So what is this thing called authenticity?

The idea of authenticity has been worming its way around my mind ever since I read Todd Kliman's article, "The Problem of Authenticity," in issue 1 of The Lucky Peach. I suppose the article resonated because authenticity has been a byword in my family for many years. The article made me realize I don't actually have a verbal definition of the term; basically, it's one of those gut-feeling, I-know-it-when-I-see-it kinds of things.

And I can't tell if I am comfortable with that or not. On the one hand, if you don't have a specific definition of a thing, you can make all kinds of exceptions that undermine the integrity of the thing, stretching its "truthiness" (to steal a term from Stephen Colbert) to the breaking point. On the other hand, you can make all kinds of exceptions that allow the thing to grow, to take into itself new perspectives. So, I don't know where to come down on defining authenticity.

Kliman addresses three questions regarding authenticity in food:

• "For one thing, how the hell do you define it?
• "For another, where the hell do you find it?
• "And another, having found it, how do you know that it's, in fact, it?"

And he presents some examples that show what a tricky problem this actually is, such as the now less authentic bagels made in New York City (where once they were made entirely by hand, now they are stamped out by machine), or the wide range of how to define a gumbo in New Orleans, or the "right" ways to make Szechuan food or Neapolitan pizzas. Some places have strict regulations that define specific dishes to ensure that tradition is not lost. (To be honest, I also see some defensiveness against encroaching pop culture in such regulation too, but that's another story.)

Authenticity in food is an interesting topic because it mirrors and illustrates changes in culture. I was an anthropology major in college, and one topic that came up a lot was this idea of culture loss--that people the world over are losing their traditions to adapt to a new world order of internationalism. That sodas and televisions and t-shirts are now found in the remotest areas of the world and are destroying traditional ways of life. That languages are being lost as the last speakers die off. And, yes, it is sad, it is awful because there is so much to learn from what is being lost. And yet, and yet, isn't that the way of the world? We think of these cultures and these particular dishes as coming down to us fully formed, sacrosanct, but they too evolved. Cultures adapt to changes in local conditions and have always done so.

In the same way, people have taken their food traditions to new places and adapted them to what's available. Is it inauthentic to change something you grew up with to suit your tastes and the ingredients you can get your hands on? Is it inauthentic to drop the stuff you never really liked anyway? Is it authentic to cling unyielding to old ways and traditional ingredients? There are foods I'd never make if I had to make them the way they are supposed to be made. I simply don't have the patience to make pesto using a mortar and pestle. I don't have the arm strength and coordination to make mayo without a food processor. I make Swedish meatballs with whatever ground meat I happen to have on hand, not the specific blend of beef and pork that's typical (except chicken, I don't think I'd ever use ground chicken for Swedish meatballs). Traditional dishes have to be open to adaptation, to the creativity and the imagination of the cook, to the ingredients that are available. The way a person makes food reflects his or her family history, personal history, the season, the location. It's a complex palimpsest of layer upon layer of thoughts, feelings, images, tastes, scents, and memories partially smudged and aged until no single influence is perfectly in focus. And really, isn't it more interesting that way?

So where do I finally come to rest on the topic of authenticity? I guess it comes down to the words of a pompous old fool of a character: "This above all: to thine own self be true." But I also suspect that my thoughts and feelings about the topic will evolve.  

(And if you didn't read my review of The Lucky Peach, here it is.)

UPDATE 6/7/12: Here's another take on authenticity in food. Francis Lam and Eddie Huang discuss the fairness of other chefs taking on other cultures' food. It's kind of a long discussion, but it raises a lot of issues.

New Magazine Review: The Lucky Peach

Article first published as New Magazine Review: The Lucky Peach on Blogcritics.

I just got my first Lucky Peach and devoured it. The Lucky Peach is McSweeney’s brand-new magazine devoted to food writing. As with any McSweeney’s publication (I’ve been a fan since first discovering McSweeney’s issue no. 4), the magazine is dedicated to original voices, strong ideas and opinions, and creativity in all its glory. The Lucky Peach is no namby-pamby whole-hearted endorsement of all things trendy in food, but instead raises questions about the trends and looks at them from fresh angles. From the discussion among Anthony Bourdain, David Chang, and Wylie Dufresne about mediocrity—and especially mediocrity in the restaurant business—to an essay about authenticity, this magazine presents articles that make you think and, more important, make you want to think beyond what you’ve been told or given.

This first issue is almost entirely devoted to ramen, which may seem like a funny place to start a new magazine about high-end food, but in true McSweeney’s fashion, it works. Turns out ramen is far more interesting than those square blocks that could also pass for insulation that at least I used to buy in college because I couldn’t afford to eat anything else. In Japan, ramen is as much a part of the fine dining scene and culture as sushi; nearly as much technique, knowledge, and specialized vocabulary are devoted to it. The magazine presents several articles about it, from a travelogue by Peter Meehan and David Chang to a guide to regional variations on sushi by Nate Shockey to a taste test of instant ramens by Ruth Reichl to a fascinating little story about the American working-class version called ya-ka mein by John T. Edge, which all tell a rounded history of the foodstuff.

And being a food magazine, of course recipes are included, although I wouldn’t buy the magazine for them. Some of them do seem delicious and many articles discuss techniques for making some really special things to eat, but that seems almost secondary to the passionate writing about foods and the cultures surrounding foods. I find that I am inspired to try some of the recipes provided (in particular the recipes for alkaline noodles and bacon dashi), but more than that I am inspired to think about food: where it comes from, how’s it made, the culture that surrounds it, and the people who make it.

I have only two criticisms of the magazine. First, the language gets a bit salty at times. I know, it’s a food magazine—shouldn’t it be a little spicy?—and maybe I am old fashioned, but the use of the f-word gets a little old sometimes. Granted, with Anthony Bourdain as a contributor, the language almost has to get a bit rough, but I find it jarring. I think it’s possible to get the voice of the authors across without having to include every syllable. Second, the layout of the recipes, while visually appealing, is sometimes hard to read. The layout includes arrows to let you know where to go next, but because we are Western readers, we expect a page to flow in a certain way. When it doesn’t do that, reading gets a bit harder; you find the flow is disrupted and you are struggling to figure out what the next step is.        

Despite these drawbacks, I know I am going to hold on to this copy of the magazine for years and I will be experimenting with noodle soups. And I can’t wait to find out what they are going to do in the next issue. I am so glad I signed up for a subscription!