I guess the first thing is the culture. Food has become an icon with which we’ve cultivated relationships — not around, but with. We immerse ourselves in the experience, dissecting what happens in our mouths with insight that is disproportionate to the subject at hand.

There’s a word for this in Yiddish. It’s called fress. And every child will tell you, with a shudder, that Yidden don’t fress.

In the secular world, foodie culture makes sense. When there’s no Torah in one’s life, bodily pleasures push themselves front and center. They become a calling.

You know where fress happens?

At Leil Shishis.

At vacht nachts.

At Melaveh Malkahs.

At kiddushim.

At occasions where Jewish life is elevated and celebrated.

Yapchik and cholent and fermented coleslaw on Thursday night don’t elevate. Open bars and sushi or carving stations at a vort don’t invite the Shechinah to our party or beautify Yiddishkeit.

We have lost an element of dignity. Which leads me to my second thought: tzniyus.

Is it just me, or is there something innately private in the act of eating? We always knew that ha’ochel bashuk domeh l’kelev. No, we are not mandated to hide out when we eat. On the contrary, Jewish life revolves around seudos spent in the company of family and community. But when we eat together, our comportment is naturally refined. We don’t bite into bread that is bigger than a k’zayis. We don’t talk with food in our mouths. We control our impulses because we have bushah; it’s our nature.

But over the last decade, it feels like some of this bushah has gone up in the July and August barbecuing smoke.

We see it in print ads, in commercials, on food shows and blogs. People are no longer shy about being caught eating on camera. Why? How? Do they really feel comfortable biting into a corned beef sandwich leaking fried onions and sour pickles and sweet chili and hot peppers with the whole world watching?

Before I started writing serials, I used to write copy. I enjoyed the work, but with so many of my clients in the food industry, I developed a quiet repulsion. Not with the idea of marketing food; that’s essential for word to get around. My unease was about the choice of language. The analogies and associations. A menorah formed out of a cow’s flesh. A person diving into a tub of ice cream. There is something off-putting in the promotion of food in this fashion. It’s not… Jewish?

Then there is the obsession.

Yes, I like good food. I appreciate a creatively plated dish. I invest effort in making the food I serve taste good and look appealing, and when I’m feeling up to it, you’ll even find me patchkeh’ing with glazes and toppings and garnishes.

But when this delight goes further — when the fascination turns into a level of mania — what’s the deal?

To which lengths will we go to achieve that perfect crunch?

How critical will we be with a dish that doesn’t come together one thousand percent?

This obsession is rooted in the unmerited publicity that food has been awarded. Whereas in the past we would cook for our families, these days, we cook with the optics in mind. Because surely the entire world is waiting with bated breath for a glimpse of my lime-and-thyme-crusted-whatever-
kabobs.

When we share pictures of our food and tablescapes with thousands of followers, we feed this obsession. The task of cooking loses its meaning; there is no wholesomeness. Instead of reveling in the pleasure of feeding our children, we revel in the feedback of nameless, faceless admirers.

You know what else happens with all this sharing? Our grocery bills climb frighteningly high. Because all those “You-must-try-this-it’s-insane!!!!!” ideas that friends share call for ingredients you usually don’t have in your house. Over time, you do have them in your house; specialty cheeses and chocolates, expensive nuts such as Italian pistachios, an assortment of sauces and rubs, fruits like durian that snub your primitive apples, exotic oils, and beverages that were once earmarked for special occasions. They become regulars on your shopping lists. And then new items crop up, new must-try-thises that you run out to buy.

If everyone is serving Dubai cheesecake at their Shavuos kiddush, how could you not? It doesn’t matter if the price isn’t justified or that you don’t even like it. This is what you’ll do because this is what everyone’s doing.

Recipes, with attractive pictures that tempt you to make the food come alive, can make it worse. What happens when you see a tip from a recipe writer: If you want to get away cheap, you can swap the rib for chuck steak?

I’ll tell you what happens. Your mind tells you: Chuck steak is completely normal. There’s something wrong with you if you don’t serve it on a regular basis.

Now you’ve been pushed into a corner. You will learn to add chuck to your regular rotation. (You will call it a rotation, or you’ll find yourself wiped off the culinary map.)

And your sister will have no choice but to do the same. Because if you’re doing it, it must be normal. Would she want to be anything other than normal? Would she deprive her family this way?

