Book Review: "The Man Who Ate Too Much" by John Birdsall

 

A James Beard Biography is a very tricky thing to look at. The man showed a refreshingly simple face to the world, full of bonhomie and circumstantially cogent expertise- enough to get interest, but not enough to get in trouble…mostly. A fine showman, exemplifying ‘larger than life’. But as with so many others, underneath the surface was the relentless tide of insecurity that comes from being so much more than he ever thought was safe to reveal. And so we have “The Man Who Ate Too Much: The Life of James Beard”, by one John Birdsall. A fellow culinarian and author (ironically, a two-time James Beard Award winner) who, as I read between the lines, seems to harbor many sentiments not unlike my own about the man. But this is Beard’s bio rather than Birdsall’s, so let us be about it.

First and foremost, the man known as James Beard came from luxury, and with connections. The reassembled minutiae of his early years is awash in expansive excess. Months spent in far-off locales, not even working for ages at a time- something utterly unthinkable for almost anyone who might pick this book up today. It boggles the mind to see how carefree people once had the privilege to be. Given such ease, how much more could have been done is a hard thing to consider. Nonetheless, his ability to flimflam fickle fortune began early and never ceased, blind luck leading him over and over to the absolute perfect persons to kickstart every facet of what would become his career, and with a mix of relentless clever schmoozing and discreet deference, such ways were kept open as long as might have been managed.

Made abundantly clear over and over again is Beard's knack for keeping things quiet till the time was right. His first cookbook? Largely pilfered recipes from early business partners and sometime socialites, mingled with mostly made-up attributions, all hidden behind an ironclad façade of rambunctious reputability- in what would seem to eventually become a tradition. A giant who stands on the shoulders of others, their faces carefully, even artfully obscured. People, ideas, opinions, all devoid of definition- for the protection of the man behind their use.

This biography also makes no small point of viewing the man through the lens of his queerness, but it's an approach far more robust than Beard’s own. Known in abstract, if not in common, James Beard lived the life of a man who wished to hear the music of love but knew not from whence the tune might come, nor how to carry it. Deeply repressed by the culture around him and the needs of the moment, sharp and acerbic beneath the bombast of his public face, Beard’s well-concealed intimates come across as ephemeral as his expertise often was. Small wonder so much of his life seemed so lonely.

More bothersome still, work ethic and disciplined consistency were the man’s lifelong bugbears. He never once managed a repute for reliability, something truly miraculous for one who managed to find his sort of success in the world of food- where showing up five minutes early, ready to go full speed for the next however long has ever been the standard.

What that and so much else of this manuscript also none-too-quietly shouts is how exhaustingly easy it can be for someone of means to succeed whether they deserve the privilege or not. To dawdle about universities, flirting with professors and professionals. To have friends get you jobs teaching things you know little and less about, reading two weeks ahead of your students to maintain the charade. To breathe a false life and meaning into illusion via artifice and imagination. Miracles of days gone by, impossible now.

The years passed, the man aged, the world changed, and then he was gone from it. I suspect the notion of a true successor had vanished from Beard’s mind decades in the past, but that of a legacy was one he held tightly to, and so he maintained his disciplined discretion all the way to the end. A long, rich, full-seeming life, yet somehow as thoroughly hidden away as could possibly be.

In some ways, it's best he died when he did. Fragile as his mental health was, the AIDS crisis would surely have broken him, as it did so many it didn’t kill. Perhaps worse still is what later became of the world in which we now pretend to live. Life’s whimsy and joy has been ruthlessly stripped away by those born to wealth then raised to selfishness and greed. Men like James Beard are ground up and molded into nameless drudges in flavorless locales with no hopes, dreams, or futures. I know many of them. I worry I may well be one, no matter my mastery.

If you wish to read a fine story, The Man Who Ate Too Much will serve you well. The best way to remember a showman like Beard is, perhaps, through the telling of his tale in a manner he’d understand. One can hear his voice in the pages- both the one you’d hear in public… and the much quieter one at the back of his mind he tried so hard to forget.