Some people don’t eat food, they consume calories or
celebrate a lifestyle; other don’t drink an alcoholic beverage but consume
units or allow the glass or bottle in their hand to magic up some imagined
personal achievement (‘You deserve a…’). Before the fork hits the plate the
question is asked: how fat will I get; before the glass hits the lips, the
question is asked: how drunk will it get me? Come Dine With Me could turn into Come Die With Me if the wrong fats are consumed, while MasterChef is more masturbate than masticate. Cookery books
everywhere but fewer are said to be able to cook unless it’s some creation they
treat with the same fetishitic approach of a Victorian gentleman’s obsession
with cleanliness (nothing annoys me more than loud people in a deli telling all
and sundry about their knowledge of this or that artisanal
bread/cheese/condiment — I feel that they’re not interested in eating as so much in telling
the world how much they know and next year they will move on to whatever
attracts their magpie-like penchant for shiny things).
Foodies (how I loathe that word, especially when it’s
self-proclaimed) write about the passion with which they approach eating and
cooking, but what does that mean? For me, whenever I read about someone howling
that they cook (or eat or even brew) with passion, it seems such an empty,
throwaway phrase — anyone can do something with passion even car park
attendants or house burglars though doing something with passion doesn’t
necessarily mean that it will turn out well either (I wonder if intelligence,
energy and expertise would be better adjectives — the intelligent cook or
brewer would more likely get my vote). I love food and cooking and eating it
but I have no liking for food fashion — I have no real interest in the Hestonisation
of cooking either, but on the other hand I don’t want to be stuck in a mire of
shepherds’ pies and liver and bacon. It’s food and I like all of it and after a
stint spent in Spain, Italy or France where food is there to be enjoyed without
an accompanying bogeyman in the shadows waiting to make you fat, I always feel
a bit disheartened on my return to the UK.
Hold on a minute though, this is supposedly a beer blog and
I’m writing about food (with a couple of cursory mentions of brewing thrown
in). However, here’s the beer moment: what I’m trying to grapple with in the
manner of my inner Giant Haystacks, what I am trying to understand, is what I
see as the growing fetishisation of beer (that’s fetishisation as in an
excessive and irrational devotion or commitment to (a) particular thing rather than anything to do with gimp masks and god
knows what else). My evidence? I think about the Holy Grail-like hunt for new
varieties of hops, the more New World the better; the spillage of words that
goes hand in glove with the debate of is it craft or not; beer evangelism (I’m
waiting for the emergence of the Beer Salvation Army with its associated
newspaper WortCry); the campaign
for this, the campaign for that; beer for her, beer for him, beer for that
bloke with a funny hat.
So what people will say, beer is noticed, taken seriously,
respected, talked about — which is all very true and I am not advocating that
people stop doing any of the above, but what concerns me is that there is
emerging a predilection in dealing with beer that all too often gives it a
arcane, fetishitic glow on a par with trainspotting (I’m not advocating banning
that either, but on the other hand…). It’s beer for heaven’s sake, a glowing
creature of many colours and shapes, bringing with it a thousand stories of
history, people, moments, lives lived and loves lured into the room where a
warm stream of wort (golden, amber, chestnut, the darkest night where vampires
from Venice meander, take your pick) starts its journey to our glass. Sometimes
it’s just there to be devoured rather than debated, and on other times it
brings with it its own tales and states of being and people’s journeys. These
thoughts are all very random at the moment, but they were kick-started by a
couple of things: a recent holiday in Spain where my enjoyment of many cold
cans of Alhambra Especial was more of a pleasure sensation than a flavour
experience and reading about an upcoming book called You Aren’t What You Eat by
Steve Poole.
As I have said I’m currently grappling with this subject and
you could argue that all I’ve done is add to the fetishitic nature of what I’ve
drawn attention to. Maybe I have but on the other hand it’s something I felt
needed to be written and as a writer I cannot help but scratch that itch. All
thoughts welcome.
