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Once again, the unstoppable machine of pop music invites us to a tasting of a sweet and – not incidentally – black body. This time Rihanna entices listeners to join her in a celebration where the main course is herself. As a matter of fact, a popular remix seems to point to her ex, Chris Brown, as guest of honor to the party the song refers to. The live performances do not leave many doubts as to what part of Rihanna’s body the word “cake” refers to. No need for winking, no double entendre: the song is a suggestive road map that guides the willing listener to blow the candles, lick the icing, and put his name on the artist’s cake, described as “sweeter than a rice cake, cake worth sipping.”

I am not trying to pass any moral or aesthetic judgment. Rather, I’m drawing attention on how popular culture, and in particular music, has compared female bodies to sweet substances that are there for the taking. “Honey,” “sugar,” and “sweetness” are common terms of endearment, without any explicit connection to oral pleasures and devoid of specific racial connotations. However, pop music draws more direct correlations between edible matters and female bodies. Lady Gaga hinted that she was an object of consumption when she showed up at the 2010 MTV Video Music Awards wrapped in a dress made of raw meat. But these connections are particularly interesting in what many identify as African-American pop culture, although produced by the entertainment industry for all kinds of audiences.

Starting from the 1930s, culinary themes were especially common in blues music. A desirable young girl was called a “biscuit” and a good lover was called a “biscuit roller” (If I Had Possession over Judgment Day, by Robert Johnson, 1936). The complexion of a black person also played a role: “honey ” referred to light-skinned persons, while “coffee” referred to darker ones, resulting in expressions such as “honey dripper” and “coffee grinder” as metaphors for a lover. Having sex was “grinding” (Grinder Man Blues, by Memphis Slim, 1940) or “squeezing lemons” (Dirty Mother for You, by Memphis Minnie, 1935). Jelly is an edible matter that denotes softness and sweetness, with connotations that point to childhood, comfort food, and satisfaction of primal drives. Peanut butter and jelly are often referred to as a quintessential treat for children and adults alike. The jelly metaphor, in which the physical consumption of food somehow mirrors the enjoyment of sexual pleasure, is not new, but originates in the 1942 song It Must Be Jelly (‘Cause Jam Don’t Shake Like That.

However, in recent years black female artists have started using these metaphors in ways that assert their power and control over their male counterparts. In her hit Milkshake, singer Kelis flips the stereotype from negative to positive to affirm the woman’s control over the man’s appetites. Realizing that her stuff is better than anybody else’s, she refuses to share her skills and wisdom with other women. Otherwise she should charge a fee. Destiny’s Child taunted listeners by reminding them that “I don’t think you’re ready for this jelly ’cause my body is too bootylicious for you, babe.” In her song, Rihanna teases an imaginary male who wants her cake “in the worst way,” positive about her control over him: “Don’t try to hide it, I’mma make you my bitch.” Who is the artist talking to? Just heterosexual males who find her come-on lines arousing, or also women who might identify with the sexual power and the assertiveness exuding from her?

Young black female performers might seem to have found, in the triangulation of their flesh, food, and sexiness, the key to affirming their commanding womanhood and their agency. Yet this phenomenon does not happen in a void, but as part of a massive showbiz industry that by commodifying minorities still allows mainstream culture to find new and discrete ways to reaffirm its power. At the same time, models of beauty that reinforce the preference for thinness turn female bodies into an object for entertainment.

By Fabio Parasecoli

from Huffington Post

Quenelles in Lyon, tagine in Marrakesh, tortellini in Bologna: it sounds like a dream itinerary for food lovers. Moving from place to place to taste the best that the local cuisine has to offer has strong appeal. It is also the premise of a new reality show, Around The World in 80 Plates, which began airing in May on Bravo.

A group of young chefs is almost literally parachuted into different cities every week with the task of getting to know the native culinary tradition and mastering it enough to pull off a dinner for locals. Since it’s a reality show, chefs first have to complete assignments to get an “extraordinary ingredient” that is supposed to give them an advantage on their rivals: the possibility of using potatoes to cook pub food in London, the help of an Arab-speaking guide when shopping in the Marrakesh souk, or just time to make labor-intensive tortellini. The completion of the tasks usually includes rushing through markets at a neck-breaking pace looking for stuff, lots of breathlessness, and healthy amounts of catty one-liners.

Revealing the recent lack of originality in reality TV, the show combines two popular food TV genres: the travelogue and the chef competition. The first category features hits like Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations and Andrew Zimmern’s Bizarre Food, where a host (often male) explores the culinary marvels of an unfamiliar place, displaying either his expertise or his fearlessness in trying stuff that most viewers would find unpalatable.

The genre has expanded to include less exotic fare like Guy Fieri’s Diners, Drive-ins and Dives, where the object of interest is the comfort that can be found in what some could consider the low end of the American culinary spectrum, and Man v. Food, where Adam Richman participates in eating challenges all over the U.S.A.

The other genre, the chef competition, exploded with the Japanese extravaganza of Iron Chefs, and developed into Top Chef, Master Chef, Gordon Ramsay’s Hell’s Kitchen and the short-lived Chopping Block with Marco Pierre White, among many others. By straddling the two genres, Around The World in 80 Plates manages to achieve an acceptable modicum of entertainment value, as viewers get to vicariously explore far-away places while enjoying the drama of the rivalry among the contestants.

The show offers great examples of what can be called “culinary tourism,” which in the words of folklorist Lucy Long refers to “intentional, exploratory participation in the foodways of an other.” Viewers are offered digestible portions of cosmopolitanism and culinary knowledge, two essential components for any self-respecting food lover (or “foodie,” a word that, just like “hipster,” appears to offend those it is used to define).

However, as chefs frantically devour their way through exotic locales, they involuntarily embody subtle colonial attitudes: the culinary treasures of the place they are exploring are there for the grubbing and for the enjoyment of the viewers. The fact that the contestants include individuals of different ethnic background feels like a conscious attempt to dampen any accusation of Eurocentrism. A contestant whose skills and training focused on Thai cuisine was soon eliminated as the other chefs felt that her expertise was too limited, as having a French- or Western-based culinary skills is a surefire recipe for success when trying to cook Moroccan food…

As a matter of fact, the show works on the assumption that professional experience in American restaurants gives the participants enough competence to quickly absorb knowledge about strange ingredients and unknown cooking techniques. At times the chefs come across as arrogant, like when the “secret ingredient” is an elderly lady who can teach them how to make the Tuscan soup ribollita; when they realize that she does not speak English, they do not even ask her to make the soup to learn from her actions.

The way the chefs are evaluated is also dubious. The “locals” that the show trumpets as the real judges of the chefs’ work are often food critics, well-known restaurateurs and their patrons. And the authenticity they seem to embrace comes across at times as vaguely elitist, like in the London episode that presents gastropubs, a relatively recent addition to the local scene, as British authentic cuisine.

The most questionable message that transpires from the show that it is enough to get acquainted with a few ingredients and to cook a few recipes to boast command over a culinary tradition. I am sure many chefs would have their doubts about this approach. But it is exhilarating to assume that a few mouthfuls can make you a culinary expert, and that’s the fantasy the show is selling.