THE NOT-SO-CLEVER MARKETING
PLOY OF "FARM-TO-TABLE" COOKING
By John Mariani

 

"American Gothic" By Grant Wood (1930)

 

       Back in the 1960s, Henri Soulé, owner of New York’s famed Le Pavillon, which the Times’s Craig Claiborne called “the foremost temple of fine French cooking and the standard any which all other French restaurants could be judged,” lamented, “Some of the richest people on earth will dine here tonight. And for all the money on earth, I couldn’t give them the simple good things that every middle-class Frenchman can afford from time to time. Six Marennes oysters. A partridge—very, very young. Some real primeurs—the first spring vegetables. A piece of Brie that is just right.”
     
 Soulé was despairingly right: Ingredients of that time in America, from fruits and vegetables to seafood and cheese, were rarely of high quality and often available only in their frozen, processed state.  It was really not until 1971, when a former Montessori teacher named Alice Waters challenged American purveyors to find her the best local provender of a kind she’d enjoyed in Provence bistros for her little Berkeley, CA, restaurant named Chez Panisse, that a seismic shift occurred in the production and distribution of first-rate food products.  From then on—in fits and starts, to be sure—both chefs and home cooks could depend on better and better ingredients with which to make better and better food.
       The search for the finest summer’s raspberries, the freshest Chinook salmon, the highest grade of beef and lamb and dairy products that tasted of the farm became the mantra of young chefs and cooks who transformed the way we eat today. And if the best of something came from far away—Dover sole, Prosciutto di Parma, Stilton cheese, radicchio, truffles—new services like FedEx and DHL could deliver them overnight to any city in America. Soon a chef could open an authentic Parisian bistro serving Époisse (left),  an Italian trattoria using balsamic vinegar and  a modern Mexican restaurant using huitlacoche.
       As so often happens in America, once the demand for quality becomes widespread, it shifted shape: For in the late 1990s some chefs were preaching the gospel of what became known as “farm to table” cooking or “locavorism,” which insisted that the best expression of a regional cuisine—Southern, New England, California, Midwestern—would always be based on indigenous local ingredients and their sustainability. The late Cajun chef Paul Prudhomme used to wonder why his potatoes never tasted as good as his mother’s, then realized it was because the latter came straight from their farm field, cooked that evening.
       Sean Brock, who opened Husk in Charleston, SC, in 2010, vowed he would not use any ingredients that were not grown within 50 miles of his restaurant or any that had not existed in South Carolina before the Civil War. He therefore based his menus on items like country ham, heirloom vegetables, cornbread, catfish,  fried chicken and collard greens, allowing only that because South Carolina really didn’t have any viticulture, he was forced to import wines from the west coast.
       The idea made idealistic sense: Just as Europeans for centuries had insisted, a region’s gastronomic character is to be found in the food and animals that come from surrounding farms—terroir— because the cows ate a certain kind of grass, the fish fed on what was in their lake or river, and the wine grapes absorbed certain minerals. The French took pride in their regional cheeses, the Spanish proved their pata negra pigs (left) made the best pork in the world, the Belgians reveled in the reputation of their white asparagus, and the Italians swore they would never eat any food not of their region or out of season.
       From these sacrosanct ideas spread the at the admirable popularity of and dependence on truck farms and local fishermen to bring in the most flavorful asparagus, string beans, oysters and lobsters—raised organically and without the chemicals that so adulterated processed foods. Weekend outdoor farmers' markets flourished.
       Unfortunately, almost overnight, the “farm to table” idea was warped into a marketing gimmick slapped on every menu by every young cook with the budget for a p.r. person. Dozens of books embraced the phrase, even if the recipes were fudged by using Italian olive oil, Sichuan peppercorns or Mexican chocolate. By the middle of the first decade of the current century, “farm to table” had become a cliché, one with far too many exceptions or far too wide-reaching to make any sense.
       More important, the zealotry behind what began as an ideal way to cook meant that either chefs had to completely abandon what was not in season or go outside their region for everyday staples like tomatoes, strawberries, blue crabs and lamb.
       Like the “Mediterranean Diet,” “Molecular and Modernist Cuisine” and fads for certain Super Foods like kale and cauliflower, the farm-to-table idea was diluted to accept a range of options not originally intended.  But now, at the end of the third decade of the current century, the terms farm-to-table, farm-to-fork and sustainability have taken on a new urgency at a time when climate change and expanding populations is fast transforming the way the world grows, transports, cooks and eats its food.  Within those changes are the seeds for a more rigorous examination of what it means to depend on small farmers, small boat fisherman, poultry and meat producers who use humane and healthy methods to deliver delicious, hormone-free food within a localized market. Add to this the fact that transportation by plane, train and truck is now so well extended that the markets in Paris, Tokyo, Shanghai, Madrid and Portland are teeming with better and better quality food.
       At this point, more cooks, inspired by chefs like Thomas Keller in Yountville, CA,  are indeed planting their own fruits and vegetables, largely those that are indigenous or proven to be the heartiest and healthiest of plants within a region.  Fish farming is getting better by being more dependent on the natural diet of the fish rather than pellets thrown to them in tanks.
       The idea that anyone can afford to waste food, to throw the leftovers out and not to utilize every stalk of a vegetable, every morsel of meat and bone in a steer, and the ground-up shells of seafood to make mineral-rich fertilizer is becoming a thing of the past.
     

 Organizations like the Monmouth Conservation Foundation make it possible to maintain the critical link to the land that creates awareness of how man and nature interconnect, intertwine and depend on each other for sustenance and survival. Its stated objective is “to preserve land by determining how a property will be best preserved and utilized so the public-at-large benefits.”
       Given the availability of quality food, humanely and sustainably raised locally—Cape Cod oysters, Hudson Valley quail, shad roe, springtime’s ramps, Long Island potatoes, New Jersey tomatoes and a perfect round of Vermont goat’s cheese—I feel sure that somewhere Henri Soulé is smiling.

