If we're going to discuss food snobbism, I think it's best for me just to state that I am a snob, that way we all know where I'm coming from. I don't believe myself to be, but I'm sure there's enough evidence out there to support that claim.

The question of what is a food snob came up while I was reading Joanne Chen's wonderful book The Taste of Sweet. One of the questions she brings up in the book is why so many people with "sophisticated" palates dismiss sweets such as cake, pie, or even candy, migrating towards upper end chocolates and tartlettes from a trendy bakery to fulfill our desires. The answer lies in something called "aesthetic distancing".

The idea is that common experiences, such as, say, eating an apple pie or consuming a Snickers bar speaks to an experience that, for the most part, everyone can participate. Because the pleasure associated with these activities are common that the experience is then devalued. Look at it this way - When you find a special restaurant that few people know about, your more likely to have an emotional attachment to it. When that place becomes crowded, it loses a bit of what makes it special. The food may have stayed the same in quality, but it's uniqueness, an aspect that has nothing to do with the quality of the food, is now gone or less.

People do this all the time when they look at art. They ascribe meaning to the aesthetic. Don't worry, this is what people are supposed to do whether the artist wants them to or not. By ascribing meaning to an object far beyond the immediate, the aesthete gains both distance to the piece of art, and a connection and appreciation to their own intellect that allows them figure out how to understand that distance. It's, as Chen writes, an intentional "snubbing (of their) most instinctive emotions and basic thoughts (those they share with the masses) in favor of the unusual and unexpected". It's this sort of behavior that allows a two layer chocolate cake to be common and demeaned, while a bittersweet cube of rich dark chocolate graced with cayenne, spicy almonds, cocoa nibs and burnt meringue is exotic and desired.

Food snobs work in the latter tradition, where they wish to eschew the common and intellectually justify their exotic choices under the cover of "quality". It's different, therefore it must be better.

But, as Chen points out, what they are often doing in these instances is demonstrating some measure of luxury, in the form of money, time, or education. Someone telling you of their dinner at El Bulli fits well into this territory. Yes, there are novel and wonderful things going on at this restaurant (a restaurant, by the way, that can't afford to keep itself open). But there are novel and wonderful things happen at restaurants everywhere. The question is, who gets to decide what's interesting and wonderful?

Let's get back to the two-layered chocolate cake - Say you lived in a remote village in Tibet, where chocolate cake is rare, and thick, gooey icing is even rarer. In locations such as these, that two-layered cake is as exotic as the bittersweet cube of rich dark chocolate mentioned above. Does the rarity of a product make it inherently better in Tibet than in Toledo, Ohio? There may be a value assigned to it due to its rarity, but the quality in of itself hasn't changed. And there's the trick: the value assigned to a product is due to it's rarity, not its quality. The food snob sees value as equating to quality, which allows them to justify their intellectual distance to the product. The lack of commonality allows them to explore their own aesthetic, their own sense of fashion.

In the end, it's nothing more than a two-layered chocolate cake; a delicious, moist chocolate cake with thick, rich, icing. It's quality comes not from its rarity, but because it addresses our biological need for something sweet and does so in such a way that is satisfying. The additional value of the cake, as I see it, is that it also brings forth the idea that most people reading this blog can understand: most of us have had two-layered chocolate cake. And food is at its best when it speaks to the many, rather than the few.

This is the opposite of what the food snob advocates. The value of food to them is that it justifies their distance from the common.

Don't get me wrong. I love true balsamic vinegar, wagyu beef, or dinners at five star restaurants. But the best food experiences I've had in my life is when I've shared foods with others, including those experiences mentioned above. The more people with I can share these experiences, the better.

Christine writes in:

I just read some info you had posted, and I wondered if you'd found anything about specific brands of beer containing HFCS?? Please let me know if you have. I've been searching, but for some reason, ingredients in mainstream beers are a mystery...

Thanks--
Christine

Christine,

There's so many points of discussion that this brief e-mail wants me to bring up, that I'm not quite sure where to start. But the best place seems to be the direct answer. It's highly improbable that High Fructose Corn Syrup is added to the great majority of beers. I'm not saying it can't happen, but if it is being done, it's not being done by any of the beers you or I are likely to find in coolers across the country.

Beer, nearly by definition, has an ingredient list of four - grain (typically, but not always, barley), yeast, hops, and water. Here's the thing - sugar does play a huge part in the production of beer. How is that possible when it's not listed on the ingredient list? Because there's a bit of conversion that takes place within the grain. Place a grain of malted barley into hot water, and the enzymes found within the grain kick into gear and will work to convert the starches into sugar, specifically a sugar called maltose. This is what the the process known as mashing is all about. It's this maltose that the yeasts chow upon fermentation.

