Our Mixed Feelings About Alison Roman
TWO CENTS | NOV 20, 2020
Why’d You Have To Go
And Make Things So
Complicated?
Our mixed feelings about Alison Roman.
I would categorize myself as an aspiring foodie. I’m a naturally good cook. I’m not great, but I’ve got decent culinary instincts and a few perfected recipes in my repertoire. Don’t get me wrong, I still have a lot to learn. The only cookbook I own is a hardback copy of The Joy of Cooking that I swiped off the freebie shelf during my first publishing job; I’ve never opened it.
The first time I heard about Alison Roman, New York Times columnist and bestselling cookbook author, was via The Cookies. If you’re not familiar, The Cookies are one of Roman’s many popular recipes, a delicious and easy-to-make chocolate chunk shortbread topped with coarse sea salt that many of my friends have made, beautifully plated, and shared to their Instagram Stories. I was inspired to try my hand at The Cookies during the first few weeks of quarantine, when cooking was still novel. To my disappointment, they came out a little misshapen (not IG-worthy), but tasted great. Pro tip: you should never leave yourself around two dozen cookies with no one to share them with and nowhere to go. I even tried to hide them in the oven in an attempt to outwit my senses. The Cookies, like most viral Alison Roman recipes, are relatively low-lift, delicious and satisfying, indulgent, but not overly complex.
It’s not hard to see why Alison Roman is so popular. At the end of the day, all we want is some good food that’s not too hard to make—and this is precisely what she offers us. Roman published her first cookbook, Dining In, in 2017, which became a fast favorite for fans of impressive, delicious meals without pretension, an exceptionally long prep time, or ingredients that are impossible to find. As someone who owns one measly cookbook, and who generally does not see the merit in spending money on cumbersome hardbacks that will clutter my already overstuffed apartment, even I considered shelling out for this cookbook.
Roman published her second cookbook, Nothing Fancy, in 2019 (“unfussy food paired with unstuffy vibes”). Her recipes, while simple, are also elevated, including sexy but not scary ingredients like fava beans, fresh fennel, and tarragon. Why wouldn’t you make the Pot of Pasta with Broccoli Rabe and Chorizo Breadcrumbs? Or try the One-Pot Chicken with Dates and Caramelized Lemon? There’s something about both of these recipes using a single pot that’s extremely appealing to me. (Maybe because I only own one pot.) Roman describes her recipes as “simple, of-the-moment dishes full of quickie techniques.” Essentially, her cooking style is akin to the dress that looks plain on the hanger, but fits like a glove once you put it on. With Roman’s newfound popularity, she quickly cemented herself as an aspirational yet relatable internet darling, who made good food to boot.
We don’t love Alison Roman simply because she’ll “give you the food your people want” (her words). She’s also blessed with the personality we all wish we had. Roman is intelligent, quick-witted, and speaks directly to the erudite and savvy millennial who enjoys an effervescent natural wine and a good meme. Much like effervescent natural wine, Alison Roman has popped up everywhere over the past few years. She’s bubbly, funky, and pairs well with an idealized notion of ourselves. Roman appeals to us because she seems to strike an impossible balance: down-to-earth, intelligent, humble (some of the time), yet talented and successful. Here is Roman on her Instagram feed cradling a batch of spring onions, while listing the things that bring her joy in these dark times. It’s corny, but cute; “(I’m so cheesy idc!!),” she tells us. In this Delish video segment, she shows us around her home kitchen, which is pretty small and cramped—nothing fancy, if you will—just like yours or mine. Stars, they’re just like us!
This past May, public opinion towards Alison Roman drastically shifted. Clips from an interview surfaced in which Roman lobbed some heavy criticism at culture megastars Marie Kondo and Chrissy Teigen, calling them out for “selling out” (Teigen has a line of cookware at Target, and Kondo pivoted her success as an author into a successful Netflix show). “That horrifies me and it's not something that I ever want to do. I don't aspire to that,” said Roman. (For the .01% of you who didn’t follow the drama, here’s a frame by frame recap.)
Naturally, the internet became up in arms. In the age of cancel culture, this was an actually egregious offense. Roman, a white woman, was accusing two Asian women of selling out while at the same time diminishing their success. To quote The New York Times, whose popular podcast The Daily published a two-part series on cancel culture: “As the world moves more and more online, greater weight is given to the things that happen there—especially perceived wrongs.”
