On behalf of The New School, Food Design Society, and Food Design North America we are happy to share with you the 2nd International Conference on Food Design Conference Proceedings.
View the Conference Proceedings by professionals, practitioners, and researchers discussing the fundamental aspects of this burgeoning field.
This video from an interview with Pierre Thiam this past Spring is a must see.
Sponsored by the Food Studies Program (http://www.newschool.edu/public-engag… ) and the Jazz and Contemporary Music Program in the College of Performing Arts (http://www.newschool.edu/jazz) at The New School, chef and restaurateur Pierre Thiam, author of the successful cookbook Senegal: Modern Senegalese Recipes from the Source to the Bowl, will discuss the unique food culture of his native Senegal – as well as the influence of African practices and dishes on the development of American foodways – with Fabio Parasecoli, director of Food Studies Initiatives at The New School (http://www.newschool.edu).
As cosmopolitan gourmets continue looking for the next new trend, many culinary traditions around the world are just now drawing the attention they deserve. West African cuisines are finally acquiring visibility, thanks to their interesting ingredients, their complexity, and their long history. The conversation will also explore the diffusion of West African cuisines abroad and the problems they face, from product availability to business challenges and customers perception.
By Fabio Parasecoli, Associate professor and coordinator of food studies, The New School.
And there we were, food writer Saverio de Luca and I trying to figure out how to cook my great-grandmother’s handwritten recipes on a wood stove. I remember her as a tiny and quiet woman, always dressed in black, mysterious and a bit scary. We were removed from her in terms of generations, gender, and upbringing. Nevertheless, we were intrigued by the culinary knowledge she had decided to share with her friends and family, and that somehow had been handed down to me. Saverio’s wood stove from the 1940s supported out attempt at recreating her dishes, and to better understand her experience.
We immediately realized that we lacked much of the background knowledge that was necessary to even make sense of the recipes, written in a language hesitating between Italian and her native dialect, and in a telegraphed style that gave a noticeable amount of practical expertise and skills for granted. Here are the recipes.
Toltonné
You take a piece of lean meat, such as a loin, then you stuff it with anchovies and tuna fish. After you stuffed it well, pass it in flour. Then you start cooking it in a pan with water, oil, and white wine. When the meat is cooked, after boiling slowly, you add a sliced lemon. After boiling for a while, you need to strain that sauce. Then you take capers, nicely desalted, and you add them to the sauce, making it simmer all together. Then you cut the meat in slices and put some of the sauce on every slice.
Taralli
Three pounds of flour, one pound of sugar, a glass of wine, one of oil, one of rum.
That was it. It became immediately clear that we needed some guidance, or at least some cultural facilitation. We ended up calling my mother, who as a young girl, during World War II, had lived in my great-grandmother’s village, had cooked at the wood stove, and had learned those recipes from her mother and other women. She immediately knew what we were getting ready to make, and helped us interpret the somewhat cryptic texts. Toltonné is a version of vitello tonnato, a familiar recipe from Piedmont, in Northwestern Italy. Interestingly, my great grandmother called it in a way that echoed vitel tonné, a French-inflected name that reflects the influence of French cuisine on the traditions of that part of Italy. The recipe had presumably been jotted down in the 1920s or 1930s, not that long after the unification of Italy in the 1860s. Nevertheless, a specialty from Piedmont had found its way to the mountains of central Italy, showing how a national culinary tradition was slowly developing by connecting very distinctive techniques, ingredients, as well as cultural values and habits. In fact, vitello tonnato appears in Pellegrino Artusi’s 1891 The Science in the Kitchen and the Art of Eating Well, widely considered the first attempt at outlining an Italian cuisine. Maybe adding such dish to her repertoire increased my great-grandmother’s sense of being part of a reality that went beyond her village. Tarallois a more local baked cookie, but nevertheless my mother’s explanation was indispensable for us to distinguish it from another dessert with the same name. Just from the ingredients, she knew what her grandmother was referring to. We had no clue.
