One of my grandmothers was Canadian, so I guess, technically, it’s okay.
Even so, there is a twinge of guilt when pouring maple syrup—Canadian maple syrup—on my pancakes this morning. It seemed less a sugary sweet accompaniment, more an act of brutish, imperialist aggression. But that’s because I’d just read of the latest culinary vandalism visited upon the commonweal—or more precisely upon those victims of a thoughtless oppressor class, one that threatens your breakfast, lunch and dinner, menacing with a comal clutched in one fist and a brace of chopsticks in the other.
While you can find the whole thing here, let me save you the trouble.
NPR and those of similarly fragile sensibilities are concerned of late that should you be out there cooking or even eating foods that originated in cultures or climes other than your own, you might be working some significant mischief on, well, on something. It all has to do with colonialism or privilege or unseemly “translations” of dishes that do not reflect your ancestry or with just being—let’s say a Caucasian with a yen for kimchi—in the right mood for the wrong kind of meal.
It’s terribly complicated, you see, or, as the NPR site puts it, “squishy” in terms of getting a handle on the problem—which is a less honest way of saying there really isn’t anything substantial at all, there really isn’t a problem at all but it makes us seem just terribly, terribly sensitive to be considering it one.
Arguably, this “issue” started sizzling because of the success of Rick Bayless, the Salsa Rey of Chicago, who, back in 2010, was asked to cook at the White House for the visit of then-Mexican President Felipe Calderon. Bayless, a native Oklahoman, has about as much of Mexican DNA in his chromosomes as Queen Elizabeth.
This ruffled the taco chips of, well, perhaps not any Mexicans of record, but at least of Mr. Dan Pashman, a host at WYNC’s program, “The Sporkful.” (If you would be surprised to learn WNYC is an NPR affiliate, you really should be taking your anti-naiveté meds more regularly.) Interviewing Mr. Bayless, the host broached the subject. How could Bayless, a white guy, be so instrumental—why indeed, should he—in promoting Mexican cuisine?
As Mr. Pashman put it, “There are also other Mexicans and Mexican-Americans who are like, ‘Screw this guy Rick Bayless.’ So how do you feel when you get that kind of reaction to your work?”
To Bayless’ credit, he entertained the proposition with far more patience than it deserved. Which is to say he did not laugh. At least not out loud. Instead, he made the point that half the components of all mole sauces, for example, thought by many to be an exemplar of Meso-American cooking, are not native to that region but have been introduced from regions as disparate as southeast Asia and Europe.
So, who exactly, is appropriating what?
As expected, the alleged transgressions of cultural appropriation of foods has bubbled merrily on the stovetops of the Reliably Outraged.
The burners on college campuses are set on High. Like at Oberlin, where students have suffered mightily from the ravages of cultural food appropriation, The Oberlin Review details some of the atrocities that have unfolded in the school’s cafeteria. And be forewarned before reading further: some of this stuff is pretty dreadful.
The world of a Vietnamese student, for instance, crumbled upon discovering an advertised banh mi sandwich was nothing but a ciabatta bun stuffed with pulled pork and coleslaw. A Japanese student complained the Oberlin cafeteria’s sushi was subpar to say the least and explained that in Japan, “Sushi is regarded so highly that people sometimes take years of apprenticeship before learning how to appropriately serve it.”
There is the temptation to take these arguments seriously, to treat them as legitimate, to respond as if the objections of these poor souls have some merit.
It is nothing more than informed common sense to observe, in response, for example, that the one essential element of banh mi is a French style baguette; a classic ingredient, pork liver pâté. So where’s the protest rally by French students against Vietnamese appropriation of their food?
And yes, one wants to reply to the Japanese student at Oberlin, apprenticeships in sushi restaurants are common throughout Japan. Much like the same training apprentices put in the same sort of training in Italy to make Neapolitan pizza there. So why don’t you explain why your country serves pizzas substituting mayonnaise for tomato sauce, with toppings like canned corn, avocados, and almonds? Why does pizza exist at all in Japan, in fact, other than, to use your reasoning, to inappropriately appropriate the food culture of Italy—and simultaneously slapping it in the face with teriyaki chicken, which is also found on Japanese pizza?
Or does such appropriation only work one way? Apparently so. Note how the likes of blinis, pierogies, or scones are never the instruments of appropriation. No one offers objections to the appropriating of the culinary oeuvre of Europe. Burger King went scot-free concocting the Crossan’wich. There is, apparently, no crime in serving up Belgian waffles even if one is not, ah, Belgianese.
To engage in this kind of reasoning, though, to reply as if the complaints are even remotely legitimate, is to miss the point. It isn’t about sushi. Or Vietnamese sandwiches. One is struck, in fact, not so much by the absurdity of such arguments as by their sheer, shabby fraudulence.
See, here’s the deal: No one seriously believes “cultural food appropriation” is a topic worthy of adult consideration. It is too non-serious even to rise to the level of a mock-worthy Saturday Night Live skit, too ridiculous for the making of an Onion satire.
Complaints about the cultural appropriation of food are the result of a stinky, toxic recipe, composed of equal parts of injured snowflake and manufactured outrage. The details are entirely secondary. If it was not the “misappropriation” of enchiladas, it would be about the moral indignation incited by someone showing up at a Cinco de Mayo fête sporting a sombrero. It’s sushi this season; next year, it will be something else, something equally as trivial, elevated to proportions that bloat a nonsense complaint into a cartoonishly extravagant “controversy.”
Like a hysterical spouse who, in the heat of anger fetches about, looking for something—a lamp, a TV remote, to hurl at a partner—General Tso’s chicken or pad Thai are convenient, temporarily embraced weapons available in the heat of the moment, to be brandished in the name of righteous social fury.
Outrage is like a treacly dessert. Indulged, it quickly becomes a habit. Then a necessity for feeling good about oneself. And if it can be wrapped around the puffy pastry of assumed victimhood, why it is even more delectable still.
The only appropriate response to the charge of appropriating the food of another culture is to refuse to engage in such discussions. To attempt to address concerns that are so obviously insincere, contrived, and opportunistic is to afford them a level of respect they do not deserve.
Cuisines, like the culture they reflect, have a component of the fluid about them, one that allows them to change and grow. There are instances where what might be “appropriation” is actually integration, one that revives or advances a regional or ethnic food. Or just uses the original to go off on a different tangent. Sometimes—taco salads come to mind here—it’s a smashing failure. Sometimes, monkeying with another place’s foods creates innovations—Americanized egg rolls have more flavor and variations of texture than most Chinese versions—that are utterly worthwhile.
Foods and cuisines, like people, should be judged on their own merits and not by their place of origin. Outrages properly should be reserved for matters of serious consequence. The appearance of something called a quesalupa is not among those.
Pouring Canadian maple syrup on my American-made pancakes does not constitute an act of culinary cultural aggression.
Although, come to think about it, those Kettle Cooked Wasabi Ginger potato chips Lay’s put out just might reach the level of misdemeanor.
