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American Way of Eating

Eating in America

The first Brooklyn supermarket I ever walked into had a cockroach in the deli. Not one of those stealthy critters stealing along the crevices in the floor, or hanging out backstage in dry storage. No, this was a proud-to-be-here New York City roach, crawling openly up the wall’s white tile before dropping, unceremoniously, onto the meat slicer below. I decided to skip the lunchmeat and headed for the produce aisle.

I sought out hard, pink tomatoes and pale spheres of iceberg lettuce, bags of Red Delicious apples and dusty sacks of potatoes. The contents of my grocery basket telegraphed my Midwestern upbringing. I’d been so busy putting myself through college by running errands for a fashion designer, tutoring rich kids, tutoring public high school kids, waiting tables at a barbecue joint, and a slew of other odd jobs that I hadn’t yet made the city my home. I paid for the food and, to save $1.50 on bus fare, walked ten blocks, about half a mile, home. As I piled the groceries on the counter, I told my roommate about the roach.

That’s pretty gross, he said. Maybe we can shop somewhere else?

But we never did. We were students, keeping rent low by living an hour from campus in a neighborhood thick with families headed by dishwashers and seamstresses, housekeepers and day laborers. Neighborhood signs were dotted with script in Polish, Chinese, and Spanish. If there were good ethnic shops I was too blind to see them; raised in rural Michigan, the only food stores I knew to look for were supermarkets. And the roach-in-the-deli was the only one we could walk to. We didn’t cook much, anyway. We were too busy.

All of this—the chore of finding food, the lack of time to do anything with it when we did, the indifference to our meals—was familiar. I grew up in a small town outside Flint. My dad sold lawn equipment for a living. My mom was gravely ill for nearly a decade. Most of my family’s time and money went to medical bills, and I grew up eating the kind of meals you’d expect from an effectively single working dad. Sometimes I helped make them, especially if it meant we’d end up with my favorites, like Tuna Helper, on the table. On nights when I couldn’t sleep, I’d page through my mom’s Good Housekeeping cookbook and bake cakes and breads to entertain myself while, ostensibly, helping out around the house.

We ate a lot of Helper meals and Ortega Taco Dinners when I was growing up, and I liked them. We had salads of chopped iceberg lettuce tossed with diced carrots, celery, wedges of tomato, and some Wish-Bone Ranch dressing. On weeknights, mashed potatoes came from a box, toast was brushed with melted Country Crock and sprinkled with garlic salt, and Miracle Whip held together the pasta salad. Sure, home-cooked and farm-fresh stuff was great. And sometimes we did eat like that. In the summers, my dad’s garden, a grove of vegetable plants spiking up through black plastic sheeting and an inch of weed killer, would let us feast on tomatoes and peppers cheaply. And most Sundays, when my dad had relaxed from his week, he’d throw a roast in the oven, boil some potatoes, and steam some vegetables. But regularly eating food that took that much time or money—or, most outrageously of all, both—wasn’t for people like us. It was for the people my grandmother described, with equal parts envy and derision, as fancy; my father’s word was snob. And I wasn’t about to be like that.

No, here in Brooklyn I’d do the same thing my family had done in Michigan. I’d make do with my culinary lot in life. If I didn’t have extra money to buy healthy food, or the time to prepare it, that meant the cheap and the processed. For a very long time, I couldn’t see it any other way.

Like all myths, the idea that only the affluent and educated care about their meals has spread not because it is true, but because parts of it are. Healthier food is more expensive; that much is true. So is the fact that it can be hard to find in poor neighborhoods. And yet it requires an impossible leap of logic to conclude from these facts that only the rich care about their meals. “Food culture in the United States has long been cast as the property of a privileged class. It is nothing of the kind,” wrote Barbara Kingsolver in Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. She may be right, but for most people—myself included—seeing good food as a luxury lifestyle product has been so deeply embedded in our thinking about our meals that we barely notice it. I didn’t until I met Vanessa.

I had been living in New York for nearly a decade, and was covering the poverty beat for a small magazine. I met people in welfare offices, child care centers, housing project courtyards, and after-school programs, and wrote stories about them; in doing so, I often ended up in their homes. I ate Jimmy Dean hamburgers in the kitchen of a fortysomething lady gang leader. I watched a Dominican home health aide run her four kids through math homework while spiraling the peel off an orange with a paring knife. I shared crackers and spreadable cheese during snack time at a child care center in a brownstone apartment. But I was there to write about welfare rules and crappy jobs, not food, so I hardly noticed it. What did food have to do with my work, anyway? The people I was writing about weren’t fancy. Neither was I.