It’s not surprising that everyone seemed to latch onto this controversy, myself of course included. I had multiple group chats and Instagram DM threads devoted to the topic. We were still getting used to life in quarantine, impossibly bored and starved for any bit of drama with which to pass the time. Besides, Roman’s comments were undeniably wrong, and it was completely fair for her to be called out. In the immediate aftermath, she Tweeted: “Just wishing I had someone to hold my hand during baby’s first internet backlash.” I remember seeing that Tweet and immediately recoiling. The language of “baby’s first internet backlash” really rubbed me, and many others, the wrong way. The way she quite literally infantilized herself seemed like a cheap way to circumvent blame. Her Tweet suggested that the “backlash” was not totally warranted. She was hiding behind the cutesy and clever internet lingo that she’s usually revered for.
In the midst of this backlash, concerns about Roman’s prior behavior began to bubble under the surface. Her comments were publicized just before Black Lives Matter protests swept the nation. Major companies, and the individuals at their helms, were exposed for racist and discriminatory practices. Against this backdrop, critics of Roman were incentivized to dive deeper into her past, and shed light on critiques of her recipes and status in the culinary world, where white women are put on a pedestal.
Case in point: one of Alison Roman’s most viral recipes is The Stew, a creamy mélange of chickpeas, coconut milk, turmeric, mint, and various other spices and garnishes—ingredients that are not typically found in Western cuisines. A slew of articles by writers and chefs of color correctly pointed out how Roman gained notoriety in the culinary world by popularizing ingredients native to other countries without proper credit. Writer Roxana Hadadi expressed her frustration with The Stew that was echoed by many other writers of Middle Eastern and South Asian descent: “Roman made herself a curry and refused to acknowledge that she had made a curry, and this is colonialism as cuisine.”
Adding more fuel to this fire, Bon Appétit, a former employer of Roman, made headlines for actively discriminating against employees of color. A number of BA staff members shed light on the pay discrepancies between them and their white counterparts. Associate Editor Sohla El-Waylly described being asked to assist white chefs with “significantly less experience” in the wildly popular Test Kitchen YouTube series while only the white chefs featured in the videos received compensation.
These moments dovetailed into a long-overdue conversation in the food industry: why is the commercial culinary world so quick to deify white chefs and personalities, often at the expense of minorities? Why are white chefs profiting off the cuisines and ingredients of other cultures, while chefs actually from those countries and cultures often don’t see a dime—literally. These conversations set the stage perfectly for what many saw as the inevitable Alison Roman backlash. Here was a white woman teetering on the edge of cancellation. The Kondo and Teigen controversy was the perfect scandal to fully bring her down.
True to the cancel culture playbook, Roman formally issued a lengthy apology via Instagram four days after her comments surfaced. It was refreshingly incisive, self-reflective, and humble. It was not defensive. She admitted that she used Teigen and Kondo “disparagingly ... to distinguish myself. Why couldn’t I express myself without tearing someone down?” She admitted her comments were rooted in her own insecurity. To me, this was a strikingly honest admission. (In contrast; Lana Del Rey recently lamented how the media vilifies her for explicit lyrical and visual content, while singling out several Black women in the industry that she believed hadn’t received the same amount of criticism; in a meandering apology, Del Rey scolded critics who “want to turn my advocacy for fragility into a race war.”) Conversely, Roman’s apology made note of how she, as a white woman, was in no position to call out women of color. “The fact it didn’t occur to me that I had singled out two Asian women is a function of my privilege,” she admitted.
I found this whole controversy so fascinating because I recognize myself in Roman. First and foremost, I am also a privileged white woman who has never had to navigate a space in which I was the minority. As such, I can be quick to make a comment that at the moment seems provocative or irreverent without realizing that it holds real weight, and acts as a direct reflection of my privilege. I, too, have built an online persona as the snarky, relatable girl. I’ve hidden my insecurities behind my wit and flippant critique of others. It’s even easier to hurl critiques from behind your phone or your laptop in under 280 characters. This desire to tear other people down often comes from an overwhelming fear that we, too, will be called out one day. In an attempt to ward off any potential backlash, it’s easier to go on the offense and call others out for the same negative qualities and tendencies that we fear are buried deep within ourselves. Yet what happens when we inevitably do end up saying the wrong thing, despite being well-intentioned? How do we bounce back?