Once we figured out what we were doing, we had to negotiate cooking on the wood stove. We realized that our hands and bodies were being asked to perform new actions. From the start, you need to know how to choose various kinds of wood pieces to use at specific times, depending on what kind of flame you need. That required buying wood and carrying it upstairs, which we easily did in an elevator but in the past obviously required a great amount of logistics and physical labor. We were also being challenged to materially relate to food preparation in a different way. Heat can be controlled by moving the pot more or less close to the center of the stove, and by removing metal rings that allow more direct contact with the flame. Also, the regulation of the air draft makes the wood burn faster or slower. The oven turned out to be the most difficult to manage, as the heat could only be regulated by the quantity and type of wood burned. In fact, the temperature indicator had only three positions: desserts, roasts, and bread, just giving us the vaguest indication that we were on the right track.
While the toltonné came out gloriously, the arguably simpler taralli were a disaster. The first batch had a scorched surface and a still soft interior, while the second never really cooked, as we may have waited too long for the oven to cool off. I have an all-new admiration and respect for the abilities of those women whose talents were not given enough credit, discounted as what they were supposed to do as wives and daughters. A vast amount of embodied knowledge (and physical endurance) got little recognition, hidden in daily chores or special occasion cooking. At the end of the day, Saverio and I were exhausted, excited about what we had achieved, and in awe of what our female ancestors must have been able to pull off on a daily basis.
By Fabio Parasecoli, Associate professor and coordinator of food studies, The New School.
These days, it is impossible to tune out the heated debates and the raging controversies that surround the issue of immigration in the US. The presidential elections are only a few months away, and citizens are forced to reflect on what their vision of their own country is. As outrageous as the tones in this electoral cycle may appear, it is not the first time in the history of the US that migration takes center stage in the political landscape. The focus is usually on visible aspects such as the presence of undocumented immigrants, their role in the labor market, or their right to fully participate in the American projects as full citizens.
Attitudes and values about immigration are often shaped, if not determined, by everyday contacts and interactions among neighbors, fellow commuters and, let’s not forget it, participants in the US food system. When it comes to what we eat, where food comes from, who prepares it for us, and who sits at our table, all bets are off. What we eat becomes us. Nothing is more straightforward, intimate, and visceral. Fear of the unknown is inevitable. As a consequence, the food of immigrants, redolent with peculiar aromas and bursting with unfamiliar flavors, easily becomes the object of deep ambivalence that goes beyond the gustatory and touches on the political. It stimulates attraction and revulsion, interest and refusal.
Two recent books provide useful insights into how these issues have played out-and still play out – in American culture. Melanie DuPuis’s Dangerous Digestion: The Politics of American Dietary Advice explores the connection of the two fundamental questions “What to eat?” and “How to Govern?” in the development of American democracy. DuPuis notices how reformers such as Sylvester Graham and Ellen G. White, shared the goal of controlling and organizing “both physical and political bodies.” They considered diet and nutrition as central for the moral integrity of the nation, echoing “the bifurcated view of Western society as a free and intact body that defines ‘us’ against a threatening and dangerous controlled ‘them’”.
However, the need for self-discipline to police boundaries and cleanse what’s inside, eliminating anything that could be experienced as an invasive element, does not quench the apparently contradictory desire to project purity and authenticity in what’s outside, which then becomes an idealized beacon of salvation. DuPuis points to the success of the Mediterranean Diet as an example of these dynamics. Why not recognize the nutritional benefits of “the bean-and-corn centered Mexican cuisine,” though? The author indicates that there is more at play than just the healthiness of ingredients. In fact, she reminds us how social workers in the early twentieth century actually tried to convince Italians to eat more meat and dairy in the attempt to make them more American, almost to neutralize their foreignness.
In American history, migrants’ dishes and food customs, at first targeted as alien and symbolic of other cultures’ backwardness, have in time been integrated into the American diet. The case of Italian culinary traditions, now counted among the most popular cuisines in the US, is a perfect example of how foreign food can become “ethnic,” turning into an important entryway for immigrant to access the American dream of success and full citizenship. In The Ethnic Restaurateur, Krishnendu Ray delves into the ethnic food industry from the point of view of the immigrant entrepreneur, the foreign cook and – to a certain extent – the possibly undocumented dishwasher.