For years, I insisted food wasn’t important to me. And yet, I had always made birthday cakes from scratch for my friends. In college, I shoplifted spices from an A&P to experiment with Indian curries. And while I kept my own grocery budget modest, my college years saw me working for an affluent family and occasionally cooking their dinner—leading me to stumble through a world of cookbooks and ingredients beyond Betty Crocker. In spite of myself, I started cooking fancy food: Moroccan stews, chicken breast and portobello mushrooms with balsamic vinegar, lentils green and red and yellow.

An internal debate began:

That’s fancy food, for fancy people. Just who do you think you are? said my Midwestern upbringing.

But did you taste that tomato, that cheese, those spices? replied the burgeoning New Yorker. It’s so worth it.

The Midwesterner always won, though, throwing down this gauntlet: Even if it’s worth it, I can’t afford to eat like that. I’d grown resigned to this annoyingly intractable debate over my meals. Fancy food was for the rich; box meals were for the rest of us, and there was no point in making a fuss about it. This idea was so ingrained in me that I never even bothered to see how much it would cost to cook better meals from scratch.

Vanessa was pure New York. She was short, still sporting a trace of baby fat, her tawny curls pulled into the same slicked-back ponytail as so many of the other girls filtering through the city’s high schools. Mouthy and freckled. Brown eyes glinting with mischief. Vanessa was also ambitious enough that she’d gotten into a paid after-school internship program in Manhattan. The only requirement to get the stipend was that she attend one of several classes offered by a youth services agency. She had chosen a cooking class built around themes of health and environmentally friendly farming, and that’s where I met her.

I didn’t want to write about the class. I wanted to be writing about important things like the city’s plan to close down child care centers. Or domestic violence programs that weren’t getting enough funding. I didn’t see the point in following a cooking class, much less one run by a young man who kept going on about yoga and greens and who—save for the fact that he was black—struck me as a well-intentioned hippie. I sat in the class, took notes, and paid extra attention whenever a kid declared a love of junk food or scowled at the mention of a vegetable.

Vanessa laughed in the first class, her brows raised matter-of-factly under a pink headband. “I love Popeye’s. I love McDonald’s,” she said, naming two spots near her home in Brooklyn. “I think Manhattan’s the best place for healthy food, but it’s expensive.”

Ronny, a rangy fourteen-year-old from Washington Heights, proclaimed his loyalty to McDonald’s, too. “I’m not going to change the way I eat. I’ve got to live my life,” he said, adding that he went there almost every day.

Good luck, hippie.1

I observed the class off and on for six months, and toward the end of it Vanessa agreed to let me come over to her house. She lived with her grandparents in a rickety two-family next to a vacant lot. Vanessa’s grandmother cooked for a nearby Head Start program, and at home she refused to cave in to her granddaughter’s taste for junk food. Instead, she fed Vanessa traditional Latin-Caribbean fare: pots of rice and beans, platters of plátanos, sticky and sweet.

“It’s kind of hard to eat healthy around here,” said Vanessa, and we went for a walk to Burger King, where she got a Whopper and washed it down with seven half-and-half creamers, grabbed for free out of the bin and squirted, one by one, directly into her mouth. This was not promising insofar as health went. But the more we talked, the clearer it became that Vanessa understood quite well that she should eat better. We were at Burger King for the same reasons her friends ate there almost daily: “They know it’s not healthy, but it’s what’s there and what’s easy to make.” Vanessa told me that, inspired by the health component of her cooking class, she had stopped eating fast food every day and tried not to have it more than three times a week.

Vanessa took me to the nearest supermarket, a member of the same chain that had managed my roach-in-the-deli store seven years prior. She surveyed the offerings. “It’s a lot of junk food,” Vanessa said, gesturing at the cereal, cookies, soda, Rice-A-Roni and everything else lining the interior aisles. “They really just have, like, normal stuff. The grapefruit is bad. The apples are medium all right. The tangerines are gross, the lemons, the limes.” Then she surprised me by professing, “I love tomatoes. I love broccoli and lettuce and peppers and onions.”

Vanessa spent the afternoon telling me about the importance of seasonality in produce and then eyeing a cuchifrito stand hungrily; lamenting the lack of a farmers’ market in her neighborhood, then reflecting that most people don’t have time for it, since they go shopping before and after work. And then she posed a question—half rhetorical, half the genuine inquiry of a child expecting an answer from an adult—“If you want people to eat healthy, why make it so expensive?”

Vanessa hadn’t said anything groundbreaking, she’d just made a series of observations that added up to the same truth we’d both grown up with: Eating poorly is easier than eating well. That’s why she was eating badly. Vanessa didn’t eat junk because she didn’t know better, or because her family didn’t cook, or because she didn’t care about food and health. It was just easier to find junk in her neighborhood, her city, her life. And for the first time in my life, I began to ask why.

