We are what we eat

in Musings Raves by Julie Glassman — July 17, 2011 7:56 pm | 2 comments

By Julie Glassman.

Who’d of thought that one of the best meals I’d have in the Los Angeles area—perhaps anywhere—would be about as far away from the world of Silverton, Puck, Fenniger, Batali, Andres, Lefebvre, Keller, Bayless, Bastinach, Ramsay, Goin, Colicchio, Matsuhisa, and Tracht as humanly possible?

I mean let’s face it, where we eat says a lot about who, even what, we are. And as a card-carrying foodie—big-name, big-chef matters a lot. Restaurants—their menus, owners, investors, chefs, interior designers, ingredients, and clientele have become a very big deal. Especially to us city-folk looking to bolster our cocktail party blather, blog content, food porn pics, and Foursquare check-ins.

What restaurants serve and how, when, where, who and why its prepared has taken on new meaning and fervor to customers; sliced and diced by tastes, preferences, socio-economics, ethnicities, values, ethos and ethics. Local, organic, molecular gastronomy-ed, raw, sous vide, amuse bouche’d, house-made, artisanal, vegan, gastro pub’d, small batched, fairly traded, house-grown, hand-pulled, grass-fed, free ranged, low and slow are here to stay and more important than ever before. In food, as in nearly all products and services, everything you say and do matters. Albeit bloated, stylized and sometimes absurd, food has become all about brand.

So, how is it that in my big-city world, dominated largely by the brand of eating and drinking—my best-ever meal was not in LA, or for that matter a big name restaurant, at all? Rather, my food nirvana exists in the San Gabriel Valley—a tiny, Asian-immigrant enclave due east of downtown LA, and worlds apart from Osteria Mozza. Even more confounding, is that my California-honed palate was turned upside-down by, of all things take-out-boxy, Chinese food? A cuisine nearly extinct, within the red-roped Los Angeles city limits, other than the steadfast Beverly Hills institution, Mr. Chows.

The name: JTYH (huh). The food: from the Shanxi Province (located somewhere between Mongolia and Beijing and nowhere near an eggroll or a fortune cookie). The look: linoleum and asbestos. The experience: crazy delicious. The price: ridiculously cheap. The brand: non-existent. Which is exactly my point.

The San Gabriel Valley lives in a brand-less world. One based entirely on culture, family, heritage. A world that’s never heard of Philippe Starck or Kelly Wearstler, and wouldn’t give a shit if they had.

You’d think I’d hate this place. I’m a brand girl after all. But I adored it, treasured it, coveted it. Sometimes, who you are and what you’re all about speak for themselves. No bells, no whistles, no celebrity guest lists, no liquid nitrogen. Nothing but the pure charm and unexpected delight of authenticity.

With little more than a fabulous meal, I am now a San Gabriel Valley enthusiast, explorer, historian, loyalist. I will go again and again (and then some). I will convert my friends. I will even find a way to imbue it into my clever cocktail party repartee. You see, I was enchanted by the unencumbered, unfussy, unscathed, unselfconscious, unapologetic brand of brandlessness—and sometimes that’s just what you need to get the job done.

 

Tags: Beijing Beverly Hills brand Chinese Food Fair trade Food porn Foodie Foursquare Free range Gordon Ramsay Grass-fed House-made Joe Bastianich Jose Andres JTYH Restaurant Julie Glassman Kelly Wearstler Ludo Lefebvre Mario Batali Molecular Gastronomy Mongolia Monterey Park Mr. Chow's Nancy Silverton Nobu Matsuhisa Osteria Mozza Phillipe Starck Rick Bayless Rosemead San Gabriel Valley Shanxi Province Susan Fenniger Suzanne Goin Suzanne Tracht Thomas Keller Tom Colicchio Vegan Wolfgang Puck