 

 

Richard Pierce squinted in the low light if the club, rose from a leather couch and said, “Alessandra! Good to see you. Let me introduce you to. . ."––he turned to the young blonde woman in après-ski clothes still seated––what was your name again, darling? Eva, right? Yes, this is Eva. She’s from Austria.”

       Baldassari shook hands then introduced Katie and David, saying, “Kate is a well-regarded journalist from American and David is her assistant.”

       Baldassari did not give their last names, but Pierce said, “You look familiar, Katie. Whom do you write for?”

       Katie hated to give that up but replied, “McClure’s,” then quickly added, “I’m here to do a story on Americans in St. Moritz.”

       “Ah, well, you’re out of luck with me. I’m South African, though I went to school in the States. First, Boston College, then Amos Tuck.”

       “Very good schools,” she said. “I went to Fordham.”

       Pierce turned to David and asked, “And you work for the magazine also?”

       “No, I’m retired. I’m just along for the ride with Katie. I’ve never been to Switzerland before, so I thought here’s my chance.”

       Katie had little doubt that Pierce knew exactly who she was but hoped his father had not alerted him to the Epstein story. Pierce said, “Let me get you some Champagne. Alessandra, I believe you drink Taittinger? And you two?”

       Katie and David said Champagne would be fine. Pierce leaned over the bar and ordered a fresh round.

       Katie tried to divert, asking Eva what she did.

       “I work for a fashion designer in Vienna.”

       David quickly said, “Ah, one of my favorite cities,” recalling the time he’d spend there with Katie while on the Harry Lime story.

       “You know it?”

       This gave Katie and David a way of turning the conversation away from Pierce and into mere small talk. Having now met Pierce, she was intimidated in a setting he seemed perfectly comfortable in while she felt very much out of her depth. But Pierce turned the talk back to Katie.

       “I assume you know my family is in the publishing business?” he asked. “I’ve been part of it for some time now, more on the financial side than the editorial.”

       “Yes,” said Katie, smiling, “your father is a well-known figure in publishing. Is he more closely aligned with the editorial side?”

       Pierce laughed, “He tries not to be, but he can’t help putting his hand in it sometimes. He drives his editors crazy. You should meet him.”

       This unexpected invitation came so suddenly it disarmed Katie.

       She fumbled a bit and said, “Well, I mean, I’m sure your father has better things to do than meet with a reporter on a story about Americans in St. Moritz.”

       Pierce leaned in and said, as quietly as the noise in the room allowed, “Oh, I think you have done a lot of very important stories in your career. You’re something of a legend among your colleagues, aren’t you?”

       David had to stifle himself from jumping in and backing Pierce’s opinion up, deciding it was better to let Katie handle the situation. But he wondered how Pierce had  so immediately identified a woman named Katie with the award-winning journalist Katie Cavuto. Baldassari was watching the interplay with both professional and personal interest.

       Katie smiled and responded, “Modesty forbids me to answer, Richard.”

       “Let me tell you something, Katie. My father has enormous respect for true journalists who do the hard digging and come up with serious stories everyone reads and all the other reporters envy. I really think my father would love to meet you. Maybe he’ll steal you away from McClure’s to work for one of his papers or magazines.”

       Katie knew that sounded suspiciously flattering after knowing Pierce for only five minutes. Baldassari was glancing back and forth between the two of them, while David kept his eyes on Pierce.

       “My father almost never comes downtown—such as there is one  in St. Moritz—but we have a chalet up mountain, and if you have the time, perhaps you could come up there and meet him. We’re here for a few more days.”

       There was a pause all around, then Katie smiled again and said, “That sounds like a delightful idea, Richard. When would be convenient?”

       “I’ll check with him. Since these are the last days of our being here on vacation, I know he is itching to get back to work. How about tomorrow, around four PM? And of course bring David. I think he may enjoy seeing the chalet.” It was evident he was not inviting Baldassari.

       Katie said that sounded fine and shook hands, which brought the conversation to a close, as Eva whispered something to Pierce and he apologized for having to go somewhere.

       “Another club?” asked David.

       “No, no, we’re about done for this evening. So, see you tomorrow. Ask anyone how to get to our place.” He then turned and moved to another part of the club.

       “Well, that went well,” said Baldassari.

       “I guess it did,” said Katie, then, after a few moments, “Alessandra, can we go somewhere where we can talk in quiet?”

       Baldassari had suspected there was more to Katie’s desire to meet with the Pierces and ushered them out and back to their hotel. There, before the fireplace (left), with no one else around, Baldassari ordered coffee to the three of them, and said, “So, what is it we need to talk about, Katie?”

       Katie took a deep breath and told her the real story of why she and David were in St. Moritz, including the alleged murder.

       “I suspected something like that,” said Baldassari, “when you asked me about Jeffrey Epstein. But what do you expect the Pierces to say? They’re not going to just talk to you about Angus’s appetite for young girls.”

       “No, but I might make them very uneasy and, knowing David and I know already, he might reveal more about his relationship with Epstein.”

       David added, “And he might be very wary of trying anything to get rid of us if he believes everything we know is sitting on Katie’s editor’s desk right now.”

       Baldassari shook her head. “This is very serious. And frankly, if all of this comes out, it’s something I would have to address in my own columns. ‛Special tastes’ is one thing, but murder is quite another. We haven’t had anything like that here in a long, long while, at least not among the upper class people who come here. Many years ago some German baron murdered his wife, then killed himself, and that was the whole topic of conversation for the season.”

 

      

 © John Mariani, 2024