Once I posed that question, I found answers everywhere. There were obvious ones, like the fact that good, fresh food tends to cost more, especially in cities, making it difficult, if not impossible, for folks of limited means to afford it. Or the fact that New York’s ubiquitous corner stores specialized in ice cream pints, Iced Honey Buns, and cola, not produce. These facts had been in the background of my entire life, but when I finally stopped to look at them, I saw this foodscape for what it was: an abandonment of America’s great promise, implicit in every tale of rising fortunes and opportunity from Thomas Jefferson to Barack Obama, that it would always feed its citizens well.

If I lived in a land of plenty, how could the activists be right when they told me supermarkets, even scrappy ones, simply didn’t open up shop in the city’s poorer sections? That hadn’t been my experience. I’d long since moved from my first Brooklyn neighborhood to a second, making my home at the edge of Bedford-Stuyvesant. This is the ghetto that birthed a lineage of black American culture from Richard Wright to Biggie Smalls, and a framed portrait of Biggie hung in our supermarket; neighborhood lore held that he had bagged groceries there as a kid. Leaning on a knob-topped cane and wearing a sleek black suit, this icon of New York rap looked out over shelves crammed with vegetarian options for rastas, halal ones for the Muslims, bottles of bitters for West Indian stews, and a wide swath of the Goya product line for Latinos. The produce didn’t look great, but it was passable; I could still eat. This, I asked myself, was a lack of options?

I lifted my head up, looked past my neighborhood, and asked harder questions: Where were the city’s supermarkets? How big were they? How many people did they feed? In the end, I compiled the first zip-code-by-zip-code guide to food access in the city, and it was true: Supermarkets were few and far between, and the city’s poor had the fewest. In the arty-turned-affluent neighborhood of SoHo, each resident had more than seventeen square feet of supermarket space to shop in. Ten miles north in Washington Heights, where Ronny lived, family incomes were one-third of their counterparts’ in SoHo—and they made do with one-half of one square foot of supermarket space per person, just 3 percent of what the SoHo-ites had. I had discovered what is now called a food desert: a community with insufficient grocery stores for its population.

How did this happen? Some grocery chains had joined the exodus known as white flight, heading for the suburbs after World War II and fleeing in earnest after the urban riots of the 1960s—taking with them all the systems for delivering fruits and vegetables into neighborhoods. Others had simply never planted their flag in urban soil, judging proposals for new stores by their likelihood of success in the suburbs—a method that made suburban neighborhoods, with high incomes, look like better bets than urban ones, where incomes were lower but there were far more customers to spend money. Either way, without big stores that would make big purchases, nobody had made a business of bringing fresh produce to the city’s low-income neighborhoods: not distributors, not wholesalers, not grocers. Even if corner stores wanted to sell vegetables, there wasn’t anyone to deliver the produce to them. If people wanted to spend their food stamps at farmers’ markets, they found themselves caught in a technological black hole: Paper stamps had been replaced by magnetic cards, and the clusters of tables in parks jammed with freshly picked collards and carrots didn’t have the technology to accept them.2

The more I looked out on this vast landscape, the less I recognized any of it. And yet I couldn’t stop looking, trying to figure out what had changed. Something had gotten under my skin and changed how I saw the world. And the first thing that I could recognize as truth in this strange new place was what I learned at Vanessa’s side: Everyone wants good food.

I’m not the only one who’s found a new world through food. In the last decade, a burgeoning fascination with our meals has swept popular culture, finding its way into nearly every facet of public life. This is a new era in American food culture, pairing the rise of the cult of the chef with a celebration of the home cook, the stylized instruction of the Food Network with DIY dinner parties. There are countless books and blogs and websites that chronicle food obsessions. Whole identities have emerged around the contents of one’s plate: locavores, flexitarians, Slow Foodies, freegans, and Chowhounds. Public figures of all stripes are drawing attention to eating well and living healthy. First Lady Michelle Obama has made childhood obesity her cause, encouraging us all to plant gardens, cook more, eat whole grains and fresh vegetables, get outdoors, and get some exercise. The cooking celebrity Rachael Ray has dedicated her nonprofit work to teaching kids and parents to cook and getting them to make better health decisions. Even Ted Nugent, an ardent pro-gun rocker best known for his 1970s anthem “Cat Scratch Fever,” urges his fans to grow and hunt their own food, get plenty of exercise, avoid alcohol, and make “optimum health job number one.”3 Meanwhile, a growing pantheon of food philosophers from Alice Waters to Michael Pollan is coaching us from the sidelines, reshaping the way America thinks about its food and establishing new ideals for what people should be eating and how it should be grown.

All of this begets an obvious question: How do we put those ideals within everyone’s reach? How do we transform them from luxury products into typical ones? How do we make a foodscape crowded with junk into an anomaly, and one flush with fresh, healthy food the norm?

