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| Josephine Bacon is a food writer and translator, a linguist fluent in five languages working mainly from French, German and Hebrew into English. The books she has written include 'Illustrated Atlas of Jewish Civilization', 'The Citrus Cookbook' and 'Exotic Fruits and Vegetables A-Z'. |
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Richard Olney: non-celebrity chef and snob extraordinaire
- Josephine Bacon's highly personal opinion
 For those who have never heard of Richard Olney – and they must be legion, most cookery writers, even those who consider themselves at the top of their profession, are unknown to the general public, unless they prance about on TV screens like escapees from the circus – he was an American amateur chef and food writer who died "unexpectedly" in 1999. I write unexpectedly in inverted commas because I am quoting from the 'about the author' blurb at the back of the book. It certainly wasn't unexpected for anyone who actually knew him: the last photo in the book shows him shortly before his death, his bloated face and coarsened features a tribute to the drinking habits that caused his early demise. It will come as no surprise either to the reader who will "gasp and stretch their eyes", to quote one of Olney’s compatriots, when they read of the amounts of alcohol he was not ashamed to admit that he consumed (a different wine with each course was de rigeur, and plenty of whisky drunk in between meals).
Of course, Richard didn’t just knock back the plonk like the ordinary wino. No, he was the consummate wine snob, who even wrote two books each dedicated exclusively to a particular French estate, Romanée-Conti and Château d’Yquem. Both of them produce very limited quantities of outrageously expensive wines and, unsurprisingly, both these books are out of print.
 This is 'le snobbisme' at its height, but it is merely one example of a life devoted to delusions of 'exclusivity'. The mere title of the book 'Reflexions', spelled the French, not the English, way is a clue to what this book is about: an encomium to snobbery and self-aggrandisement. It is also, of course, a litany of names of the rich and famous (and the obscure, who only appear in the book in order to be defamed) who trekked up to Olney’s hermitage on the top of a hill in a remote Provençal village to pay homage to the guru. Or rather to steal his ideas. No wonder the fashionable food-writers of Richard’s day enthused about him. He was a real find, treasure trove, someone who actually knew what he was talking about when it came to cookery techniques but whom no one had heard of, so it would be easy to poach from him. And poach they did. Richard Olney is the only cookery writer in history who was forced to sue when a book was published that not only stole his recipes but even his over-the-top, effete style. Unfortunately, the case was settled out of court, so he once again missed his chance of fame.
The closest Olney came to renown was when he grudgingly agreed (no doubt for some astronomical sum) to become the chief consultant of the Time-Life Good Cook series (published in the 1970s), which is where I first encountered him. I was hired as an anthology editor on the series when it was well into its third title. Apparently, the ridiculous format of cooking techniques in the front and an anthology of what were claimed to be the world’s best recipes was Richard’s idea or so he claims in this book though like many claims in autobiographies, it should be taken with a pinch of salt. Anyway, it doesn’t work. Richard’s knowledge of the publishing world was sketchy, and he certainly did not understand its nastiness. I had the privilege of reading some of the letters that Time-Life Books received from his rivals when he had been named as consultant, thus disappointing their financial and career aspirations, and they are not a pretty sight!
I have to admit that using him as the head consultant was
an inspired choice. At the time, the U.S. was infested with
the sort of poseurs that Karen and John Hess exposed in their
book 'The Taste of America' as I discovered when
I moved there in 1980 and entered the food-writing world on
the Los Angeles Herald-Examiner. There is no question that
Richard had a profound knowledge of cookery – or rather
certain limited aspects of it. There were areas about which
he knew absolutely nothing. One of them was preserving; he
paints a vicious portrait of the first 'researcher' as Time-Life
called them – actually editorial assistants who were
supposed to have some knowledge of food – who worked
on the preserving book. Her name, which he dared not mention
in the book, is Claire Walsh. She is the most delightful person
and her knowledgeability, especially about the legal aspects
of the subject (saltpetre, a favourite preservative in Europe
was, even then, banned in the U.S. due to its alleged carcinogenicity).
But she made the fatal mistake of knowing more about the subject
than Richard, so he had her fired. The book makes no mention
at all of the 'Confectionery' title; I think Richard
disliked sweets of any kind and he had no involvement or interest
in anything to do with that book; I know because I was its
anthology editor.
To me, the worst aspect of 'Reflexions' is not the monotonous name-dropping (that’s just plain boring, especially for the average reader who neither knows nor cares who these people are), the treatment of Elizabeth David as if she were a candidate for canonisation, but the fact that Richard Olney nowhere pays tribute to those who taught him everything he knew. Ten Speed Press has brought out new editions of Olney’s two most popular books, 'Simple French Food' (which being Olney is, of course, anything but simple) and 'The French Menu Cookbook' and has this to say about his past: "Born in the Midwest in 1927 and drawn to France at the tender age of twenty-four"! Tender age? Richard came from a hick town in Iowa, born to parents who were also hicks, as he so eloquently portrays them in the book (his mother at least had aspirations to culture, his father sounds like the man with the pitchfork in Grant Wood’s 'American Gothic'). The book starts just before he sets out for France where he worked as a waiter and painted at night. Not a word about who taught him plain French food, let alone the over-the-top elaborate concoctions that appeared in the Time-Life series, such as Aurora’s Pillow, where various birds of increasing size are stuffed inside each other, or his lemon jelly, that start’s by boiling a calf’s foot to make gelatine! Not even about who taught him the excellent, elegant French that he spoke and wrote, which could only have come from serious academic study.
To me, this is the ultimate insult to his masters and betters. It is also typical of the snob. He wants us to believe that he arose, at the age of twenty-four, like Venus from the waves, able to produce Artichauts à la Barigoule and Tripes à la Mode de Caen without any training or teaching. What emerges from the book, as from any autobiography is an insight into Richard’s nature – waspish, petty, elitist and, in general, thoroughly nasty.
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