Now there are exceptions to this approach, mostly found within the confines of MillerCoors, Anheuser-Busch, or even a Belgian beer called Jupiler, where they add either rice or corn to their mash. Typically this is done because they need a grain to cut a barley grain with a higher protein yield to make it easier to brew. I can get more specific here, but a resource already exists on the web that explains this much better than I. See How to Brew written by John Palmer. I do know that neither MillerCoors nor Anheuser-Busch are all that keen on telling their consumers exactly when Rice or Corn are added to their respective brewing process, because they'd rather not have you focus on the fact that their beers aren't 100% barley. If I'd have to guess, I'd say their mash rather than the wort, but it's possible that corn (and its sugars) can be introduced at other points.

Now you might be thinking "A HA! Corn and Sugar! This must be High Fructose!" Nope. At this point, any corn added to a mash or wort will only bring glucose or dextrose into the equation. High Fructose Corn Syrup only occurs after a very distinct process, one which the big brewers are unlikely to use.

Now sugar can be added as flavoring in beers, often during the wort stage. The Belgians (unsurprisingly) do this fairly regularly, especially in Faros. It's also popular to add sugars such as molasses, maple syrup, or even honeys to beer, but at this point in the process, this would add to the cost rather than save a few pennies, something that the mass-marketed light lager producers of the world are unlikely to spend. In my experience, people and companies who use sugars in this way are more concerned in quality of their beer, rather than quantity. Whether they meet their quality is debatable from brewer to brewer.

There is one last point where sugar may be added to the brewing process - some home brewers use it in bottle conditioning to add higher carbonation. This is a home brewing technique, and it's unlikely that mass producers would use this technique, as it would cost ineffective. I could be wrong, and hopefully the brewers in the audience here will correct me.

So, as you can see, sugar is vital in many aspects of brewing. But out of all of the sugars out there, HFCS is not one that is mentioned anecdotally in regards to beer production.

Again, I highly recommend John Palmer's How to Brew to get a great overview on the process.

Friggin' food politics, driving me bonkers, making me angry, ensuring my...

...ooo, yogurt!

From New York State Assembly Bill A10129, introduced by Assemblyman Felix Ortiz.

399-BBB. PROHIBITION ON SALT; RESTAURANTS. 1. NO OWNER OR OPERATOR OF A RESTAURANT IN THIS STATE SHALL USE SALT IN ANY FORM IN THE PREPARATION OF ANY FOOD FOR CONSUMPTION BY CUSTOMERS OF SUCH RESTAURANT, INCLUDING FOOD PREPARED TO BE CONSUMED ON THE PREMISES OF SUCH RESTAURANT OR OFF OF SUCH PREMISES.

*facepalm*

This? This is what happens when people get TOO concerned about what's in our food. They become ignorant, health-fundamentalists.

The problem isn't that we eat salt (or sugar, or alcohol). The problem is that we use too much of it.

(Note: Self-indulgent post ahead. You've been warned.)

I've been thinking about approaches to food writing a lot of late. Thoughts that were helped by a d Twitter conversation I held with Julie from WinemeDineme.com, and furthered by Anthony Bourdain's recent episode of No Reservations, calling food bloggers "food nerds". All of these inputs into my internal dialogue have me baffled and bewildered.

The question that it comes down to is this: Why do we write?

(Disclaimer: When I say "Why do we write?" what I mean is "Why do we produce content". If you're taking pictures, or doing podcasts, the question still applies.)

Introspection can often be a messy affair, doubly so when one tries to do so in public. After all, what is more important? The end result? Or the struggles that occurred that allowed (and forced) the end result to be created? From a consumers point of view (and from the point of view of any commercial enterprise), the only thing that matters is how well the end result is received. Everything else is simply a meta-conversation. Who cares how eGullet.org came into being, or No Reservations for that matter, as long as we enjoy the end result.

But blogging is a different beast. Many people blog without a care for how many or few people come to their sites. The result is that people produce content that goes without mass consumption, and to the producers, that is just fine. The difference between them and Anthony Bourdain? It boils down to three things - each individual's voice, the medium in which they are able to distribute their voice, and the size of their audience. It's not much more than that (We can argue about the quality of said voice, but quality is a subjective ideal, so we'd never get to agree on what equates to "good").

So again, if we don't write for an audience, then why do we write?

The question is not a new one to me. Back in 2004, when I first fired up Accidental Hedonist, the purpose was merely to create a repository of notes so I could demonstrate some passing knowledge of food to any book publisher who may have wanted to accept my book proposals. Why did I want to write books? It was a means to an end. The short answer: I wanted book writing to subsidize my desire for travel. Which, if you think of it, isn't really a good reason to write a book.