We already know the stakes are high. Americans pay incredible costs—in terms of both our money and our health—for the way we eat. Obesity may soon outpace tobacco as the deadliest health threat in America. Today, nearly two-thirds of Americans are overweight or obese—a figure showing no signs of dropping. The resulting health problems, which cost the country $75 billion per year, are found most commonly among the poor, who account for 28 percent of the tab despite constituting only 16 percent of Americans. Yet, so far, the dominant interpretation of this information has been to lament Americans’ lack of understanding and commitment to our meals and health. “The main barrier between ourselves and a local-food culture is not price, but attitude,” writes Barbara Kingsolver, neatly introducing a dominant theme in America’s current food debates. “Career women in many countries still routinely . . . [head] straight from work to the market to search out the freshest ingredients.”

There’s another advantage other developed countries have when it comes to food cultures: money and time. Americans get derided for spending too little of both on their meals, usually with the observation that Americans spend about 13 percent of their take-home income on food, while the French spend about 20 percent. By spending more of their money on food, goes the thinking, the French have made food a priority—and they are also less fat. But it is also true that their government provides quality health and child care, higher education, and transportation at little or no out-of-pocket cost to its citizens4—not to mention mandating five weeks of paid vacation each year. The average American family may spend about 7 percent less of their paycheck on their meals than the French, but they also spend 7 percent more of it on education and health care. It’s not just a gastronomic culture that leads the French to prioritize their meals, but a political and social landscape that makes it much easier for them to do so.

Today, America talks about its food as a choice made from equal footing—a vote, if you will, with our fork. Under this logic, it’s as easy for me to choose to eat healthy food as for Vanessa, or for a rural migrant farmworker, or for a lawyer on the Upper East Side. If the decade that has passed since the declaration of an obesity epidemic is any indication, the primary strategy in use—repeatedly telling people, regardless of their income, to change their habits—has failed. Instead, we need to examine how to make it easier to eat well.

Easy comes up again and again—and it’s linked with good health choices as well as poor ones. For example, rates of obesity typically rise the farther people live from grocery stores—and for every additional supermarket in a census tract, fruit and vegetable consumption goes up by as much as 32 percent. Higher obesity rates correlate with spending less time preparing and eating our food. And when we make it cheaper (one form of easier) to buy produce, people do it. In 2010, farmers’ markets across the country began adopting a program to match food-stamp clients’ spending on local fruits and vegetables by up to $20 a week. In just the first year, food stamp spending at the markets increased by as much as five and six times—more than the matching funds would account for, indicating that people then supplemented the coupons with their own money, too. And 87 percent of clients say the coupons have enabled them to eat produce they would have otherwise done without.

So maybe we’ve been asking the wrong question. Instead of asking how to change our priorities, maybe we should be asking the question behind all of Vanessa’s ruminations: Why is it so difficult to eat well? A decade ago, asking this would have seemed tantamount to asking why the sky is blue. Today, it is simply the next logical step in the growing conversation about food and health.

Food has always been one of America’s great paradoxes. Even before the vast abundance of industrial agriculture came to bear on our meals, our nation’s affluent feasted on fresh vegetables and fine sweets while our poor made do with far less. In 1782, writing about the abundance of American agriculture, Thomas Jefferson noted that “the climate requires indispensably a free use of vegetable food. For health as well as comfort.” Yet Jefferson, who dedicated much of his 5,000-acre Virginia plantation to agriculture, noted that even as the wealthy landowners tended to thriving vegetable plots in excess of what they could consume, “the poorer people . . . [live] principally on milk and animal diet.” This state of affairs, he added, was “inexcusable.”

To be fair, food is only one of our nation’s paradoxes—our founding fathers proclaimed a free republic even as some of them owned slaves; we extended the right to vote to men but neglected to include the women—but it is perhaps the most stubborn. More than two centuries after Jefferson wrote of the inexcusable divide between the meals of the poor and the rich, we’ve yet to solve what food historian Harvey Levenstein has aptly dubbed the “paradox of plenty.” Put simply, our agriculture is abundant but healthy diets are not. The American way of eating is defined not by plenty, but by the simultaneous, contradictory, relentless presence of scarce nutrition in its midst. And though this conundrum may be seen most clearly in America’s extravagant harvests alongside our declining health, it is slowly taking root across the globe.

This intransigent paradox has spread by many means, first and foremost by our industrial agriculture. Focused on grain that can be morphed into an endless array of food products, and using chemicals developed by U.S. companies, the American way of growing food has found its way to the humblest of African villages and the most sophisticated of South American farms, deposited there by our aid programs, our philanthropists, and international institutions. The paradox continued to grow as other nations followed the trail of our supermarket system, once considered an American idiosyncrasy and now so common abroad that Walmart isn’t only the largest grocer in the United States, but in the world. And it has spread even further via processed foods—pioneered in American factories, kitchens, and board rooms—that rely on the cheap grain produced by our agriculture and are tailor-made for supermarkets and restaurants that demand shelf-stable foodstuffs. There are mounting pressures that may change all of this, intensifying climate change and declining soil health not least among them, but the pattern is unmistakably set: The American way of eating is on track to become that of the world, too.