My neighbor shared a story with me recently, about a guy who called up a high-end steak house to order a meat board. “This is going to a person I do business with,” he explained. “He’s making a kiddush, and I want this board to stand out. What’s the most expensive board you can offer?”

The steakhouse owner told him $360.

“Hmm,” the guy hemmed. “Can we do something a little more special? I really want to impress this baal simchah.”

Can we? You bet we can. The farm’s the limit, tzaddik. It doesn’t take much — a few more rows of cured meats — and the price rises to $720. Anything for you, sir.

Guess what? The next person who calls this steak house and requests the most exclusive platter is immediately offered the new and exclusive price: $720.

Thus, food is no longer just food. It’s become a status symbol, and guess what? It accepts this incredible status you’ve assigned it. And lives up to it.

Our cuisine has come a long way. We have truly mastered the finer points of cooking, and that accomplishment, in and of itself, is nice.

There are many areas where we work to master the finer points: business, parenting, even music. But those are all spaces of connection, places with purpose. Parnassah is how we support our families. Music is a neshamah thing. There’s no limit to where a song can take you. Parenting is our everything. It deserves our full investment.

But food? Food is a physical need. Like oxygen. Like sleep. It isn’t and shouldn’t be transforming anyone in any way. (Unless a person goes on a health quest and makes diet changes to optimize their well-being. That is not the purpose of this discussion. Although even health kicks are often fad-based, and often expensive. Very, very expensive.)

Can food serve a higher purpose? Absolutely. There are many ways to elevate the physicality of food. Cooking for others is a huge chesed; hosting guests, especially those without secure addresses, is highly admirable. Being careful with kashrus is fundamental to Jewish life.

But in the other direction, taking the physicality and raising it to highlight its physicality — celebrating the right level of tang, rejoicing in the infusion of flavors, severely criticizing a culinary imperfection, turning the concept of toameha into an opportunity to showcase one’s “breitkeit” through the means of meat boards and fine drinks — that’s elevating food onto a pedestal where it doesn’t belong. That’s fress.

Chefs aim for authenticity in their dishes. Yes, using fresh, high-quality ingredients matters, and chefs should take this duty seriously. I’m not here to advise them to lower their standards.

But a mushroom, let’s acknowledge, will always be a mushroom. Meat is meat, even if you call it “proteins.” Carrots — no matter its rainbow of color — are still carrots.

They are not gedolei Yisrael. They are not a set of seforim. They are not worthy of our fanatic adoration.

There will always be a random food product having its moment. From sushi to sourdough to Dubai chocolate; jerky, alcoholic ice pops, acai, boba. Fine, it’s fun, it makes eating exciting.

But to get all dramatic and say, “I’m very into tuna tartare,” or dismiss a dish by saying, “I’m not feeling it….” What is it? What are you aiming to feel, except a good taste on your tongue that will be gone with the next sip of water?

Is the “authenticity” that has become so popular in foodie culture a tradeoff for the true authenticity of our cooking? Of the Yiddishe Mamme’s labor of love?

Or is it a means for growing numbers of followers? Of marinating oneself in the taavah ha’achilah? Of becoming famous for some new and overpriced “board”?

Cooking and hosting are inherent to our identity.

Going all the way back to Avraham Avinu. When the malachim showed up to visit him on the third day of his milah, he asked Sarah Imeinu to prepare a meal for his guests, and he got specific. He wanted to serve challah along with tongue with mustard.

Pretty gourmet, no?

Wonderful people have become famous for their foods. We have the classic Rebbetzin’s Cheesecake. We have Pshevorske Kugel. My own dear mother’s recipe collection was a prize we held on to after her passing.

But my feelings surrounding my mother’s foods are lost to subscribers of foodie culture. Growing up, the foods we ate were seasoned with love. My mother’s entire heart went into her oversized pots. She beamed when she watched her guests enjoy the dishes she served. But it all happened at home, at her table. And the food was only a means to an end, not an end in and of itself.

We are not our food and our food is not us. It’s a detail of life, not life itself. Why should we idolize food as though it’s some exalted being?

When we aim for perfection in food, when we delve into the deliciousness of food, when we immerse ourselves in this basic, animalistic need, where does that take us?

Shouldn’t there be a distinction between the purpose of food and the entire squeal factor we’ve surrounded it with? Does food really deserve the love and reverence we accord it?

You are what you eat. But is that really who you want to be?

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 970)