Ray tries to understand how discussions of taste take place around ethnic foods and, above all, the immigrant working bodies that produce them. The author argues that “through these transactions there is a desperate search for authenticity by consumers… it is the craving for touch – its magic and its intimacy – in an increasingly , ocular, and aural world.” The same bodies that can be read as threats are also the harbingers of a more direct and pleasurable relationship with the world around us. Nevertheless, not all ethnic cuisines are equal: Italian and Japanese cuisine now enjoy higher status compared to Mexican or Chinese, directly reflected in the prices that they can command. Ray looks at the possible reasons behind these differences in appreciation, observing that “proximity to poor ethnics undermines the prestige of a cuisine (as measured by price, although cheap ethnic food often acquires value as authentic).” In other words, too many immigrants can make their cuisine too close for comfort, undermining its potential for commercial success.
Both books bring the theme of immigrant integration – or lack thereof – into the fabric of everyday life, and in particular into food, often excluded from political discussions. Nevertheless, it is precisely at the level of daily experiences that important negotiations between American and foreigners, “us” and “them,” take place. We can’t forget that meals unite and divide, connecting those who share them and excluding those who are not entitled to participate.
By Fabio Parasecoli, Associate professor and coordinator of food studies, The New School.
Despite the unusual chill, on Monday morning, the rua Vicente de Souza market in the Rio de Janeiro neighborhood of Botafogo was bustling with shoppers. Nannies with children and housekeepers mingled with the elderly, leisurely inspecting the products on sale in the stalls: meat, fish, vegetables, fruit. All looks good and perfectly acceptable: clients here look for no-nonsense goods, which the vendors mostly get from the city central wholesale market. Here and there, some produce is marked as organic, or as coming directly from the countryside. Overall, no one seems overly concerned about the provenance of what they buy: price is the main discriminant. This market could not have possibly been more different from the “feira” in which I had participated in the preceding weekend.
Organized by the organization called Junta Local, it was in between a farmers’ market, a street food festival, and a full-on party with a DJ spinning all kinds of music and live bands performing. The feira took place in the Casa da Gloria, a gracious building surrounded by a garden, next to a church on the top of a hill. The atmosphere was relaxed and infectiously merry, with visitors milling around, buying groceries, taking advantage of all the food on sale, chatting and drinking. The crowd was also quite different from what I saw at the neighborhood market in Botafogo. Here there were hipsters side by side with young families with children, as well as middle aged or-mature people. Buyers were inquisitive and engaged, asking the vendors what the food was, how it was cooked, and where the products came from. The vendors, who were more than happy to engage them, were also varied and interesting. Among those I chatted with, Bruno Karraz and his business partner Yan sold vegan sorbets made of organic fruit too ripe to be sold to most consumers and served in biodegradable containers made of cassava. Fernando Betim, a professor of architecture, represented the products of a whole community of farmers and animal breeders in the nearby state of Minas Gerais: the smoked lamb leg was delicious. Fabricio de Andrade, a mushroom producer from the same state, was selling fresh products and serving a delicious soup of mushrooms and ñame. Vicente Saint-Yves, a former chef who had worked in Barcelona, was roasting sausage made with meat from animals his neighbors had raised, while his own animals were still growing. Maria al Warrak, a Syrian refugee, was selling kibbehs (I was later informed that she was not paying for her space, thanks to an agreement between Junta Local and Caritas to help displaced people to start their food businesses). I talked with Daniel Martins, a cheese and beer expert who decried the impact that The Mercosur trade agreement had on the dairy industry in Brazil (and his family cheese business) in the 1990s while lamenting the fact that the law in Rio de Janeiro state does not allow for the sale of raw milk cheese (which nevertheless can be imported from abroad). These people were passionate, well-informed, mostly educated, and with cultural and social capital to spare.