In the pages that follow, you’ll find the story of my investigation into just how America came to eat this way, why we keep doing it, and what it would take to change it. I spent a year working undercover in America’s contemporary food system, from California to Michigan to New York, drawn to each place because I wanted to live and work inside three segments of our food system—farm, store, and restaurant—and learn how the whole machine works. I was looking, on one hand, to understand the internal logic that governs the movement of every apple and zucchini from the earth to a produce aisle and onto our dinner plate. Yet, to truly understand a system, you can’t just examine its structures; you have to look at its effects, too. I wanted to know how dinner gets on the table for American families, how the pressures of work and economy get translated into their meals. This was not, I had to admit, something I could learn from my cozy single-girl-in-Brooklyn apartment. And the best way—really, the only way—to do this was to leave my regular life behind for a little while and live and work among the rest of America. In each job, I lived and ate off the wages I earned, paying rent and buying groceries as if it were, in fact, my real life.

I started at the lowest end of the economic spectrum, as a laborer in the fields where a healthy diet begins: harvesting fruits and vegetables (the one dietary priority that everyone seems to agree on). Fruits and vegetables receive less than 5 percent of the $18.3 billion we allocated in 2009 for federal agricultural subsidies, but they are crucial for a healthy diet; California’s innumerable valleys are the cradle of their production, so that’s where I looked for work. I harvested grapes, I sorted peaches, and I cut garlic, moving around—like a lot of farmworkers—in the hope of finding better work and better housing. Almost a year later, I visited the place where most food ends up, in a kitchen—though the job I took, as an expediter at a Brooklyn Applebee’s, helps to produce a very specific kind of meal. I chose Applebee’s because it’s the biggest casual dining restaurant in America and the world, and because these kinds of restaurants are rarely equated with the fast food their meals so closely resemble.

Between the farm and the plate, I went to work in a part of the food system that’s been curiously absent from most of today’s food debates: the supermarket. I worked as a stock clerk in two Michigan Walmart stores, most notably one outside Detroit. When we talk about the problems with our food today, we tend to focus on how we grow it or what we eat. But there is another problem, just as big, that we tend to skip over: how we arrange for the food to get from the farm to the plate. And today, that role is played almost exclusively by supermarkets and supercenters, the latter being Walmart’s term for its stores that include a supermarket.

Today, supermarkets supply more than two-thirds of the food we eat at home while the rest comes to us via “nontraditional food retail” like convenience stores and supercenters on the industrial end of things, and farmers’ markets and community-supported agriculture buying clubs on the artisanal end. In 2009, farmers’ markets had grown to supply just over 1 percent of America’s groceries; Walmart controlled nearly one-quarter of America’s food supply, significantly more than the next three biggest competitors combined. This makes Walmart a massive produce locomotive, the single greatest conveyance delivering farm produce and myriad other products to millions of Americans.

It also highlights the fact that food is one of the only base human needs where the American government lets the private market dictate its delivery to our communities. When we build a new city, the public sector works to make sure that certain needs are met safely and affordably: roads, water, electricity, telephones. But, for reasons that are just beginning to be publicly questioned, America has traditionally done nothing to make sure there is also food in that new city. Food deserts are one result of this agnostic approach to food distribution, and as a city of 700,000 without a single national grocer, Detroit has become that problem’s reluctant (and in some ways undeserving) poster child. I lived there, commuting to a suburban Walmart—just as, I presumed, anyone living there might do for grocery shopping. The longer I stayed, the more I came to see that Detroit has as many lessons to teach us as problems to solve.

More than an investigation, though, this is also a book about how food works in our lives, how priorities around health and convenience and cost shift when resources are tight—and what we won’t compromise on even when they are. Truthfully, it’s mostly about how food worked, for a period of time, in my life, but it also traces the contours of the lives and meals of the people with whom I lived and worked. When I began this project, I was aware that much of the difference between myself and America’s working poor had less to do with economics than education and geography. My life as a writer is flexible, giving me the ability to take extra time with my shopping. I belong, by virtue of geography and free time, to a cooperative grocery store, which keeps my food both affordable and of unusually high quality. I work from home, so I can cook throughout the day—and doing so is easy for me, since I started learning to cook around age seven. I am also a childless adult, free to eat whatever I want, whenever I feel like it. Even before considering income, my daily food reality is very different from what’s available to most Americans whose incomes match, or fall beneath, mine.

