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259 pages, Hardcover
First published May 5, 2015
A hundred years ago, a typical tomato plant was twelve feet tall and carried four or five ripe tomatoes at any one time, with a few green babies still weeks away….A tomato plant now tops out at six feet and carries as many as ten ripe tomatoes at once. That’s too many….It doesn’t have enough leaves to power all that fruit, so it undergoes the plant equivalent of a brown-out. Like a frantic parent, the plant fills its fruit with the only thing it can: water. And the tomatoes taste like what they’re filled with.
The food problem is a flavor problem. For half a century, we’ve been making the stuff people should eat—fruits, vegetables, whole grains, unprocessed meats—incrementally less delicious. Meanwhile, we’ve been making the food people shouldn’t eat—chips, fast food, soft drinks, crackers—taste ever more exciting. The result is exactly what you would expect.
I was upset—outraged, actually. I felt disgusted, hurt, disrespected, pissed off, alarmed, baffled, depressed, and bewildered that industry doesn’t care about real flavor.This surplus of verbiage happens a few other times in The Dorito Effect: The Surprising New Truth About Food and Flavor; this just happens to be the final one in the book, not special or more egregious than the others. To excerpt more than one would run counter to the complaint that a tedious pile of synonyms is unnecessary; it doesn’t add emphasis and it isn’t clever unless you’re writing a title for a children’s book. It is, however, a bellwether for the type of writing that abounds within the pages. Even the titling was an irritant; the marketplace is flush with overzealous, unsupported shock subtitles. The Dorito Effect is surprising only in its lack of depth, new only in anecdote and supposition, and replete with truth only if you are incredibly cavalier with definitions.
Food is complicated. And when a species that delights in one-word answers faces a problem as complex but crucial as food, the result is not surprising: a decades-long kangaroo court in which we keep putting the latest evil nutrient on trial. The truth is, it would all be so much simpler if it really were just sugar’s fault.Yes, food is complicated. And so is people’s relationship with food. The European Food Information Council conducted a study into food choice; among the six determinants, biological determinants such as hunger, appetite and taste were but one. Under economic determinants there were cost, income, and availability; under physical determinants access, education, preparatory skills such as cooking, and available time—for both shopping, nutritional research, and cooking all played a part; culture, family, peers, and meal patterns all fall under social determinants; mood, stress, and guilt were investigated under psychological determinants.
Speaking of deliciousness, if humans really are calorie zombies, then shouldn’t Big Macs, ice cream bars, soft drinks, and the caramel fountain at Golden Corral be the very pinnacle of culinary gratification? And rich people should all be fat because, as the calorie zombies with the biggest wallets, they can afford the most calories. (Statistically, they are skinnier.) The restaurants that serve the most expensive and, one presumes, the most pleasurable food are not filled with extraordinarily obese clientele in the throes of epic food binges. Fine restaurants feature trim diners, a good deal of whom do not seem to be in it just for the calories. They order small pieces of raw oily fish that, it just so happens, feature brain-healthy omega-3s. They relish just-picked asparagus, say, or sautéed langoustine next to pearly drops of emulsified oyster sprinkled with crumbled seaweed. As they eat these expensive small portions, they do not sit there silently fending off cravings for stuffed-crust pizza and bottomless Dr Pepper. Given the choice between oily raw fish and stuffed-crust pizza, a striking percentage would opt for the fish. The line cooks in fine restaurants—men and women who have devoted themselves to the pursuit of gustatory joy—have unfettered access to food in the top 1 percent of delectability, and yet, strangely, they keep their consumption in check. If it’s corpulence you want, you won’t find much of it at a restaurant with a three-month wait for reservations. You will find it at Denny’s.Ignoring the fact that langoustines are garbage-eating ocean bugs that were only the purview of the poor two-hundred years ago and have been rebranded as a delicacy by the very industry that “doesn’t care about real flavor,” the author discusses two times where he himself opts for the maligned “pinnacle of human cuisine”:
I find myself continuing to consume certain foods even though I am no longer hungry. It happened again at a McDonald’s in northern Vermont, where, on a family road trip, we pulled off the highway and I ordered a Big Mac, Coke, and medium fries, and downed all 1,120 calories in maybe three minutes. I wanted more.He went went to fast-food restaurant with his family on a road trip because it was convenient and he has young children; standard to the point of being clichéd. This could have been the opportunity for the book to discuss the social reasons why McDonald’s might be relevant to our culture—hungry children, financial concerns, travel-based ignorance of local cuisine, ease of access—and instead he chooses to write a personal anecdote to how he ordered another burger and then, looking at all the overweight people in the McDonald’s, threw it away in disgust after eating only half. The very essence of an insubstantial story, the written equivalent of “empty calories.” The next anecdote has enough similarity to the first that and a writer who less interested supporting his pre-established theory may have contrasted the two and unearthed some interesting questions:
Forty-five minutes earlier, I had pulled off the interstate in Palo Alto to satisfy the need state of extreme hunger. I pulled in to a strip mall and grabbed a slice of pizza, a standard North American corruption of too much crust and industrial mozzarella. It tasted good going down, but the megaload of carb and fat induced negative post-ingestive feedback and I pulled back onto I-101 feeling bloated, exhausted, and mentally fogged.The 101 can be a food desert—why not make mention that access is a crucial aspect of diet, much like in the McDonald’s story? The author was on a trip in a car and couldn’t find any other food; a pattern is emerging around the convenience of being able to feed yourself when you’re away from home. Yet failing to plan how to eat isn’t a failure of “the flavor industry;” it is an endemic issue of a society that is always in motion, or a symptom of a lack of time in the traveler—to research healthy options, to pack a lunch—or a physical restriction because there simply isn’t enough of a demand right off the highway to support anything other than pizzarias. The Denny’s jibe—“you will find [corpulence] at Denny’s”—further underscores that it is not ignorance of the socioeconomic impact on diet and nutrition at work in The Dorito Effect, but an active contempt:
Because what the heirloom [tomato] has also proved is that extraordinarily flavorful ingredients are expensive. The reason, alas, is yield. Even if every one of us from the lower middle class right on up to the 1 percent spent more on food to pay for those heirloom tomatoes, strawberries, corn, wheat, and chickens that cost $30—a never-gonna-happen if—we still wouldn’t have heirloom flavor in the quantity we need. There isn’t enough land.The colloquial “never-gonna-happen” phrasing makes it seem like a folksy choice to be frugal rather than a necessity based on circumstance or mental state or—harkening back to the author’s own car trips—convenience. And the specter of impossibility—that we do not have enough arable land to feed the world—is mentioned more than once:
The story of the last fifty to one hundred years of agriculture is the story of massive, world-changing leaps in yield. The explosion in productivity has been so miraculous there’s even a term for it: the green revolution….What, you might wonder, are plants replacing all those nutrients with? If we’re harvesting millions of pounds of broccoli and that broccoli has less calcium and magnesium in it, what’s taking their place?With nary a hint of foreshadowing or an iota of acknowledgement that these statements will be completely contradicted near the conclusion of the book, it appears obvious what The Dorito Effect thinks about industrial agriculture versus small-scale, heirloom produce. And then, abruptly:
Harry Klee has delivered the best news in agriculture since the Chicken of Tomorrow contest: Yield does not have to come at the expense of flavor. The tradeoff between quantity and quality, the two most defining traits in agriculture, is not a zero-sum game. You can have both.So you can have your cake and eat it too. All of that talk about pricing out the poor and running out of land were scare tactics, meant only to further shine the golden halo of industrial solutionism. That’s simply despicable. To make such a tactic palatable, all that was required was to mention—during the fearmongering scenes—that there may be a solution already in the works. But rather than add an honest clarity to a sincere concern, The Dorito Effect spends its time lingering over its cake—making the reader think that only smaller portions of “real” food can save the planet—until, voila, you can have industrial agriculture after all!
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Tomatoes didn’t get bland as a direct and unavoidable cost of crop size getting bigger. The got bland because in the race to breed big crops that were disease resistant, hardy, and made it store shelves without getting bruised, flavor just lost.
The quest for deliciousness is the fuel that powers the behavior, the god that breathes life into the machine. Animals eat what they need because what they need tastes good.
I am not referring to obscure, wincingly bitter herbal remedies from the Amazon sold in stores by people who think fluoride is a conspiracy.