Your book (The United States of Arugula: How We Became a Gourmet Nation) charts a revolution in the way America eats.
What was it Americans discovered?
Think back to just a generation ago, to just how monochromatic it was. I'm 40 years old, and during my childhood, it really was just iceberg lettuce and Wonder Bread and individually wrapped slices of cheese. I remember when my mother took me to the original Dean and DeLuca, and just seeing the possibilities of what food could be—dozens of kinds of soft cheese instead of just one hard cheddar. Even croissants were exotica in the '70s, and now they're as common as toast.
I've used a Beatles metaphor: I was too young to experience the rapid progression from Hard Day's Night to Rubber Soul to Sgt. Pepper, but I've been fortunate enough to go through it with food.
How much fun did you have writing this book?
A lot of fun. I got to talk to a lot of chefs and tastemakers—I write for Vanity Fair and GQ, so most of the cultural figures I interview are more guarded. Food people are mostly used to being interviewed for the food pages about the way they cook; they're seldom asked about what makes them tick. They're thrilled to be asked about their motivations. And then, sometimes unbidden, they'd drop in these great stories about sex, about drugs—about the conflation of the gastronomic appetite with other appetites.
Your book has a couple of pages about the Vegas food scene. What do you think about what's happening here?
On paper, theoretically, it's a great thing. I'm all for the democratization of great food; I'm not one of those people who has a bug up my ass about franchising. But I think the execution has been mixed. My friend Alan Richman, who writes about food for GQ, recently did a piece on Vegas restaurants, and he quotes Charlie Trotter, the great Chicago chef, who says that if a chef's Vegas restaurant operates at 80-85 percent of his namesake restaurant, that's pretty good. Alan's argument is that it's more like 50-60 percent. And that's the problem.
But I have to say that it's a marked improvement over the old pejorative, clichéd idea of Vegas dining, which is the buffet, with food served from aluminum trays over cans of Sterno.
Let's turn to another book: There's a new history of Spy magazine coming out. You got your start there 20 years ago. What're your thoughts on it all these years later?
I was just looking through the book, and it makes me a little melancholy. Twenty years later, it's not just another curio that raises a small smile—it makes me really proud to have been part of what [editors] Kurt Anderson and Graydon Carter created. It was great to be part of something that was all-new, something that was done with panache and flair.
You know, people talk about Spy's broad cultural influence—how the blogosphere is a descendent of Spy and The Daily Show is a descendent of Spy. But Spy had an elegance and breeziness that I don't think has been carried off by any of those inheritors of the mantle. It really is amazing.
The influence of Spy is all over my book. It's got a lot of marginalia, a lot of footnotes—not scholarly annotations but fun facts, tidbits. That's a direct inspiration from Spy.
Okay: Emeril. Puck. Steel cage. Which one comes out alive?
The unconsidered answer is that Emeril, with his bulk and volatility, would be the easy winner. But you have to remember that a steel-cage match is as much about quickness and cunning as it is about strength. And Puck is nothing if not cunning, even-tempered and durable. Emeril is talented, but easily provoked; his eyes welled up with tears when I broached the elitist perception of him as "schlocky." So I'd have to go with the Austrian.