Last year at this time, culinary pundits were proclaiming that 1990 would be the year of the basics–the stews and casseroles we so fondly remember from our childhood. In fact, that much-heralded trend never got off the pot. Instead, our national obsession with cellulite and high-density lipids not only continued to hold sway, it increased in intensity, invading even the upper reaches of haute cuisine. When a restaurant like Seasons routinely serves margarine alongside the butter, you know the world is changing.
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The latest round of culinary chic seems to have been seasoned largely by two ingredients–fear and guilt. We have been cowed by cholesterol, spooked by salmonella, petrified by pesticides, and chastised to the point of distraction by antismokers and animal-rights activists. Lobsters, we’re told, mate for life and may live up to 150 years if they don’t meet their maker in a Newburg sauce. Squid form attachments and show genuine distress when separated from their significant others. One doesn’t have to be a vegetarian to be touched by the plight of veal calves, which are fed iron-deficient diets to keep their flesh white and tender and confined to boxes so small they can’t turn around during the few months they are allowed to live. Concern about all of the above plus contaminated eggs, alar, sulfites, parts per million of dioxin, and, and, and . . . has turned the once carefree pursuit of repletion into an obstacle course.
In: Margarine; minibowls of garlic-infused olive oil for dunking bread.
Soon to be trendy, we hope: Naturally raised veal so we can eat osso buco once again.
Still in and proliferating at an alarming rate: Trattorias.
Out: Wine coolers.
Out: Sun-dried tomatoes, kiwi fruit, baby vegetables.