One thing I’ve struggled with, as I believe many people have, is that we don’t want to cancel Alison Roman. And this is a hard thing to admit. Aside from the fact that she makes good food and is witty and charming, Roman is a refreshing take on the female celebrity. She’s conventionally attractive, but not rail-thin. She doesn’t downplay her intelligence or success, a tendency often reserved for men, and sometimes frowned upon in women. She leans into her imperfections, into her clumsiness, and doesn’t apologize for it. Too frequently, women are inundated with unrealistically idealized notions of what a woman should be. Beautiful and put together, but not try-hard. Wildly successful, but not arrogant. Intelligent and intuitive, but approachable. Women are taught to represent these impossible dualities, and we (I) feel bad when we inevitably don’t measure up to them. Roman defies that notion of perfection, a refreshing antidote to the impossibly polished “Girl Boss” or “SheEO.”
There were consequences for Roman’s remarks, as there should have been. Her New York Times column was “temporarily” suspended. The collective response of outrage towards Roman’s remarks were, I believe, fully warranted. Yet there is a difference between being called out, and being fully canceled, which implies having erred past the point of redemption. Roman embraced the call-out, issued a robust apology, and seems to be actively taking steps to better educate herself, to invest her time and attention towards raising awareness to racial inequity and causes that benefit disenfranchised groups. She has a tab on her website that links out to a number of organizations that support Black and Asian causes and organizations across the country and the world. Proceeds from her September newsletter went to Heart of Dinner, while October donations are going towards the ACLU’s efforts to combat voter suppression. Yet, her Times column is still suspended—there hasn’t been a new entry since April 27. This feels a bit unfair to me. Do we need to still punish Alison Roman? Or, can we accept her apology, recognize her efforts to move forward, and go from there?
Do we allow Roman to move forward so long as she doesn’t appear to be moving on? It feels wrong that she should continue to feel professional repercussions from her remarks, yet she also needs to prove that she’ll continue to be mindful of her privilege as a white woman, and use that to bring awareness to more marginalized communities. Yet how do we hold her accountable for doing this? Is it enough to make her efforts known on social media? Is that too performative, in a sense? How can we know she’s doing it for the right reason, or doing it simply to show us that she’s doing it? If she didn’t publicize her efforts to mitigate her privilege, how would you or I know?
I don’t have the answers to these questions. I am not calling for Roman to be “un-cancelled,” necessarily—not sure how one officially goes about doing that anyway—but I also don’t think her remarks should be the backdrop against which we judge her every move going forward. While we shouldn’t forget about them, I don’t think that much growth, personal or otherwise, comes with vilifying someone consistently for a mistake they’ve apologized for and are actively working to correct. Roman’s 555,000 Instagram followers will still be watching her with a close eye. In a recent post, she shared a chickpea recipe; a commenter was quick to ask if she was cooking with Goya chickpeas (ICYMI, Goya’s chief executive has publicly voiced his support of President Trump). Roman confirmed she was using Rancho Gordo.
I, for one, am not ready to let go of Roman. Unfollowing Roman on Instagram would leave a big hole in my feed. She’s more than a good cook; she’s someone whose effortless but well-cultivated vibes I strive to emulate. I get excited each time her newsletter pops up in my inbox. I recently made the stewed tomato thingie with a number of leftover heirloom tomatoes I actually happened to have lying around, and they were delicious. She should, however, continue to use her platform and popularity to shed light on causes that support marginalized and underrepresented groups, specifically non-white chefs who haven’t benefited from the amount of coverage and praise she’s received. (Bon Appétit, in a direct response to Test Kitchen’s history of discriminatory practices, recently released a teaser of new video content to come that primarily features chefs and talent of color.) I’d like to see Roman more deeply examine the question: why is the culinary world so quick to deify white chefs, often at the expense of minorities? Her apology showed us she’s intelligent and aware enough to have these tough conversations, which need to happen consistently. While I’ll still look to Roman’s Instagram feed, newsletter, and past Times columns to attempt to develop a taste for tinned fish, to maybe, finally purchase one of those tiny egg holders and eat a soft-boiled egg out of it, I will also look to her to advocate for equality in the culinary world. Roman brings a much-needed levity to cooking and, frankly, living that I find refreshing and comforting in these times. Yet we need to bring that same esteem towards and reverence for non-white chefs; we so strongly need varied points of view. We’ll all be the better for it.
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Teresa Fardella is a Brooklyn native whose primary interests include fried food, her own Tweets, 19th century British literature, and small rodents dressed as humans. She's currently freelancing as a social media and brand development consultant. You can find her on Instagram @teresafardella.
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