They have created a vibrant sense of community thanks to Junta Local, the brainchild of Thiago Gomide Nasser, Henrique Moraes, and Bruno Negrão, the three of them between their mid 20s and their mid 30. They launched the organization to allow urban dwellers to enjoy good food that is produced sustainably and equitably, while giving urban and rural small producers and artisans the opportunity to sell directly to consumers, with the hope to communicate their values and their goals. What sets Junta Local apart from similar organizations is that they also set up what they call the “virtual basket.” In the weeks when the feira is not taking place, consumers can order produce and products from the organization’s website and pick it up at a specific place and time. Unlike other CSAs, consumers only buy what they want, so that producers know exactly how much to bring to the distribution point, without any waste. Junta Local is less than two years old, but already 150 producers and artisans have joined, and hundreds of consumers patronize both the internet website and the feiras. The organization just launched what they define “modelo ajuntativo,” a new kind of participative involvement that makes producers stakeholders in the project, but not quite like a cooperative. The producers are enthusiastic, having found a sense of community among themselves, communication and logistical support, as well as a steady source of revenue. For a few, the feira has allowed them to stay in business and even to thrive. The Junta Local founders and members are figuring things out as they go, now attracting the attention of media and local government bodies, which see the potential of this food network to provide an innovative alternative to traditional markets, as the one in rua Vicente de Souza.
By Fabio Parasecoli, Associate professor and coordinator of food studies, The New School.
When I was in Italy, last summer, I was intrigued by the growing popularity of what now Italians call “street food,” using the English language expression to indicate, well… street food. Cibo di strada, in Italian. Street food is definitely not a novelty. The dwellers of ancient Roman cities, for instance, were able to eat out of their home: they could patronize taverns or buy ready-made snacks and meals to go from all kinds of roadside stalls. As kitchens were absent in most buildings where the lower classes lived, acquiring cooked food was a necessity. Such customs thrived for centuries, reflecting changes in times, political dynamics, and cultural environments. I remember, growing up as a child in Rome, to see people frying what in the US are known as zeppole in big oil vats on the street. To this day, it is not uncommon to see kiosks selling porchetta, delicious pork roasted with herb and spices, sliced, and served in crunchy bread rolls. In summer, watermelon sellers hawk their goods on the city curbs, a Godsend in the hot Roman nights.
Side by side with these more traditional expressions, street food has found a new life in Italy. Entrepreneurs and creative chefs provide affordable and stimulating dishes that are inspired by the old ones, but often try to elevate them to respond to the preferences of their clientele. Their customers tend to be young and of the “foodie” conviction, always looking for affordable but intriguing flavor combinations that maintain some connection with the past, while using good, local ingredients. Healthier, safer production environments also increase the attractiveness of these new offerings. In fact, in Italy these days, street food – from takeaway pizza to fried rice arancini – is mostly sold not from stalls but out of small stores that enjoy a closer relationship to the street than regular restaurants. These eateries often have few seats available, forcing patrons to eat standing or to take away food. Some of the most interesting food in the Italy is now sold under this label. Gambero Rosso, one of the best known food and wine magazines in the country, has started publishing a Street Food guidebook, while websites such as Via dei Gourmet use street food as a distinct category, knowing that its users know precisely what they refer to.
The gentrification of street food, while overall embraced as a positive evolution of the Italian culinary landscape, risks pushing aside food providers that are not able to speak the same language as the popular upstarts or are not willing to change their product and their sale methods to attract the clientele who are ready to buy the new “street food”, with more originality, better quality, and possibly at higher prices. Such trends are also visible in the American landscape. Food trucks are enjoying growing success, as chefs and entrepreneurs consider them as viable alternative to brick and mortar restaurants, especially in cities where real estate costs are prohibitive. The food they offer is exciting, and they reflect the aesthetics and the communication modes of their clientele. It is not uncommon for food trucks to announce their locations on social media, and for their followers to look for them, wherever they are. The more traditional street vendors, those selling coffee and hot dogs, or the peddlers bringing fruits and vegetables of the curbs of disadvantaged neighborhoods, outside of the more glamorous background of the farmers’ markets, are often ostracized and treated quite differently, including by the local authorities and the police. As I have discussed in a previous post, the Street Vendor Projecthas been raising funds and working with underprivileged sellers and hawker to represent them in policy and administrative discussion.
