Rachel: Okay, Justine, quick—what do you know about the book The Man Who Ate Everything? Justine: I'm guessing it's about a guy who went to an all-you-can-eat buffet and took it as a personal challenge. And won. Rachel: (Laughs) Close! It’s actually by Jeffrey Steingarten, and what’s wild is that before he became Vogue’s food critic, he was a Harvard-educated lawyer. Justine: A lawyer? Okay, that explains the obsessive, evidence-based approach to... well, eating everything. It’s like he’s cross-examining a plate of clams. Rachel: Exactly. He basically decided his own food phobias were a professional liability and launched a full-scale investigation to conquer them. The book is a collection of his hilarious, incredibly well-researched essays from that journey. Justine: I love that. He didn't just decide to be more adventurous; he decided to sue his own taste buds into submission. Rachel: Pretty much. And his first piece of evidence for why this matters is a fantastic story. He talks about this powerful cookbook editor in New York who had such an extreme hatred for cilantro that she would bring tweezers to restaurants. Justine: No. Tweezers? Rachel: Yes! To meticulously pick out every last speck of cilantro from her food. And Steingarten just had this epiphany: how many potentially great cookbooks, how many amazing culinary ideas, might she have rejected just because of this one, single aversion? Justine: Wow. When you put it like that, being a picky eater sounds like a serious handicap. It's a form of blindness. Rachel: That's precisely his point. He says, "intense food preferences, whether phobias or cravings, struck me as the most serious of all personal limitations." And with that, he declared war on his own picky eating.

Justine: A full-scale investigation? What does that even mean for food you don't like? You just... eat it? Rachel: Oh, it's so much more wonderfully complicated than that. He develops a six-step program. It involves listing all your phobias, studying the food science behind them, choosing a method of attack—he lands on exposure therapy—and then systematically making reservations at restaurants that specialize in the things you hate. Justine: This is the most methodical approach to overcoming a dislike for, say, anchovies that I have ever heard. Did it work? Give me an example. Rachel: Absolutely. Let's take kimchi. He admits he liked all the individual ingredients—cabbage, ginger, garlic, red peppers—but the fermented combination was just a no-go for him. So, over six months, he just kept trying it. He sampled ten of the sixty known varieties of kimchi. Justine: He just kept eating it? For six months? That sounds less like a culinary adventure and more like a punishment. Rachel: At first, yes! But slowly, something shifted. His brain started to rewire itself. He writes that eventually, kimchi became his "national pickle, too." He conquered it not by force, but by persistence. He learned its language. It’s a perfect example of his core belief: "what's learned can be forgot." Our tastes aren't fixed; they're malleable. Justine: That’s fascinating. It’s not just about the food itself, but about the context and the quality. He does the same thing with anchovies, right? He realizes the ones in Italy are nothing like the gross, hairy things on American pizzas. Rachel: Exactly! In Italy, he orders bagna caoda—this warm dip of garlic, butter, and anchovies—every single day. And he discovers that high-quality anchovies, prepared well, are a completely different animal. He goes from phobia to actively planning trips to find fresh, charcoal-grilled anchovies. Justine: Okay, so he becomes this perfect, fearless omnivore. But does he become insufferable? Because I can just imagine him at a dinner party. Rachel: He fully admits he did! This is one of the most charming parts of the book. He gets so intoxicated with his own success that he starts confronting other finicky eaters at parties. He'd stare at their plates, ask them about their "terror of bread," and lecture them on the science of food phobias. Justine: Oh, that's amazing. He became a food evangelist, and probably a very annoying dinner guest. Rachel: For a while, yes. But he has this moment of realization where he says, "Just because you have become a perfect omnivore does not mean that you must flaunt it." He learns that humility and compassion are just as important. It's a journey of personal growth that starts with food but ends with a deeper understanding of people.

Justine: Okay, so he's not just forcing himself to eat things, he's studying them. That feels like a perfect pivot to his whole kitchen-as-a-lab philosophy. This isn't just about taste; it's about truth. Rachel: You've nailed it. And there is no better example of this than his essay, "Salad the Silent Killer." Justine: Come on, is he really saying my kale salad is trying to kill me? That sounds like peak contrarianism. Rachel: It is, but it's backed by some fascinating science. He argues that we have this cultural belief that anything "natural" or "raw" is inherently good for us. But from a plant's perspective, it doesn't want to be eaten. So, many plants have evolved to produce natural toxins as a defense mechanism. Justine: Toxins? In my salad? Rachel: In some cases, yes. He brings up things like goitrogens in raw cabbage and broccoli, which can interfere with thyroid function if you eat enormous quantities. He talks about cyanogens in undercooked lima beans, which can be genuinely poisonous. His point isn't that salad will kill you on the spot. Justine: That's a relief. Rachel: The point is that our bodies have to work to detoxify these compounds. He cites a study where scientists fed mice a concentrated toxin from carrots called carotatoxin, and it caused severe neurological disorders. Justine: Okay, but how many carrots would a person have to eat? Rachel: About 3,500 pounds in one sitting. Justine: Right. So my baby carrots are safe. But I see his argument. It’s about questioning the health halo we put around certain foods. We obsess over artificial additives while ignoring the fact that nature itself is full of chemical warfare. Rachel: Precisely. He says, "I, for one, would rather eat an empty calorie than a toxic one." It's a provocative statement, but it forces you to think. He contrasts this with fruit. A ripe fruit wants to be eaten to spread its seeds, so it evolves to be sweet, delicious, and non-toxic. A vegetable root or leaf? Not so much. Justine: This is why I've always said fruit is superior to vegetables. I feel so validated right now. This approach must have been pretty controversial when it came out in the 90s, especially with the rise of low-fat, "clean eating" movements. Rachel: It was, and still is. The book won a Julia Child Award, but some readers and critics found his tone a bit arrogant or his dismissal of nutritionists elitist. He challenges sacred cows, whether it's the danger of salt, the evils of sugar, or the necessity of a low-fat diet. He approaches each one like a legal case: show me the evidence. And often, he finds the evidence is surprisingly weak. Justine: So he’s not just a food critic, he’s a culinary detective, debunking myths one delicious, and apparently dangerous, salad at a time. Rachel: And he does it with such wit and self-awareness. He knows he's being obsessive, he knows he's being a bit ridiculous, but he can't help himself. The pursuit of truth is just too delicious to resist.

