#Binge Reviewing my previous Reads #Food History
Harvey Levenstein’s Fear of Food is both witty and sobering, a book that peels back the layers of our modern anxieties about eating and shows just how long we’ve been collectively fretting over what’s on our plates.
While contemporary conversations about gluten-free diets, superfoods, or genetically modified organisms may feel like uniquely modern preoccupations, Levenstein reminds us that food paranoia has been with us for more than a century.
The book traces the American story of food fears beginning in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, when industrialisation changed how food was produced and consumed. Suddenly, what had once been local and recognisable began arriving in packages, cans, and bottles, raising suspicion. The rise of “scientific nutrition” and its constantly shifting dogmas only added to the confusion. Eggs were healthy, then dangerous, then healthy again; butter gave way to margarine, which was later demonised in turn. Coffee was alternately a stimulant to be feared and a harmless indulgence. The result? A culture primed to worry, constantly.
Levenstein’s real gift is showing how food worries have often been tied not just to health, but to class, morality, and identity. Diet reformers in the early 20th century promoted plain, “rational” eating not only as a path to better bodies but also as a mark of civilised restraint. Immigrant foods—from garlic-laden Italian pastas to fiery Mexican dishes—were dismissed as dangerous or unwholesome, reflecting broader prejudices disguised as nutritional advice.
The narrative is filled with lively anecdotes: the crusade against ketchup, the obsession with “pure” milk, the rise and fall of fad diets, and the curious authority of self-proclaimed experts who shifted public opinion with alarming ease. Reading about the constant back-and-forth of nutritional advice—much of it driven by faulty science, commercial interests, or sheer moral panic—feels eerily familiar in an era of wellness influencers and viral health scares.
What makes Fear of Food stand out is Levenstein’s dry humour and scepticism. He never ridicules people for worrying—after all, food safety is serious business—but he does show how fear has been manipulated, exaggerated, and often misplaced. The book invites us to see our current food debates not as new dilemmas but as the latest chapters in a very long saga of anxiety, aspiration, and contradiction.
By the end, one feels a mix of relief and resignation: relief that some of our worries (like spoilt milk or adulterated canned goods) led to genuine improvements in public health, but resignation that we seem destined to keep inventing new things to be afraid of. From calories to cholesterol to carbs, the story keeps repeating itself.
Fear of Food is essential reading for anyone interested in food history, cultural studies, or simply trying to make sense of why we’re so conflicted every time we sit down to eat. Levenstein’s work reassures us that we’re not alone in our confusion—it’s just part of the American way of thinking about food.