The weird thing is - about two years into writing Accidental Hedonist, traveling ceased to be the goal of the blog, as it morphed into a means to answering my personal questions I had about food. I later expanded the site to allow other people answer their own questions around the topic. The Punchline to all of this? Soon after that change in approach, opportunities started arriving that would allow me to meet the site's initial goal, though I didn't recognize it at the time.

The question of why popped up again last year about this time, as I sat in the gray area between book completion, book release, and first book sales numbers. Why was I writing?

For a while, I was producing content to essentially ensure that I could add to whatever dialogue was being developed in the food blogosphere. But it soon became apparent that dialogues rarely happen any more on blogs. Instead, many people have come to use twitter to follow up on any conversations a post might create.

However, many people mistook this activity as an excuse to promote their own conversation in order to force a dialogue. Anyone who has pimped their own blog posts is guilty of this (and I have done this myself). The food twitter world soon evolved into two different types of conversation - conversations about the everyday world, and conversations that dealt with several flavors of self-promotion. As I am particularly horrid at self-promotion, I pulled back from the twitter world, and changed my approach to Accidental Hedonist. It was during this time (about June of 2009) that I thought very seriously about shutting down the site for good.

I didn't though. Instead I asked myself the same question I've been asking myself now for six years - why do I write?

I think for the first time, I came across an answer that has calmed me down a bit. I looked at what I was doing for pleasure outside of the publishing world, both book and blog. I delved into the beer world, big time. Yes, these forays resulted in content for the blog. But this was a side benefit. A lot of "research" I did last year never made it to the blog. It was these activities that gave me much joy, and provided me the answer to that question. It's as pure as an answer as I've ever had to, because it's honest, and it doesn't give a rat's patoot about how many page views I have, or many books I may or may not sell.

I write because I have to know about food I'm interested in. I don't care so much about the "how-to-create-a-dish and/or recipe". No, what I've come to care about is the "why?". Why are there $75,000 bottles of whiskey? Why do we have a fear of food? Why did a country the size of Maryland end up with more varieties of beer than the United States? Each one of these questions, and many others, intrigue me to no end.

I suppose that makes me a "food nerd" on some level. But I don't really care all that much. Life is simpler now that I don't feel the need to improve my page views, or feel the urge to "brand" myself. I just want to know "why", and let those of you who ask the same questions I had in on what I find out.

That is why I write.

Appearance: If it wasn't for the head, you'd swear you were looking at unfiltered apple cider. Opaque with a hint of deep yellow gold. The head itself is strong, with a slight tan tint. The head is good and bold and lasts for a bit, and leaves a nice bit of belgian lacing.

Smell: Not strong, in fact it could be a little more bold. Malt with a hint of bitter hops in the back. Not subtle, but certainly not overpowering.

Taste: Deep and rich up front, but becomes quickly watery on the finish. One would think that the flavor would last a little longer. The hoppy bitterness is slightly there and partakes in whatever finish is there. Better tasted with a big gulp than a little sip. No sourness was apparent which is against the standard, but doesn't really detract overall.

Mouthfeel: eh. There's a little zip here, but for being a Belgian brew, I was anticipating more of a party on the tongue. As it is, it's okay, and meets the light mouthfeel standard of the BJCP, but a watery finish leaves it less than it can be. Keep in mind that this may be due to packaging, and may not be indicative of the beer as intended.

Drinkability: This seems an average beer in that it forgettable. Not good enough to instantly recalled when talking about great beers, nor bad enough to draw any harsh criticisms.

Rating: C if you're looking to get a review against type, B if you want to know how palatable it is.

As always, my food porn pics are a means to remind me what I love about food. They are often a result of depressing and/or unsettling food news items of some significance.

From the Reuters wire:

WASHINGTON (Reuters) - Foodborne illnesses cost the United States $152 billion in health-related expenses each year, far more than prior estimates, according to a study released by consumer and public health groups on Wednesday.

Food safety advocates are hoping the study will boost efforts in Congress to overhaul the nation's antiquated food safety system that has seen consumer confidence plunge.

In recent years, the food supply has been battered by a series of high-profile outbreaks, many involving produce, such as lettuce, spinach, peppers and peanuts, leading to a rash of illnesses and even death for consumers.

Dozens of pathogens, many of them unknown, creep into the food supply each year. The price tag includes medical costs, lost productivity and quality-of-life, according to a study from the Produce Safety Project.

"This is significantly more than previous official estimates and it demonstrates the serious burden that foodborne illness places on society," said Sandra Eskin, a spokeswoman with Make Our Food Safe Coalition, a group of consumer, public health and other groups pushing for stronger food safety laws.