Rachel: And this obsession with 'the truth' doesn't stop in his kitchen. He takes it on the road, which brings us to his global quests for authenticity. Justine: Which, I imagine, are just as methodical and over-the-top as his other experiments. Rachel: You have no idea. My favorite example is his hunt for "True Choucroute," the Alsatian dish of sauerkraut and pork. He has this idealized version in his head, probably from Julia Child, of this perfect, harmonious dish. So he goes to a famous brasserie in Paris to try it. Justine: And it was amazing, right? Rachel: It was a disaster. He describes the cabbage as "tough and acrid," the pork as either too fatty or too dry, and to top it all off, a pigeon poops on his suit while he's eating. Justine: That is the most Parisian dining experience I can imagine. So what does he do? Give up on choucroute forever? Rachel: Of course not! He decides the problem is Paris. He has to go to the source: Alsace. He and his wife drive into the mountains to find a ferme auberge, a traditional farmhouse inn, that's supposed to be the real deal. Justine: Let me guess, more disaster? Rachel: So much more. They get lost, nearly drive their car into a ravine, and when they finally find the place, it's a dilapidated shack guarded by what he describes as "rabid dogs." The proprietress takes one look at them and refuses to serve them lunch. Justine: This is incredible. His quest for the most authentic food is leading him to the least hospitable places. Rachel: But this is where the story turns. Defeated, they go back to their hotel, and he starts buying up local cookbooks and recipe postcards. He analyzes them, creating a chart of every authentic recipe he can find. He realizes that to make it himself, he needs very specific cuts of salted and smoked pork that just don't exist in America. Justine: So the quest continues back home? Rachel: It does! And this is the best part. He can't find the right pork cuts in his fancy Manhattan butcher shops. So, after studying French and American butchering diagrams, he ends up on a pilgrimage to Harlem. Justine: He went to Harlem to find ingredients for a traditional French dish? That's dedication. Rachel: He finds a butcher there who sells smoked jowls and other cuts that are much closer to the Alsatian originals. He finally gathers all his components and makes the choucroute himself. And in doing so, he has his final revelation. Justine: Which is? Rachel: That there is no single "true" choucroute. He concludes, "Authenticity seems more a matter of ranges and limitations than of outright prescriptions." It’s not about a single, perfect recipe. It’s about understanding the traditional ingredients, the core flavors, and the cultural spirit of a dish, and then working creatively within those boundaries. Justine: Wow. So the journey wasn't about finding a dish, it was about finding a definition. The answer wasn't on a plate in Alsace; it was in the process itself. Rachel: Exactly. The journey of a thousand meals begins with a single bite, but it ends with a much deeper understanding of what food, and the search for it, really means.

Rachel: When you pull all these threads together—the war on phobias, the kitchen laboratory, the global quests—you realize what this book is really about. It's about breaking down barriers. Justine: That’s a great way to put it. He’s breaking personal barriers by conquering his fears, intellectual barriers by debunking myths, and cultural barriers by searching for what ‘authenticity’ even means. Rachel: Right. The goal isn't just to eat everything, but to understand everything. He uses food as a lens to explore science, culture, history, and ultimately, himself. His legal training is so apparent; he approaches a recipe with the same rigor he’d approach a legal brief. He wants the facts, the evidence, the truth. Justine: And it’s that relentless, almost manic curiosity that makes the book so compelling. It’s not just a collection of food essays; it’s a memoir of an obsession. It makes me think about my own food rules, the things I think I don't like just because of one bad experience. Rachel: It completely changes how you look at a menu, doesn't it? Suddenly, the thing you'd never order becomes a challenge, an experiment waiting to happen. Justine: Absolutely. And that actually makes me want to ask our listeners a question. It makes you wonder, what's one food you've always refused to try, and what's the story behind it? Is it a texture thing? A bad childhood memory? Rachel: Ooh, I love that. We all have them. For me, it was oysters for the longest time. But that’s a story for another day. We would love to hear yours. Find us on our social channels and share your unconquered food phobia. Justine: And maybe, just maybe, you’ll be inspired to pull a Steingarten and finally face the beast. Just, maybe leave the tweezers at home. Rachel: This is Aibrary, signing off.