The key to lasting dietary change, according to Wilson, is “a hedonic shift” in attitudes toward food—a reorienting of our palates that would render broccoli at least as delicious as cookies. “When our preferences are in order,” she argues, “nutrition should take care of itself.” Better yet, the trick to learning to love cruciferous greens turns out to be relatively simple: repeated, positive exposure to broccoli and its cousins. To prove how malleable our palates can be, Wilson marshals an array of case studies and experiments that have examined the human ability to shape and reshape food preferences.
Bee Wilson’s last book was terrific. ‘First Bite’ sounds just as intriguing; not just because my son will start to eat proper food in the next few months, and I can’t wait to see how he reacts to the food we eat, but also because we have a huge societal problem on our hands and (re-)learning about food, its origins and impact should be high up any forward-thinking government’s todo list.
Cooking would have remained a hobby if I hadn’t stumbled across old footage of Michelin chef Marco Pierre White preparing a stuffed pig’s trotter on YouTube. It was an audacious dish and maybe even a bit sinister. It looked a little like a stubby, sun-baked human hand on a platter. I loved how the deft skill of an unlikely genius and a few choice ingredients transformed a cheap cut of meat into a beautiful plate. The dish was transcendent to me, and in a rough kind of way, so was its creator. White smoked. White sneered. White swore. He was handsome. I could envision him swaggering around his Hampshire restaurant, the Yew Tree Inn, dropping exquisite plates of food in front of wealthy customers with all the bombast of a star footballer. As he got older and no longer cooked in the kitchen, he was known to hang about the bar and drink cider with customers, at times with a .22 rifle close by in case he had the sudden urge to go rabbit hunting. To me, Marco Pierre White was inspirational. I wanted to be him. And I wanted my own Yew Tree.
It’s safe to say that this plan—starting a restaurant off the back of being a bit interested in food—doesn’t go quite as well as the author would like.
Only a handful of restaurants overlook the seafront on the Via Marina Garibaldi in Lingua, one of the few villages on the Aeolian island of Salina. Among them is Da Alfredo, famous for granita – made with figs, peaches, melons, mulberries, citrus fruits or even pistachios – which has been here since 1968.
‘It’s perfect, isn’t it? Granita is just what you want to eat after pizza, so it is fantastic to have this place beside our restaurant,’ says Giuseppe Mascoli, who this summer opened a pizzeria, Franco Manca, in the shop next door.
Recognise the name? Franco Manca is a hugely successful British chain, founded by Mascoli in 2008 in a small unit in Brixton Market, south London.
Speaking of Italy, I recently completed the Italian language tree in Duolingo. Having started and stopped it a few times, it was good to get it finished. As expected, my spoken Italian is not great, but I can read and wrote fairly well. I’ve bought a book of short stories to assist with the latter; I will simply have to spent time at my local Italian bistro to improve the former. Oh well.
It’s a shame that the standard way of learning how to cook is by following recipes. To be sure, they are a wonderfully effective way to approximate a dish as it appeared in a test kitchen, at a star chef’s restaurant, or on TV. And they can be an excellent inspiration for even the least ambitious home cooks to liven up a weeknight dinner. But recipes, for all their precision and completeness, are poor teachers. They tell you what to do, but they rarely tell you why to do it.
This means that for most novice cooks, kitchen wisdom—a unified understanding of how cooking works, as distinct from the notes grandma lovingly scrawled on index-card recipes passed down through the generations—comes piecemeal. Take, for instance, the basic skill of thickening a sauce. Maybe one recipe for marinara advises reserving some of the starchy pasta water, for adding later in case the sauce is looking a little thin. Another might recommend rescuing a too-watery sauce with some flour, and still another might suggest a handful of parmesan. Any one of these recipes offers a fix under specific conditions, but after cooking through enough of them, those isolated recommendations can congeal into a realization: There are many clever ways to thicken a sauce, and picking an appropriate one depends on whether there’s some leeway for the flavor to change and how much time there is until dinner needs to be on the table.