The study being talked about here is called, Health-Related Costs from Foodborne Illness in the United States, and was written by Dr. Robert L. Scharff, a former Food and Drug Administration (FDA) economist. The .pdf of the report itself can be found here, in order for you to judge for yourself.

To put this number into some context, let's compare it against other big numbers.

• n 2007 the field of presidential candidates for '08 raised $582.5 million and spent $481.2 million (source)
• Sales of chocolate, non-chocolate and gum confectionery approximately $28 billion at retail per year (source)
• Overall US Beer Market in 2008: Approximately $101 billion (source)

The 152 billion number is fives times as large as previous estimates of the costs incurred from these outbreaks. I try to curtail my preference for hyperbolic language when it comes to these sort of reports, but if the numbers hold, it is a staggering amount of money.

From a very weird article in the Wall Street Journal:

Like the cupcake before it, the macaron, a French confection that resembles a pastel-colored sandwich cookie, is ready for its close-up.

It has been featured on film and television, in magazine articles and a new book called "I Love Macarons" by a Japanese pastry chef. Once the preserve of high-end French patisseries such as Ladurée and Pierre Hermé, macarons are showing up at retailers like Whole Foods, Trader Joe's and Starbucks. Even McDonald's is selling a scaled-down version in its McCafés in France, backed by ads showing two hands holding the tiny treat like a hamburger.

Instead of celebrating, however, fans of the meringue-like pastry have been whipped into a frenzy.

"Macarons are not meant to be mainstream," sniffs Laetitia Brock, a native of Paris who has been blogging about French culture from Washington for the past six years.

I...jus...Bwah?? Macarons are not meant to be mainstream? What does that even mean?

I say this as a tremendous fan of the delicate pastry, and am lucky enough to have a bakery within walking distance from my house that makes a passable version (although they do tend to let them sit out too long.) To imply that these treats are too "French", or too "upscale" is ludicrous both at face value and after a minute of introspection. Yes, mainstream, large-scale chains and corporations who tread down the path of making macarons will offer up passable, yet mediocre versions. But that's what these places do for nearly every product they offer to the public. Why should macarons be any different?

You know what I would love to see happen? Starbucks and/or McDonalds should start offering their mediocre versions in their restaurants, and then local coffee shops/bakeries who have been offering cupcakes for the past three years realize they can do a much better job at making them will start doing so. Voila!

Macarons entering the mainstream is a good thing. And because there are so many people who love them passionately, we're almost assured of finding better alternatives to the mediocrity that corporate chains will invariably produce.

What tickles me about all of this is the air of arrogance that the article alludes to within some of the interviewees. They sound nearly as pretentious as a few indie rock critics I've read in the past who've said things along the lines of, "Pfft. Macarons were so much better before they sold out."

Yes, yes, yes, "saison" is the French word for season. But this is not the answer I am looking for. Instead of 10th grade French classes, let's look at the other topic of desire when some of us were sixteen years old - beer.

Now if you happen to be a bit of a francophobe, this is not a French beer. Rather, it's a Belgian beer made popular in the French speaking region of Belgium. I'd explain this aspect of European history to you, but it requires Gantt charts and Venn diagrams, and quite frankly, that's more effort than I'm willing to indulge in on a Monday.

The reason this beer is called "saison" is that it is, or rather was, seasonal. It was made with the later harvests of barley, around the fall/winter-ish timeframe. The beer was allowed to ferment over the next nine months or so before it was served to farmhands working the fields around the start of the next years harvest. This once again proves the fact that beer can make any job bearable, including plucking grain from French-Belgian farmlands.

However, nowadays this type of beer is available year round, making the name rather irrelevant to the current production schedule.

So what does Saison taste like? Well, coming from Belgium, even the French speaking area of Belgium, you can expect some tartness. But not an overwhelming sourness that you'd get with Gueze or others in the lambic family. Instead, it also carries within it a peppery-ness (which isn't even a word, I know) that is found at the other end of the Belgium beer spectrum, the pale ales. So, from a high-level, broad definition point of view, Saisons can be seen as the middle ground between young lambics (of the non-fruity variety) and Belgian pale ales. It's a definition that's a bit simplistic to be sure, and there are breweries who have their own approach to the style, to be sure. But it's a good place to start.

They are higher in alcohol content, however. This is a trait which is recognized by most brewers of the style. Where Belgian pale ales hang out in the 4.8 – 5.5% ABV range, saisons check in between 5 – 7% ABV. This makes sense when taking into its history into account, as the beer had to sit for nine months before serving, and the yeasts had ample time to convert the sugars to alcohol. It's not the punch-you-in-the-nose kind of ABV that barleywines have, but it's different enough from other Belgian beers that it makes it distinctive.