That’s a polite way of saying I believed that the way I thought about food was so deeply removed from the “rest” of America that it would be foreign—inapplicable, even—once I descended the class ladder a few rungs. Implicit in that is the idea that the food culture I had chosen for myself was not only different from, but a little bit superior to, the others on offer throughout America’s kitchens. Like most armors, this hubris protected me from feeling as if I didn’t know what I was doing—something most of us need from time to time, and almost always when we leave home behind. But it also obscured my view and limited my movement. Eventually, I had to strip myself of it, and try to look at the world in a new way, asking the question, What would it take for us all to eat well?

I didn’t know; there’s no way I could have. But, luckily, I’m a reporter. What I don’t know, I can go find out. --Ce texte fait référence à l'édition Relié .

Revue de presse

“The book Ms. McMillan’s mostresembles is Barbara Ehrenreich’s best seller Nickel and Dimed. Like Ms.Ehrenreich, Ms. McMillan goes undercover amid this country’s working poor….This is a voice the food world needs.” —New York Times

"With much courage and compassion, McMillan explores the lives of those at the bottom of our food system. Here is a glimpse of the people who feed us—and the terrible price they pay. If we want to change the system, this is where we must begin." —Eric Schlosser

“Tracie McMillan is gutsy, scrappy, and hard-working—you'd have to be to write this book. The American Way of Eating takes us local in a new way, exploring who works to get food from the field to the plates in front of us, what they are paid, and how it feels. It's sometimes grim but McMillan doesn't flinch; I especially appreciated her openness in telling us what she spent in order to get by (or not). A welcome addition to the urgent, growing body of journalism on food.” —Ted Conover, author of Newjack and Coyotes

“These tales lay bare the sinews, the minds, and the relationships that our food system exploits and discards. In a work of deep compassion and integrity, Tracie McMillan offers us an eye-opening report on the human cost of America’s cheap food.” Raj Patel, author of Stuffed and Starved and The Value of Nothing

“To uncover the truth behind how our modern food system works, Tracie M. McMillan took jobs in a supermarket produce section, a chain restaurant kitchen, and the fields alongside migrant laborers. If you eat, you owe it to yourself to read this masterful book.” —Barry Estabook, author of Tomatoland

"McMillan provides an eye-opening account of the route much of American food takes from the field to the restaurant table." --Kirkus

“Three cheers for Tracie McMillan; this book is a revelation! It is the sort of engaging first person adventure story that reads like a good novel, all the while supplying the facts and figures that make the larger picture clear. I'm grateful to her in equal parts for the stamina and courage to undertake this undercover journey, the narrative skill that makes the account so digestible, and the commitment to social justice for both workers and consumers that infuses the whole project.” Janet Poppendieck, author of Free for All and Sweet Charity

"This is an amazing book. Tracie McMillan willtake any reader into new territory. The implacable fierceness offarmwork, the slovenliness behind the produce section at Walmart—prepare to besubmerged in harsh little worlds and shocked. But McMillan keeps hercool, always presenting the context and the content of her struggles withenough analytic detachment to rough out a complete, and convincing, vision offood as a social good. Read her book and your dinner will never look thesame."

--William Finnegan, author of Cold New World

“Tracie McMillan has written a remarkable book for right now—a book that smartly tells us what is wrong with what we eat and how we might improve it. But what is even more remarkable about the book is how deeply engaging it is. With her intimate and confident portraits of American food workers, she crafts a touching, emotional narrative that will stay with you long after you have finished the last page.” —James Oseland, author of Cradle of Flavor

“This is a wonderful introduction to the triumph and tragedy of the American food industry. Mixing compassionate participant observation with in depth, up-to-the-minute background research, Tracie McMillan takes us for an eye-opening, heart-rending tour of the corporate food chain. Along the way we meet unforgettable people who, at great personal cost, labor hard so that we can eat cheaply and easily. Having seen what it takes to move our meals from farm to table, the reader will emerge shaken, enlightened, and forever thankful.”
Warren Belasco, author of Appetite for Change and Meals to Come

“This book is vital. [McMillan] has the writing skills to bear witness, the research background to provide context, and the courage to take on the challenging task.” Los Angeles Times

“A compelling and cogent argument that eating healthily ought to be easier.” Cleveland Plain Dealer

“Clear and essential.” The Boston Globe --Ce texte fait référence à l'édition Relié .

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Amazon.com: 98 commentaires
108 internautes sur 114 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
Fascinating Adventure--A Woman's Journey Into What & Who Is Behind Our Food, How This Affects Us, Why We Should Care 28 février 2012
Par O. Merce Brown - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Relié Achat vérifié
The book reads like a novel, this first person account of the author's undercover journey into the world of the working poor in the food industry. The author is a remarkable storyteller, recounting all aspects of her adventure in a way that makes you feel like you are entering into her world and joining her and the other workers at each place she is employed. She covers what it felt like, how it was to live and work under harsh conditions, where she lived, the friends she made, the choices she was faced with by living on such a small amount of money. It is fascinating to be able to feel immersed in a world that perhaps few of us would voluntarily enter into, but that many of us find ourselves.