We will discuss these changes and tensions at the New School, in a discussion panel on the history of street food in New York City. Street food has historically played a crucial role in the way New Yorkers produce, buy, and consume food. From carts bringing produce from nearby farms to immigrant vendors providing traditional foods to their community, and later to the city at large, food has always been present on the streets. The panel will explore the past and present of street food in NYC, looking at culinary elements, culture, and the evolution of policy regulating the way New Yorkers were allowed to sell and access food in public spaces.
By Fabio Parasecoli, Associate professor and coordinator of food studies, The New School.
Cosmopolitan gourmets are always looking for the next new trend, supported in their quest by insatiable media, marketers, and entrepreneurs. Relatively unexplored culinary traditions around the world are drawing their attention: we can mention West Indian, Peruvian, and Brazilian cuisines among those who are gaining in popularity among US consumers and elsewhere. Other food cultures, however, seem to have had a harder time making their mark on the international scene, despite their undeniable qualities. African cuisines – with some exceptions such as Ethiopian and Moroccan – would appear to fall in that category. Although restaurants showcasing them are relatively easy to find, especially in larger cities, they have not achieved the same kind of prominence as, let’s say, Thai or Cuban ones.
At times, national governments have played an important role in supporting the global diffusion their gastronomies. These interventions can prove extremely problematic when defining a national cuisine is fraught with complicated issues of identity, power negotiations among different stakeholders, and the struggle to identify the communities -ethnic, religious, or otherwise – who belong to the national project and whose dishes and ingredients are deemed worthy of being included. Furthermore, although governments around the world are realizing how food can play an important role in supporting tourist flows towards their countries, often funding and expertise in those domains are not readily available.
In this varied landscape, West African cuisines are finally acquiring visibility, thanks to their interesting ingredients, their complexity, and their long history. Although African immigrant communities are relatively small in most American cities, restaurants inspired by their counties of origin are popping up here and there, reflecting diverse traditions and culinary backgrounds. In fact, it is impossible to even talk about African cuisine as a single entity, as the continent is home to very different climates, crops, and populations. However, just like some still talk about Chinese food traditions as a monolithic unit with some regional variations, for some restaurant-goers the concept of “Africa” maintains some validity as a filter to make sense of unknown flavors and practices.
Besides being worthy exploring in themselves, West African cuisines, could also provide a different, more inclusive filter for Americans – and for anybody living in the New world – to understand many aspects of their own culinary history who are rooted in African diaspora and the forced relocation of African as slaves all along the Atlantic, from the US to Brazil, as well as Colombia and Peru. Who were these Africans? From where in Africa were they brought to the Western Hemisphere? What were the culinary worlds that they carried with them, although they often were not able to fully express them, as they struggled to survive slavery and exploitation? What technical knowledge in food production were they experts in? We know, for example, that the Carolina Gold, a world-famous rice variety in colonial time, thrived in the South of the United States thanks to the skills and experience of West African slaves who were rice growers in their lands of origin. However, their contribution was erased over time, and only recently has their relevance been recognized as crucial.
The global circulation of African cuisines and products is not only a thing of the past. Chef and restaurateur Pierre Thiam, author of the successful cookbookSenegal: Modern Senegalese Recipes from the Source to the Bowl, will discuss the unique food culture of his native Senegal – as well as the influence of African practices and dishes on the development of American foodways – at The New School on March 31, in connection with the performance Symposium in the Drum: From Africa to the New World. The conversation will also explore the diffusion of West African cuisines abroad and the challenges they face, from product availability to customers’ perception. What’s the role of chefs from Africa in making these culinary traditions more accessible and better known? Could their work stimulate curiosity in their culinary cultures as a whole, as my friend chef Michael Elegbede is doing for Nigeria? Could they contribute to the growth of food tourism in their places of origin? We can’t give so many responsibilities to West African chefs, or any chef for that matter. Nevertheless, their unique position as informal ambassadors counts. At times, it can count a whole lot.