The downside of learning to cook primarily through recipes, then, is that these small eurekas—which, once hit upon, are instantly applicable to nearly any other dish one prepares—are most often arrived at via triangulation. It’s like trying to learn a language only by copying down others’ sentences, instead of learning the grammar and vocabulary needed to put to paper lines of one’s own.
In our house, I am the one inclined to create a meal out of ingredients we already have. For me, this reduces waste, it encourages the use of seasonal ingredients, and it can result in novel discoveries and surprises which I think more than make up for any occasional disappointments.
My girlfriend, in one of the few areas of life that she is predominantly risk-averse, prefers the more consistent results produced by meticulously following recipes, and is not interested in such outlandish or risky approaches as ingredient substitution or generally making it up as you go along.
We’re both keen cooks with different approaches. I was working on a web design project today, using a pattern library, when it occurred to me: Pinkser is talking about breaking recipes into component methods. It’s an atomic approach.
Brad Frost’s 2013 post Atomic Design explores the building blocks of web design and how they combine:
A lot has been said about creating design systems, and much of it focuses on establishing foundations for color, typography, grids, texture and the like. This type of thinking is certainly important, but I’m slightly less interested in these aspects of design because ultimately they are and will always be subjective. Lately I’ve been more interested in what our interfaces are comprised of and how we can construct design systems in a more methodical way.
In searching for inspiration and parallels, I kept coming back to chemistry. The thought is that all matter (whether solid, liquid, gas, simple, complex, etc) is comprised of atoms. Those atomic units bond together to form molecules, which in turn combine into more complex organisms to ultimately create all matter in our universe.
Similarly, interfaces are made up of smaller components. This means we can break entire interfaces down into fundamental building blocks and work up from there. That’s the basic gist of atomic design.
Frost’s approach consists of five distinct ‘levels’ or ‘stages’ (he uses both terms interchangeably) of atomic design:
- Atoms. The core building blocks, e.g. HTML tags, form labels, inputs or buttons.
- Molecules. Combinations of atoms, e.g. a working form comprised of a label, input and button.
- Organisms. “groups of molecules joined together to form a relatively complex, distinct section of an interface,” e.g. a masthead consisting of a logo, primary navigation, search form and social media links.
- Templates. These are groups of organisms which together form a layout. Think of wireframes and mockups.
- Pages, which are specific instances of templates. All placeholder information is replaced by real content.
This is useful in many ways. People can focus on things in detail as well as having a broader view. Faced with problems, you can take a particular stage and investigate if the issue relates to how it combines with others, or if the problem is with what the item itself is comprised. You can look both ways for a solution.
Pinsker praises people like J. Kenji López-Alt for their reverse-engineering approach to cookery. Kenji’s The Food Lab column looks at a specific dish, e.g. katsu curry, by tweaking ingredients and methods and deconstructing other cooks’ approaches. He’s looking at the concept of katsu curry and seeing what approaches do and don’t work, relaying this to the reader, who then has all of the following:
- A solid katsu curry recipe
- An understanding of why that combination of ingredients and methods works
- How to adapt the recipe according to what’s available
- A set of transferable skills, e.g. making cutlets, brining, breading and frying
It offers more information than a typical recipe. It’s recipe and method together. Another proponent of this is Felicity Cloake, who’s How to cook the perfect… column for The Guardian breaks apart cooks’ approaches in search of a single foolproof recipe. There are others, too. Food52 have a Not recipes section which focuses more on a toolkit approach to a dish rather than a single recipe.
I hope it is obvious that ‘atomic’ here is unrelated to molecular gastronomy, however that is being defined at the moment. It is also unlikely to be a novel thought. Scientific or linguistic metaphors for cookery are already well-used. But it has given me a new way to think about how we approach these things in our particular house and with our particular approaches. If it’s easy to break apart a set of core recipes, and we understand how best to do this and why, we can reassemble them in new and (hopefully) successful ways.