The author spends time harvesting grapes with Hispanic farm workers, harvesting peaches, cutting and gleaning garlic, working at Walmart (including in the produce department), and working at Applebee's. During this time the work is grueling--she gets injured and suffers heatstroke, experiences identity theft, and even is sexually assaulted. She is also taken advantage of repeatedly by her employers in so many creative ways that it's mind-boggling. The reader comes to understand and empathize with workers trapped in low-level jobs and see how hard it becomes to fight back and/or to move beyond a daily existence.

But this is not really just a memoir of an undercover adventure. It is another book as well, an important social commentary. It is not just about one woman's journey, but it is about our food supply. How it works, what drives it. How, "It is far easier to eat well in American than in most of the world but we've done little to ensure that fresh and healthy food is available to everyone." (pg 153) This book explores answers to the questions: "What would it take for us all to eat well?" and "What are the realities of food and eating in America, especially for the working poor?" It answers these important questions literally BY telling the author's story, and helps the reader to see why we all need to care about access to fresh and healthy food--to work for equality in so many areas besides food as well. It shows the reader how many of these social issues are inexorably linked.

For those who enjoy details (as I do) the book is painstakingly footnoted--the notes take up almost 40 pages of very small print. This was a good way to organize the book, as those who are interested can read every footnote of supporting information (as I did), whereas those who just want a good story can easily avoid all of the detailed information.

If you are interested in this topic at all, you will not regret reading this book. To find out more before buying, you can google the book's title and find the author's book web site; the book also has a Facebook page that you can find by searching for the title on Facebook.

Highly recommended.
89 internautes sur 99 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
This is the food book everyone should be reading 23 février 2012
Par Nick Twisp - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Relié
This book is so much better than I could have even hoped for. Sure, it has a fascinating and entertaining story about a journalist embedded in farm fields, produce sections, and restaurant kitchens. This is the stuff that probably brings you to the book. It has a great balance of humor, nuance, and heartbreaking stories of the work behind the food we take for granted.

So just for that, you won't be disappointed. But there is a whole unexpected side to this book that will rock your world. Tracie McMillan brings some really thought provoking analysis to add context to what she goes through while in the ranks of the nations food workers. Some of the stats she uncovers will make your jaw drop. Other times she digs up some history, like the development of supermarkets or the impact of the national highway system on how we get our food, and you will be left with a deep new understanding of things you probably never thought about before. Trust me, there are some mind blowing revelations in store for you.

I found that this book really made me think, and changed my understanding of the issue of food - not just what food we eat, but what the production of that food means for people working all along the chain. The approach to talking about poverty and economics made these issues accessible and easy to relate to. I didn't feel talked down to, and I didn't feel lectured at. Reading this book is like talking to someone who respects you enough to level with you and give you the real deal. This is the food book you need to read.
60 internautes sur 71 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
Hungry for a great book? 23 février 2012
Par marigold216 - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Relié
A deeply personal story of one woman's quest to understand "how America came to eat this way, why we keep doing it, and what it would take to change it." This was an incredibly engrossing read - smart, well-researched, funny, and gritty while at the same time hopeful. McMillan takes us inside some of the worst parts of America's food industry and working conditions, sharing rich stories of the people who help out on her unusual journey. She also challenges us to think about what would happen if access to fresh and healthy food were just as high a social priority as water and electricity. Like The Omnivore's Dilemma, this book is a delight to read and a much-needed contribution to our national understanding of food.
25 internautes sur 28 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
Forthright food journalism, "cockroach in the deli" and all... 12 mars 2012
Par John Williamson - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Format Kindle Achat vérifié
I first read about journalist Tracie McMillan's debut book The American Way of Eating in a New York Times review by literary critic and author Dwight Garner on February 20th, 2012. He had opened his review with this: "One of the first things to like about Tracie McMillan, the author of 'The American Way of Eating,' is her forthrightness. She's a blue-collar girl who grew up eating a lot of Tuna Helper and Ortega Taco Dinners because her mother was gravely ill for a decade, and her father, who sold lawn equipment, had little time to cook. About these box meals, she says, 'I liked them.'"

This interested me, as I've been following articles about food and its sources for some time, so it was worth a closer look. I had read and enjoyed Garner's witty and informative 2009 book Read Me, so when he closed his review with this comment, I was further intrigued: "By the end of `The American Way of Eating,' the author ties so many strands of argument together that you'll begin to agree with one of the cooks at Applebee's, who declares about her in awe: 'You see that white girl work? Damn, she can work.'"

