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Why I eat
Illustration: Lip Wei

Why I eat

The Time Out KL food critic talks about her love of food

Written by
Surekha Ragavan
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When I was asked by my editor to write a piece about myself, I knew it would be a struggle. Questions spun in my head such as ‘Who would have the time to read something as meandering as my story?’ followed by ‘How do I condense all my feelings about food in words?’ before I eventually graduated to ‘Is there an app to highlight self-righteousness in my own writing?’ But here goes, my semi-awkward diary entry about the many ways I love food, and how they affect my food writing.

I never quite had a pivotal childhood moment that pointed me in the direction of food. In fact, my love for it began in my late teens with a litany of failures in the kitchen. There were many overcooked chickens, and many emergency pizza runs. But from the age of 19 onwards, I became besotted with the idea of mastering a dish; I loved finding out why the one method was used over another. A young Jamie Oliver, puttering about the kitchen with his Essex-boy charm, catapulted this inquisitiveness. His ‘Ministry of Food: Anyone Can Learn to Cook in 24 Hours’ was my first food book, a bible I studied front to back for tips on consistently silky scrambled eggs, weeknight fajita dinners and ten-minute pasta fix-ups. Confidence ensued. 

Fast forward to present day, my collection of food books is far more varied. I’ve romanticised the food book as sensual bedtime material, a source of hope before hitting the sack. All I need each night is a snippet of the life of Nigel Slater’s herb garden; or have Marion Cunningham change my mind about yeasted waffles; or listen to Alice Waters school me on tender leaves. It’s my lullaby before bed, the looming, intangible prospect that all of the world’s problems will be solved by way of an heirloom tomato salad. 

I was also smitten with the idea that so much in cooking is justified by logic and fact, specifically in baking. I still find it oddly empowering that heating a combination of flour, sugar and butter in a controlled temperature could bring about something as wonderful as a cake. I like to look for ways to improve flavours, textures, colours. For that, I adore Harold McGee, his composure, and his ability to break down everything we know about cooking with science. I too adore Adam Liaw, whose food philosophy is ingrained in the ‘whys’ rather than the ‘hows’. 

When it came down to the things I liked to read, I had always rooted for the home cook over the chef, the ingredients over the technique. It isn’t a competition, but more an indication of the things I like most about food books. Deborah Madison heightened my love affair with vegetables; Dorie Greenspan demonstrates that baking is best paired with a zero-fucks attitude; April Bloomfield inspired in me a basic, almost primitive love for produce; and Robyn Eckhardt taught me that food eaten outside of the home is best eaten on the street. I looked up to them dearly, and I was certain that I needn’t entertain the Éric Riperts or the Marco Pierre Whites, the ‘seminal’ menfolk telling everyone what to eat and how to eat it. 

Then, Anthony Bourdain’s ‘Kitchen Confidential’ landed with a thud. It would become the one book to calamitously change the way I viewed the food industry at large. I would swallow in the realities of merciless sexism, the ruthless corporations behind most of everything we eat, the shameful treatment of meat, the snorting of white lines across kitchen counters. It was extreme. It was terrifying. It was heartbreaking. To this day, I owe all of my cynicism as a food writer to Bourdain’s account of the industry’s barbarism. 

Since my tainting, I’m of the belief that everything is a fad until proven wrong. To me, terms such as ‘eat clean’, ‘detox’ and ‘superfood’ are not only dangerously misleading, but also plucked out of thin air by a frenzied team of marketers. Eating our veggies has become a moral issue rather than a health one, magnified by the illusion of social media. I could sit here writing operas about kale, but food trends seem unnecessary in a world where eating a balanced diet shouldn’t be as convoluted as it is. 

food books 
Food for thought (clockwise from top left): 'Eat' by Nigel Slater, 'Kitchen Confidential' by Anthony Bourdain, 'Ministry of Food' by Jamie Oliver, and 'On Food and Cooking' by Harold McGee. 

This is not to say that I’m disenchanted with food (damn you, Bourdain!). I don’t think I foresee myself to ever be. But I’ve come to be okay with the fact that food can be different things to different people. There are no boundaries, and therefore, no repercussions. Which is why food criticism is such a touchy subject, even to this day. Unlike say, film criticism, food criticism suffers a bad rep – it’s sometimes still perceived as ‘first world’ whining disguised as journalism. 

People often ask: What is the meaning of a food review? Is food criticism relevant in the presence of so much hunger in the world? Which lord bequeaths critics the right to conclude that one restaurant is better than another? Are all critics pompous, moustached men who suspiciously lift chardonnay to their narrow lips? 

But really – without patronising fellow food critics – there’s no need for us to be taken as seriously as we are. Mostly, we aim to entertain. To have a favourite reviewer with whom you share a preference of taste is well and good; but to accordingly place all pressures of a good restaurant experience on a single review is frankly, a bit out-dated. On the flipside, writing food reviews shouldn’t be inconsequential. A food critic should want to constantly learn, which in turn will produce more educated, sometimes more enjoyable, material. 

I’ve often been asked if I get jaded. Hell yeah I do. There have been days where I categorically simplify everything into ‘animal’ or ‘plant’. There have been many multi-courses that taste like one immensely forgettable course. There have been sick days from overeating. And even for someone who is as enthusiastic about food as I am, there have been many, many ‘meh’ moments. 

But they only make the standout dishes even sweeter. Sometimes, you eat something and you’re not going to remember how precise it was, but you’ll remember how it made you feel. One such instance struck me at Dewakan, where something called a ‘forbidden porridge’ was bestowed upon me*. It was pulut hitam bathed in a mushroom consommé, a broth made from kitchen scraps. It stirred in me a deep comfort, a strange sense of familiarity, a longing to grasp at a past that wasn’t there anymore. It made me feel things. But the oddest thing was, I had never eaten anything like it before. 

There were other occasions in less grandiose settings. The banana leaf rice at May & Mike’s Corner, the assam laksa from that nameless stall in Weld Quay, the fried eggs at Restoran Muar. However, I wouldn’t challenge anyone to a duel if they disagree that Bunn Choon is a darn solid place to buy an egg tart. Because I’m learning that judging food arbitrarily can be a beautiful thing, but mostly because it leaves me with more tarts. 

And then there are also the lovely people you plant in your head. Yes, there have been ‘celebrity chefs’ who rock up for interviews with egos the size of emu eggs, and talent the size of quail eggs. But I’ve been lucky to speak to so many others in between: People who make food as a means to live, people who set up businesses to make a difference, people who just really, really like food. It’s an inspiring cluster of characters, all with varying notions of wisdom. Us food writers are human, and so are the people making our food. Which is what makes food and the writing of it so varied, and subsequently, so damn exciting. 

But until I learn to properly, sincerely celebrate the idiosyncrasies, the differences, the hundreds of ways one exploits the term ‘fusion’, I don’t think I’ll ever have enough of food. I’d rather not spend my nights thinking about the ways food limits me if I can spend them devouring Ruth Reichl’s mythical food haikus, or permitting Mimi Sheraton entry into my dreams. 

*The forbidden porridge has been removed to make way for Dewakan’s new menu. Why la, Darren Teoh?

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