By drawing a parallel between atomic design and cookery, we have something like:
- Ingredient/method/technique, e.g. eggs, deep-frying, julienning
- Preparation, e.g. making a soffrito
- Component, e.g. ragu sauce
- The conceptual ‘dish’, e.g. the idea of bolognese
- Specific recipe, e.g. a specific cook’s version of a dish, made up of components
This isn’t quite an exact parallel with the atomic design approach. There isn’t the same progression of increasing nested complexity through the list. A bolognese recipe isn’t more complex than the ‘concept’ of bolognese, for example; instead, it will use a subset of all the possible components.
Pinsker praises Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat: Mastering the Elements of Good Cooking by Samin Nosrat as the best metacookbook along these lines. I’m certainly going to buy the book based on his description of the ‘checklist’ approach it instils in the cook:
Has it been sufficiently salted? How was fat used to inflect its flavor and texture? Is there acid in there to balance out the overall flavor? And should it have been exposed to a different type or amount of heat? This is the book of cooking grammar that so many novices would benefit from.
And experienced home cooks, I bet. I can also recommend An Everlasting Meal: Cooking with Economy and Grace by Tamar Adler, which concerns itself with the grammar of good, economical cookery. I particularly like the section on soaking and cooking dried beans and pulses, and think often of ‘the fat boy in his prime’:
Beans being cooked according to the directions from Tamar Adler’s wonderful ‘An Everlasting Meal’, btw pic.twitter.com/yQlDWGA063
— Matthew Culnane (@coldbrain) January 22, 2017
(Some caution to end. I’ve invoked a scientific metaphor taken from web design and also mentioned grammar while discussing food preparation and recipes. There are pitfalls of jumping too wholeheartedly into using these abstractions and metaphors. They might inadvertently impose a way of thinking that is more restrictive rather than freeing the cook to think about things in new ways. In a recent post for the New York Times, John Herrman cautions against the widespread use of the technology ‘stack’ as a metaphor, ending with a quote from computer scientist John Daugmann: “We should remember that the enthusiastically embraced metaphors of each ‘new era’ can become, like their predecessors, as much the prison house of thought as they first appeared to represent its liberation.”)
For those who know Stony Stratford, it’s on the Wolverton Road site, which I’m told has a strong community feel.
All the plots on the site have roughly the same area, but the shape of ours is dramatically affected by a neighbouring garden. The plot resembles an L-shape, with the ascender tapering off into a long point, where this photo was taken from. I hope this means there’ll be a mixture of sunny and shady spots.
Coincidentally, the previous tenant of the plot is one of our friends, and he planted a few fruit bushes before having to give up the plot. There are a couple of sheds too, so I’m hoping to fill one up with mugs, books, tools and so on.
Our overall aims for the allotment aren’t necessarily to save money. I’d just like to eat more seasonally, grow crops that aren’t readily available in supermarkets, and try out less-obvious varieties of things that are.
It wasn’t until I tasted my first great tomato, at the vine-ripe old age of 22, that I finally understood the true nature of the BLT (and, by extension, why I’d never enjoyed tomatoes on my sandwiches or in my salads). Here we go: A BLT is not a well-dressed bacon sandwich. A BLT is a tomato sandwich, seasoned with bacon. From this basic premise, all else follows. Indeed, a better name for the BLT might well be the Tomato Club, for it is the perfect tomato, not the bacon, that is the rarest, the most ephemeral, the most singularly delicious ingredient.
Everybody takes spice differently. When I opened my first restaurant, I got so many complaints about the level of spice. A older woman once tried to call the cops on me because she thought that I was trying to fuck with her because the dish was so hot.
So I started thinking, What can I do to solve this problem? As a Chinese restaurant in America, we have a lot of people send back dishes to the kitchen, and this is culturally the greatest offense to us. This is unheard of in China. If you don’t like a particular dish, you don’t eat it, and then you don’t go back to that restaurant. In China, you would get your shit kicked in in the back of an alley if you sent a dish back.
A nice tale of tradition and authenticity vs. giving the customers what (they think) they want.