Like many people, Geraldine DeRuiter first came on my radar with her viral essay about her awful meal at Bros, an Italian Michelin star restaurant. Others might know her for her post in the wake of celebrity chef Mario Batali’s sex-pest allegation apology. Both of those spotlight moments are featured in her new essay collection, If You Can’t Take the Heat: Tales of Food, Feminism, and Fury.
But while those are the most famous moments in DeRuiter’s career at this point, the book in no way hinges on them. Most of the book covers instead her history with food, the relationship with it and her body, and how family and faith—or lack thereof—fit into the whole complex matrix. DeRuiter’s reflections of food and body image go beyond the sort of “what in the name of eating disorders were we thinking about in the 90s-2000s?” Rather, she points to pearl upon pearl of body insecurity strung up across generations, like some unwitting inheritance that she can’t quite reject despite wanting to. Yet food is still a celebration in her family, with as much import and ritual as other families might give to religion.
DeRuiter also considers the act of being a food writer more broadly, including wanting to break into the industry, feelings of being an imposter (and the unexpected conditions that led to overcoming that feeling), and the unexpected aspects of the gig. Some of this writing is relatably referential, such as being star-struck over Julie Powell, the food blogger whose first book was the basis for the movie Julie & Julia, and considering the widespread parasocial relationship many had with Powell—and, in fact, with DeRuiter.
This isn’t to say that Bros or Batali get a pass, or merely a passing mention. Instead of rehashing what she wrote previously, each of these chapters is focused primarily on what led to her writing each of those pieces. At the time allegations against Batali came to light, pop culture was in the thick of the Me Too movement, and important men were starting to give half-hearted apologies. That was the case with Batali, whose message dodging direct responsibility while giving a milquetoast promise to do better in the future was accompanied, in a postscript, with a recipe for breakfast buns (that obviously been quality tested). Meanwhile, in addition to the post about Bros reprinted in its entirety, DeRuiter examines the leadup to and fallout from the post. In particular, she compares how she was portrayed in the coverage that came after—a “Karen” too old to appreciate the cutting-edge nature of the food—while credible sex abuse allegations against the titular brothers were ignored by U.S. media in favor of a narrative of innovation and rugged self-determination. There’s a theme between these two posts, and chapters, beyond the public attention they received, but it’s one that reaches far beyond Me Too.
The connective thread throughout DeRuiter’s collection is one likely inescapable in her daily work: that food isn’t something to be compartmentalized away; that what is on our plates and in our mouths goes far beyond sustenance. “What if [sic] food?” the Bros chef memorably asks in a reportedly plagiarized response to DeRuiter’s post. What if it indeed? Food is nutritional, but it’s also cultural, spiritual, creative, historical, and meaningful in a hundred different ways. As DeRuiter reminds us with humor and heart, the way we interact with it is just as varied and meaningful, too.
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