Food and Class

Food and Class

Introduction

When I was 8, I told my best friend’s mother, Sandra, that fat people are usually poor. This was the result of my own mother’s well-meaning attempt to educate me on the growing obesity crisis. I had squirmed in the movie theater for two and a half hours, forced to sit through a documentary detailing food deserts and food chemistry, the fast-food industry and slow-enacting policies. My mom, who grew up on Hostess donut holes and Wonder Bread in the dirt-cheap section of San Diego, was desperate to pass on her legacy to her only child, who developed a taste for pâté and caviar at age 1 and refused to eat leftovers. (“Again? Ri-dic-ulous!” as my parents often quote my first words.) This history was lost on me at 8, and though I was able to grasp the general concept of the system whereby the lower classes are denied healthy produce, the accuracy of my expression was hindered.

Sandra, who was a mother of two, a full-time biochemical engineer, and was overweight simply from lack of free time, was understandably offended by my statement. Needless to say, my best friend and I gradually stopped spending time together. At the time, I thought that it was my fault for saying something wrong, but looking back, I see that parents have a tendency to judge children by their perception of the child’s family. My mom’s intentions had been misunderstood, and although she apologized and explained herself, there was no forgiveness for her.

Past

There’s something incredibly personal yet universal about our relationships with food. We all eat and we all taste, though some claim to have more taste than others. As can be illustrated by the common reaction to fries dipped in mayo, taste has the power to trigger the most primal instincts: disgust or hunger. Consequently, we take pride in our taste. Taste becomes a source of polarization; whether pineapple belongs on pizza, for example, has long been a subject of heated debate.

Perhaps this is why Wanda Coleman deliberately appeals to comfort with the food in “Angel Baby Blues.” The poem’s central conflict is that Coleman demands wings–the American Dream she was promised, and the reward many impoverished Americans are told to expect in return for hard work. However, Coleman finds herself unable to leave, tied down by her history.

It’s no surprise, then, that in her reference of food, she uses examples of the quintessential American experience. “drive-in movies cheeseburger pizza popcorn hot dog joy (havin’ a fat attack)” (689). This list of food is representative of Wanda’s participation in American culture, and especially Los Angeles culture. The first drive-in movie theater, in fact, was invented in LA (Abramovich).

In contrast with American burgers, Coleman also presents us with cheap Mexican street food to the same effect. “i remember tacos hawked from vendors’ wagons for 10¢ habla Inglés” (688). The Spanish phrase, ironically, is “speak English.” It’s unclear, punctuation-wise, whether this is a statement or, as it’s more commonly formatted, a question. It could be a reference to the way cultures are often forced to assimilate to American culture, or simply a sample of the interaction described as a customer requires translation. In both the examples of burgers and tacos, there is a promise of cheap consumption.

At the same time, these examples are a source of nostalgia for Coleman and the reader. Even as she’s sick from overeating, she describes her American binge as “joy.” There is a paradox of pain and happiness in her consumption, parallel to her feelings towards Los Angeles.

Reading Coleman’s work, I’m infected by nausea myself. Much like her, I connect fast food to a simpler time, but it’s one I cannot recall myself. Unlike Coleman, my mother made it out of the neighborhood where she grew up. Fueled by scholarships for writing and chemistry, she constantly battled both racism and sexism in the growing field of computer science in the 90s. After college, she secured work as a computer engineer in toxic, white-male dominated tech companies before transitioning into management and finding her niche in reorganizing startups. Today, she can afford more than Hostess donut holes and Wonder Bread–we once took a trip to Italy just to taste and retrieve a new bottle of balsamic vinegar. My mother has collected her wings and achieved the American Dream against all odds, but she still attributes her success to luck. Luck that she was able to attend a magnet school, that she took a chance on computer science.

In raising me, my mother felt that it was her job to ensure that I had more opportunities to eat healthy meals than she did at my age. She’d keep track of how many desserts I’d had each day, confronting me with limits. I grew up memorizing an informal handbook of what is appropriate to eat: ice cream either in a cone or with one topping. Soda once every other day, but not on the same day as another dessert. Two slices of pie, but never three. When I graduated high school, I received a lanyard of candy. My mom let me keep three and tossed the rest out.

But once every other month or so, we’d visit McDonald’s and get fries and soft serve. Ever since I can remember, I’ve known this was a special event. My mom wouldn’t complain about the ice cream being too sweet or how much oil was in the fries. In fact, most of the rules I was typically concerned with ceased to exist for the meal. Instead, my mom would quietly reminisce about the days before she had to grow up.

Every day, my mother answers the follow-up questions implied by Wanda Coleman’s “Baby Angel Blues.” Even if you do get your wings, now what? How do you raise a child with the same values as you when she hasn’t had to work as hard as you have?

Even when she’s controlling, I understand my mom’s viewpoint because I understand her history. I’ve inherited her survivor’s guilt, but I know I can’t fathom what she went through in order to provide a better life for me. Poverty itself is traumatic.

Present

The topic for this final paper came to me about two Fridays ago after watching a sneak preview of The Menu. Ralph Fiennes, Anya Taylor-Joy, and Nicholas Hoult star in the timely movie about high-end dining and its purpose. The Menu asks these questions: What happens to art when it loses accessibility? Who are givers and who are takers? Is the high-end customer relevant? Packed into the James Bridges Theater, UCLA students almost unanimously reacted to the movie with glee. In The Menu, we watch the downfall of the upper class structured as a high-end menu.

