Food against itself

Words by Lameah Nayeem

The first time I experienced fine dining was at Corso Brio, a self-proclaimed acolyte of “sublime gastronomical offerings” and “new wave dining.”

“How is everything, madame?” A waiter asked when he noticed I had only taken a single bite of my meal (a generous term for five pieces of tortellini).

I smiled earnestly. “It’s wonderful.” He wandered away. I turned to the others at my table and stated, “It tastes like shit.”

“Looks like someone came on it, too.” Someone quipped back.

Whatever force had permitted the questionable, but excitingly liberal drizzling of white sauce was surely the same one that possessed Paul McCarthy in Bossy Burger. The video is all the more compelling as a critique on gustatory aesthetics after the experience at Corso Brio.

McCarthy upheaves everything I think I know about art, appearing unapologetically grotesque. It features the artist preparing a meal in a haphazardly filthy kitchen, though it remains suspiciously ambiguous. Growing up in a culture where the value of food is deeply venerated, McCarthy’s video borders on sacrilege. He rebels against the sanctity of food — beyond that, he redefines it as an organ of artmaking. Interestingly, haute cuisine remains diametrically opposed to McCarthy’s aesthetic vision, instead elevating food as an aesthetic tool to achieve status.

For some, the term ‘haute cuisine’ is synonymous with ostentatious presentation. At its conception in 1600s France, food presentation epitomised excess. Under Napoleon, Chef Antonin Carême rose to prominence for integrating architectural concepts in his plating, often in mimesis of famous monuments and buildings. During the 20th century, Auguste Escoffier embedded elaborate presentation into the identity of haute cuisine, but by the

1960’s, ‘nouvelle cuisine’ emerged in revolt. Contemporary food aesthetics shifted to modernism, embracing simplicity and minimalism. Nouvelle and haute cuisines have merged in recent years, but the concern for artistry remains.

Though the presentation of haute cuisine capitalises on artistic techniques, it demarcates itself from art in avoiding the provocation of visual gluttony. Instead, the beauty of haute cuisine seems occupied with a sterile, austere sense of detachment. In classifying itself as an abstraction, haute cuisine blurs the lines between art and food without fully adhering to either.

Peter Gilmore’s ‘Snow Egg’, for instance, had risen to meteoric popularity after its creation on MasterChef Australia in 2010. Until it was removed from Quay’s menu in 2018, it accounted for 70% of all dessert orders, enjoying a lengthy reign as the restaurant’s premier epicurean delight. A significant factor of its success and popularity can be attributed to its appearance in the show’s season finale, but what led to its initial fanfare?

The intricate preparation of maltose biscuit and ice cream produces a dish that masquerades as something it’s not. At Quay’s sister restaurant, Bennelong, the food is what one would expect of archetypal haute cuisine: large plates boasting negative space, filled only in the centre by experimental substances vaguely resembling things you’d see in a grocery store. The pavlova comes to mind as one of the more architectural dishes as — in true Carême fashion — it loosely imitates the Opera House. Its swan-like panels exemplify that the food itself is not inviting pleasure, but the conceptualisation of spectacle. So we might ask: are we eating food or consuming art?

Low cuisine, however, has a far more straightforward purpose. Low cuisine appears utilitarian in its use of cheap, readily-available ingredients.

Mise en place — the highly methodical setup required before cooking commences — is suspended in favour of mass-produced foodstuff stored in plastic containers. The desire to confuse art with food seems dubious within the confines of a styrofoam takeaway box — a street food signature. The distinction is clear: where haute cuisine seeks to innovate and elevate, low cuisine seeks to feed.

The stigma revolving around low cuisine is particularly rooted in Orientalism. Contrast the Western world’s insistence on self-indulgent dining utensils with the Eastern world’s use of simpler instruments, such as chopsticks or our bare hands. Kickin’Inn, a seafood restaurant chain, resides in the blind spot of these dynamics. They characterise the antiaesthetics of dining norms, insisting that their customers don plastic aprons and gloves to feast upon seafood that is dumped unceremoniously onto their tables.

Even for an establishment that prides itself on a McCarthy-esque feast, featuring splattered curry and prawn heads, there is a fault line. The act of wearing these items defeats the purpose of defying the aesthetics of consumption. One might attempt to engage with the anti-aesthetics of dining, but cannot entirely commit. This could be to avoid being perceived as ‘barbaric’ or ‘primitive’ with the fear of being seen eating with ungloved hands — a normality in South Asia.

It’s a common feeling to linger before an artwork in a gallery. We have an innate desire to savour and to relish. It’s intriguing how the same does not necessarily apply to food. We admire, we eat, we lick the crumbs off our spoons. The aesthetics and anti-aesthetics of food are not lost on us. High and low cuisines exist to be transient, regardless of the method of presentation. And, like the painting in the gallery that momentarily seizes us, our eyes sometimes wander back to our empty plates, craving more.