Author McMillan's book begins with a few paragraphs explaining that her book is "a work of journalism," and that she had gone undercover to write it, choosing to work side by side with the people involved in various aspects of what we look at as the food industry in America today. Her introduction begins with this somewhat jolting statement, and it's one that made this reader sit up and take notice, wondering if her book was going to be some vegan manifesto against anything that had to do with meat: "The first Brooklyn supermarket I ever walked into had a cockroach in the deli. Not one of those stealthy critters stealing along the crevices in the floor, or hanging out backstage in dry storage. No, this was a proud-to-be-here New York City roach, crawling openly up the wall's white tile before dropping, unceremoniously, onto the meat slicer below. I decided to skip the lunchmeat and headed for the produce aisle."

My initial suspicions were quickly alleviated, as this book is an actual first-hand exploration, one that took the author to jobs such as picking grapes and peaches in the California fields, then moving on to cutting and gleaning garlic, working right beside the other farmworkers, most of whom she converses with in Spanish, the only gringa, and one making well under minimum wage. This is for nine hours of grueling and physically exhausting work. And in all of this, she's working with the people that she encounters, not standing aside with public relations people and repeating the media hype that is seen in advertisements. She lives with these people, discussing their kids, doctor visits, food... in short all of the things that regular people discuss with their coworkers in almost any field of work in America.

From those California fields, author McMillan moves on in Part II to Michigan for a stint working at Wal-Mart, which it turns out, has become the "largest grocer in both the U.S. and the world." Her in-depth observations are both fascinating and revealing, especially since Wal-Mart, founded in 1962, didn't really get into food until the 1980s. While she's describing her experiences working side by side with other employees there, she interleaves the paragraphs with hard facts about how large Wal-Mart is in our American food chain, and she backs it up with extensive footnotes.

Part III takes us to the cooking of food, and here she starts as a kitchen novice at Applebee's in Brooklyn, NY. There are over twenty Applebee's restaurants in New York City, and McMillan was trying to get a kitchen job in food preparation with the chain. This was one of the more fascinating sections of the book, though there's an unsettling part, which results in the author being assaulted (and not by a work colleague) after the get-together following her last night at Applebee's, a place that she had openly enjoyed the work.

Each of the book sections starts by listing how much she earned picking, producing or handling food and how much was spent on what she ate, both percentagewise and in terms of annualized salary. Some of these numbers can be quite sobering in terms of comparative living in this country today, and wondering where we may be headed.

It's all too easy to compare this book with cultural critic Barbara Ehrenreich's bestselling Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting By in America, and in that comparison, both Ehrenreich and McMillan have gone undercover among the working people of America. Having read both, this reader found more depth in Ms. McMillan offering, but perhaps that's due to the difference in the fact that self-proclaimed "myth buster" Ehrenreich seems to dwell on class struggles. McMillan's working family background offers a more three-dimensional feel to the people and the situations that she encountered.

But there were times that she seemed to be reluctant to get too close or reveal what she was feeling about those with whom she was involved during her work. That may be a subjective observation on this reader's point, but there were times that I found myself waiting for the author to indeed open up with the emotions that she was surely feeling just below the surface, yet so often it went 80% there... and stopped.

It should be noted that Ms. McMillan's extensive footnotes sprinkled throughout this book are surprising in both their depth and their accuracy. This reader spent quite a few hours bouncing between the Kindle and the computer looking at some of the sources that she had listed, and it became clear that she had really done her homework. Her appendix entitled "Cheap Food?" is intriguing, and worth the time to read, and her wide-ranging bibliography could make food reading into quite a project for those so interested. This reader has already bookmarked a number of her sources for more in-depth reading.

There are some holes here and there in this book, but without making excuses on behalf of the author, that's to be expected in any journalistic work such as this. All questions and answers cannot possibly be put into a book such as this without either making it completely boring or dull, and in this author McMillan has succeeded quite well. What stands out is that this is a good read, and often moving on much like a novel, with dialogue that makes one wonder what's coming next.

As a debut offering, this reader is impressed with the depth that Tracie McMillan has gone into with this book. If you're at all interested in food, where it comes from and how it's handled, this book is a solidly recommended 4-star read, and a worthwhile look at the actual politics involved in food policy in America today. I'll be looking forward to what she comes up with next.

43 internautes sur 51 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
A New Perspective: Michael Pollan, meet Barbara Ehrenreich 23 février 2012
Par Elana Karopkin - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Relié
An informative, provocative, and important exploration of the food industry ranging from the fields of poorly regulated farms in California to the aisles of Walmart to the Applebee's in my own backyard here in Bklyn, NY. And even better, it's a well written and highly engaging read. I strongly recommend this book.

I am passing this recommendation on to the folks I know who are interested in food or the economics of massive industries in our country -- that's going to be everyone I know.
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