Like most students at the event, I stayed for the interview featuring cast member Aimee Carrero and producer Betsy Koch, moderated by Scott Mantz. I was lucky to have a seat in the front row; Aimee Carrero almost tripped over my boot on her way to the stage. The three hosts bantered about inspiration and production. Aimee Carrero shared her favorite scene from the movie. Her character, Felicity, is doomed to burn amongst tax frauds and an adultering husband. As she prepares to accept her fate, she asks, “Why me? Why do I deserve this?” to which the chef responds, “Which university did you attend?” “Brown,” she answers. “Student loans?” “No.” “I’m sorry, you’re dying.” Carrero explained that even though her character didn’t directly hurt anyone as others may have, her lack of participation is essentially complicity. To Carrero, she deserves to burn.

The interview continued with an open Q&A to members of the audience. One high-achieving film nerd, desperate to prove that he was in on the industry, asked about food production for the movie. Producer Betsy Koch answered with a laundry list of technical terms, followed by insight into the cuisine team. The food itself, she said, was designed by Dominique Crenn. I audibly gasped.

There is little quite so humbling as realizing you are the target of criticism in a movie about eating the rich.

Dominique Crenn’s first project, Atelier Crenn, is a French restaurant with three Michelin stars. It costs approximately $450 per person, not including add-ons. Though I last ate there over five years ago, I still remember the joy of cracking open dessert: a perfectly recreated coconut of thin chocolate layers and coconut cream. When it was first presented, I was convinced with every fiber of my being that it was a real brown coconut. Then I was given a spoon. When asked what my favorite restaurant is, I tend to answer with Atelier Crenn.

Of course, it’s an incredible privilege to know what to expect from a Michelin three-star meal, but the way my parents explained it to me, affording a fancy meal was much like saving up for a Christmas present: it’s only a matter of prioritization. However, after watching The Menu, I can’t pretend I’m not the subject of the movie–I’ve been a customer at exactly the sort of restaurant it’s based on. 

I admit that it would be easier to handle this socioeconomic identity crisis if I hadn’t been so sheltered growing up. My parents’ approach to introducing me to their finances was simply not to. This is understandable, to a certain extent; I don’t think children are capable of comprehending million-dollar estates because they don’t interact with objects in that price range. In hindsight, my parents were probably rightfully concerned about corrupting me or giving me a sense of entitlement at an early age. The result, however, is an embarrassing lack of understanding of finances. I still have very little concept of what various houses are worth, what my parents pay in mortgages, or how much money my parents have saved or invested. I remember watching Titanic as an elementary schooler and asking my parents which class our family would be. Ever since, I’ve received the vague answer that we’re “upper middle class.”

I recognize that ignorance on this scale is a privilege. Many of my friends know exactly how much money they need to make to put themselves through college and live their weeks according to bank statements. I’m incredibly lucky that I don’t need to think or worry about my finances at all, and it’s precisely because of this privilege that The Menu is such an important film.

The Menu forced me to confront the privilege I have the luxury of ignoring in day-to-day life. Much like the character Felicity, I’ve been oblivious in my security, and I need to recognize that if I want to avoid being morally burned alive, I need to have better cognizance of my financial situation. Contrary to current movie trends, The Menu indicated to me that what we need is not feel-good media, but feel-bad media. The twenty-first century needs a replacement for good, old-fashioned stoning. 

Future

Despite the fiasco with Sandra, I think my mom had the right idea on how to impart the values of empathy and class consciousness. She enrolled me in public school so that I’d be exposed to peers of different socioeconomic backgrounds and encouraged me to be open to the viewpoints of others. Even though I may not have fully absorbed the information of the documentary, it helped me to be more empathetic with the overweight kids in my grade.

I’m still growing as a person and as a functional member of society; what else is college for? As I do so, I think it’s important to continue to read poetry and watch documentaries and movies, but also to have open discussions about the media.

Reading “Angel Baby Blues” would not have been nearly as effective or impressionable had we not talked about it in English class. I remember being lost as I read it the first time, then the second. Even though I could recognize glints of meaning and references in the poetry, the overall concept didn’t make sense to me. My Reading Journal was a scattered mess of bullet points. It was only after a lengthy debate about what Coleman’s wings represent that I began to formulate my own thoughts as to what “Angel Baby Blues” was truly about.

Similarly, I would never have realized that I had personal connections to The Menu without the Q&A session. The detail that Dominique had designed the menu would have been nothing more to me than a faint familiarity with the dishes. Art is nothing without an audience, and some might argue that the conversation surrounding art is more important than the art itself. What makes “Angel Baby Blues” and The Menu so commendable is their ability to inspire action.

Most importantly, my journey with food and classism has taught me to be expressive, even if I’m wrong. After all, if we don’t make the claim that fat people are usually poor, who will correct us?

Sources

Abramovitch, Seth. “Hollywood Flashback: L.A.'s First Drive-in Opened on Pico Boulevard in 1934.” The Hollywood Reporter, The Hollywood Reporter, 17 Aug. 2020, https://www.hollywoodreporter.com/movies/movie-news/hollywood-flashback-las-first-drive-opened-pico-boulevard-1934-1306922/. 

Ulin, David L., and Wanda Coleman. “Angel Baby Blues.” Writing Los Angeles: A Literary Anthology, Library of America, New York, 2002.