Wallflower at the Orgy Read Free Page B

condemns anyone who writes a cookbook containing untested recipes. Colleagues who break the rules and succeed are hailed almost as if they had happened on a new galaxy. “Paula Peck,” he will say, in hushed tones of awe, “broke the rules in puff paste.” If the Food Establishmentarian makes a breakthrough in cooking methods—no matter how minor and superfluous it may seem—he will celebrate. “I have just made a completely and utterly revolutionary discovery,” said Poppy Cannon triumphantlyone day. “I have just developed a new way of cooking asparagus.”
    There are two wings to the Food Establishment, each in mortal combat with the other. On the one side are the revolutionaries—as they like to think of themselves—the home economists and writers and magazine editors who are industry-minded and primarily concerned with the needs of the average housewife. Their virtues are performance, availability of product, and less work for mother; their concern is with improving American food. “There is an awe about Frenchiness in food which is terribly precious and has kept American food from being as good as it could be,” says Poppy Cannon, the leader of the revolutionaries. “People think French cooking is gooking it up. All this kowtowing to so-called French food has really been a hindrance rather than a help.” The revolutionaries pride themselves on discovering short cuts and developing convenience foods; they justify the compromises they make and the loss of taste that results by insisting that their recipes, while unquestionably not as good as the originals, are probably a good deal better than what the American housewife would prepare if left to her own devices. When revolutionaries get together, they talk about the technical aspects of food: how to ripen a tomato, for example; and whether the extra volume provided by beating eggs with a wire whisk justifies not using the more convenient electric beater.
    On the other side are the purists or traditionalists, who see themselves as the last holdouts for haute cuisine. Their virtue is taste; their concern primarily French food. They are almost missionary-like, championing the cause of great food against the rising tide of the TV dinner, clamoring for better palates as they watch the children of America raised on asteady diet of Spaghetti Os. Their contempt for the revolutionaries is eloquent: “These people, these home economists,” said Michael Field distastefully, “—they skim the iridescent froth off the gourmet department, and it comes out tasting like hell.” When purists meet, they discuss each other; very occasionally, they talk about food: whether one ought to put orange peel into boeuf Bourguignon, for example, and why lamb tastes better rare.
    Although the purists do not reach the massive market available to the revolutionaries, they are virtually celebrities. Their names conjure up a sense of style and taste; their appearance at a benefit can mean thousands of dollars for hospitals, charities, and politicians. The Big Four of the Food Establishment are all purists—James Beard, Julia Child, Michael Field, and Craig Claiborne.
    Claiborne, a Mississippi-born man who speaks softly, wears half-glasses, and has a cherubic reddish face that resembles a Georgia peach, is probably the most powerful man in the Food Establishment. From his position as food editor of the
New York Times
, he has been able to bring down at least one restaurant (Claude Philippe’s Pavillon), crowd customers into others, and play a critical part in developing new food tastes. He has singlehandedly revived sorrel and cilantro, and, if he could have his way, he would singlehandedly stamp out iceberg lettuce and garlic powder. To his dismay, he played a large part in bringing about the year of beef Wellington. “I hate the stuff,” he says.
    In his thirties, after too many unhappy years in public relations and the armed forces, Claiborne entered the Lausanne Hotel School to