Ruth Reichl transforms a nostalgic memory of her father's hatred for vegetables into a profound meditation on how culinary culture, agriculture, and ethics have radically converged over the last half-century. This is not merely a recipe collection or a travelogue; it is a sharp historical critique of how the definition of "health food" has shifted from a punchline to a pinnacle of gastronomy, all while weaving in the urgent moral questions surrounding what we choose to eat.
The Evolution of the Palate
Reichl anchors her argument in a vivid personal narrative, contrasting her father's visceral rejection of early vegetarianism with the current renaissance of plant-based dining. She recalls the early 1970s, when a health food emporium was a place of horror for meat-eaters, noting how her father "came staggering out looking particularly pale" after encountering soy-based meat replacements. This anecdote serves as a microcosm for a broader cultural shift. The author writes, "You can imagine his horror, therefore, when he discovered that the only restaurant within walking distance of his new office was a health food emporium." By framing the past through her father's eyes, Reichl highlights how alien the concept of delicious, sustainable vegetarianism once was.
The piece gains significant depth when Reichl connects this personal history to institutional changes in the food world. She references the opening of Greens in San Francisco in 1979, a restaurant that was "truly revolutionary for its time" because it was part of the San Francisco Zen Center. The author notes that "the wonderful Deborah Madison, who has gone on to write so many seminal cookbooks, was the restaurant's first chef." This specific historical touchstone is crucial; it grounds the abstract idea of "vegetarianism" in a concrete movement led by spiritual practitioners and serious culinary artists, rather than just diet restrictions. Critics might argue that focusing on high-end restaurants like Greens or the current temple cuisine of Jeong Kwan ignores the struggles of everyday vegetarians, but Reichl uses these examples to illustrate the trajectory of quality, not exclusivity.
"I looked up again and saw that I was now passing the very spot where the health food restaurant once stood. Peering through the window into the restaurant that has replaced it, I saw smiling people sipping wine as they ate light, fluffy salads that looked like jewels."
The Moral Weight of Eating
The commentary shifts from nostalgia to ethics when Reichl addresses the flood of letters regarding animal cruelty, sparked by a previous piece on Icelandic cod. She invokes David Foster Wallace's famous essay, quoting his observation that readers of culinary magazines "wish to think hard about it, either, or to be queried about the morality of their eating habits." Reichl counters this assumption by revealing that the readership did, in fact, engage deeply with the issue. The author writes, "It turns out that our readers did, indeed, wish to think hard about the issue: we got hundreds of thoughtful letter."
This section is bolstered by a conversation with a chef who is considering going vegan for both health and ethical reasons. When Reichl asks, "Even cheese?" the chef replies, "Even cheese," offering a "startling list of ethical reasons for that decision." This moment is pivotal because it moves the argument beyond health fads into the realm of moral imperative. The author uses this to suggest that the barrier to vegetarianism is no longer availability or taste, but a willingness to confront uncomfortable truths about food production. The narrative suggests that the modern diner is increasingly aware that their plate is a political and ethical statement.
Temple Cuisine and the Art of Attention
Reichl then transports the reader to a meal prepared by Jeong Kwan, a Buddhist monk and celebrated chef, offering a masterclass in sensory attention. The description of the meal is not just about ingredients but about the philosophy of preparation. The author describes the use of 15-year-old soy sauce that the monk brews herself, noting it was "dark, complex and mellow with a lingering flavor that echoed in your mouth long after the sauce itself was gone." This detail underscores the theme of patience and tradition that defines this cuisine.
The menu itself challenges Western assumptions about vegetarian food, featuring ingredients like "ailanthus (which is also known as 'tree of heaven')" and "deodeok," or bonnet bellflower. Reichl explains that the chef "eschews all alliums - no garlic, no onion, no scallion - but she has no fear of either sweet or heat." This specific constraint highlights the creativity required to build flavor without standard aromatics. The author describes a dish of "grilled deodeok and deoduck with pine nut" as "remarkable: simultaneously soft and slightly crisp, tinged with the taste of sesame oil." By focusing on the texture and the specific, often overlooked ingredients, Reichl argues that vegetarian cuisine offers a depth of flavor that meat-heavy diets often obscure.
"This is the entire meal in a single bowl: flavors that whisper instead of shout, asking that you listen carefully with all your senses."
The piece briefly touches on the historical context of these ingredients, referencing the deep roots of Korean temple cuisine and the specific preparation of "mook with buckwheat." The author notes that "mook, or muk is a soft substance with the texture of taro that can be made from almost any starchy substance." This technical detail serves to demystify the ingredients, showing them as accessible yet sophisticated. The inclusion of the "balloon flower leaf" and the specific mention of the "tree of heaven" (ailanthus) connects back to the broader theme of utilizing the full spectrum of the plant kingdom, a concept that has evolved significantly since the days of her father's "sad salads."
Bottom Line
Ruth Reichl's argument is most powerful when she bridges the gap between personal memory and global culinary ethics, proving that the "health food" of the past has matured into a sophisticated, morally conscious cuisine. The piece's greatest strength lies in its refusal to treat vegetarianism as a sacrifice, instead presenting it as an expansion of sensory and ethical possibility. However, the focus on elite, temple-style dining risks obscuring the everyday accessibility of plant-based eating for the average person, a nuance that could have been further explored. Ultimately, Reichl delivers a compelling case that paying attention to our food is the first step toward a more humane and flavorful world.