Taking food off of its pedestal
Every time the year turned anew, I’d make one big resolution. This year, I want to take food off of its pedestal.
Earlier this year I borrowed a book from the public library with a funny cover called Undercooked by Dan Ahdoot. Spoiler alert, this quote basically tells the book:
“When most people say they have an unhealthy relationship with food, they mean they eat too much of it or too little. When I say I have an unhealthy relationship with food, I mean it’s what gives my life meaning. That’s a really dumb way to live your life.”
As niche and ridiculous as it may sound, reading the book feels like reading the palm of my hand.
Since I was 14 years old, I watched through my screen how chefs stand tall with their pressed white jackets, picking through tiny herbs and placing them in the exact degree of the plate, against the protein; one tilts upward and one falls just a millimeter from the sauce dots. It’s so precise it’s almost like God already intended there, the herb belongs. I became obsessed with the imagery.
Some years later, when I finally had my own money, the only “self-reward” I’d drain my bank for was a table at some fine dining places. When I moved abroad for a bit, this belief turned into a mission. I figured I wouldn’t have the opportunity to have this much flavor in the palm of my hands ever again, so during my 10 months in New York, I ate at 110 different food establishments. And before you roll your eyes, I have the receipt.
But at some point in the quest, the thrill began to fizzle. I started getting critical instead, labeling most plates “delicious but not mind-blowing enough.” I have no idea where the need for my mind to be blown all the time comes from, but I chased it like a drug. And as my poor heart would find out later, it’s more rare than a common occurrence.
One night, I spent 3 hours dining alone at a $200 chef’s residency in what used to be a laundromat (very New York, I must say), with dishes including cod liver and raw lion’s mane mushroom. The flavors I never tasted, the plating was intriguing, and yet I left the restaurant feeling frustrated. I wanted to like it so bad, convincing myself that ’the food was too smart, it’s beyond me’. It had to be, right? I already spent ridiculous money on it. I was desperate. It ruined my mood for days.
And then there are times when my whole life is in shambles, and instead of looking for professional help, I used the little money I had left to book a table at a hip restaurant, thinking I would walk out of the restaurant a changed woman. I expected too much of it. I unfairly asked the dinner to flip my life over and satisfy my hunger for life.
But it’s just food.
Unfortunately, at the end of the day, it’s just food.
Just like Ahdoot, I realized this year that my love for food may have ruined my love for food. I put it too high up there on a pedestal. Food was my whole life. It very, unfairly, became who I am. When I had (what I thought) a boring 9–5 life, food was my edge. It was the only interesting thing about me. It’s my only pawn to connect with people. With food, I don’t need to reach too far. I don’t need to reveal too much to find common ground with people. Everybody understands food. It’s a cowardly act on my behalf, of some sort, if I have to be honest with myself.
Now that it holds too much power, it has ruined the fun of it.
This constant pursuit of the ‘extraordinary’ meal persisted even when I returned to Jakarta — a city racing to become a culinary hub, with hundreds of new shimmery spots popping up. I visited a good chunk, and yet I didn’t expect the satisfaction finally happened over a much simpler meal with my high school friends; a plate of crunchy perkedel jagung, fresh, acidic sambal dabu-dabu, and smoky collar of Tuna in a Manadonese restaurant with little to no media blowouts.
Come to think of it, when my friends here would ask me what’s the best thing I’ve eaten while in New York, what lingered was the Spicy Beef Noodles and Dumplings from Super Taste in Chinatown. That, or the $12 Halal-cart lamb rice parked in front of Grand Central I used to stop by at midnight after work. Nothing fancy.
Looking back, these meals share a common thread — they aren’t groundbreaking, but they are honest and real. More than anything, they are tied to unorchestrated moments. I didn’t beg them to be anything other than what they are— a good meal. They remind me that food doesn’t have to be revolutionary to matter.
Don’t get me wrong. Food is still high on my list of things (I mean, couldn’t you tell by how normal and casual I talk about it? ◡̈ ). But like everything else in life, it should never be the only one there.
I still, so desperately, adore those brilliant chefs’ minds. I still, very desperately, long to be one. But in that adoration, the grand presentation and alien-sounding ingredients had somehow gone down on my list. As I’ve eaten more and cooked more, I’ve come to appreciate the simple things — I began to understand how many hours and patience they put into a stock, or the restraint they put into a dish that I can taste each ingredient on its own without any veil of thousands of ingredients.
Now I’d like to think that when I savor a plate of risotto, I won’t try so hard to unearth some magical flavor underneath the pile of rice. Instead, I enjoyed it because 1) I know it took at least 30 minutes to make, with both hands can’t ever leave the pots during, (seriously, I mean it when I tell you if a person cook a homemade risotto for you, kiss them on their fucking forehead), and 2) it tasted good.
And that’s enough reason to enjoy it, I swear.
Food is a beautiful thing — it sustains life and can create joy — but it’s also just food. For years, I unfairly asked food to carry my happiness, self-worth, and identity. Now, I’m learning to let it be what it is: nourishing, comforting, and sometimes, if I’m lucky, extraordinary — but never my whole self. That feels enough. More importantly, that feels more fair.
