Food for thought

Recently, I came across this piece in the New York Times. Nothing here is special or new, especially post the era of Michael Pollan and his books. Anyway here is the Opinionator piece:

A Food Manifesto For The Future

Reading that, I was led to think of how simpler and healthier life was not too long ago, even in something as simple as food. 

Thirty years ago, my grandma would dispatch me daily to the store. I carried a cloth bag (no plastic bags to throw out), picked up fruits and vegetables that were (probably) trucked in daily from the region. They were indeed puny compared to the specimens found today at any supermarket, but I imagine they were so because the soil that grew them was not taxed and injected with chemicals. (Lets not get into GMO). 

We carried glass bottles which the shops filled with unrefined, flavorful oil, the cold-pressed kind that has since become something premium, rather than de rigeur. Meat eaters ate the stuff once or twice a week, and it was a precious commodity. Even processed foods like baked goods were locally made and one hopes free of the additives and stabilizers needed to sustain the packaged product of today that the best and the brightest market (those not taking their completely justified pound of flesh in the financial services industry, that is). For heaven's sake, the booze was fresh, natural and organic, tapped as toddy everyday from our very own coconut trees. 

Today the country I left suffers more cardiac diseases, diabetes and hypertension than almost anywhere. Processed, packaged food is de rigeur. Natural oils like coconut, sesame and mustard that shaped the genes for generations were swiftly replaced by well marketed, "golden", refined bleached and deodorized oils. One-horse villages sell imported leeks. Cookery programs showcase meat - the aspirational pinnacle of quotidian "nutrition" being marketed to 1.2 billion. I am no Luddite, but is this progress?

I learned my lesson the hard way. I today do not eat meat; cook more; have almost banned packaged food and beverages from my life; use natural oils; graze the once-reviled salad-bar like an ungulate; and... am paying more to do all this, just rewinding to what should always have been status quo. 

In summary, we are idiots. We deserve everything because we sold our health, ultimately, willingly. I'll leave you to figure out - to whom? And really, for what?

Losing weight 101

This post will be about the wonderful Cuban cuisine.

I was warned before I went to Cuba of a few things: it's expensive (it is, hideously so, if you choose to go to the touristy beach resorts or stay at hotels); people hustle you (they do, but it is harmless); and that the food sucks (take dry food, trail mix, energy bars, I was told).

Rubbish, I thought. The first two indeed turned out so - the casa particulares were warm and nice, and the people were a pleasure to interact with, even if they were prostituting themselves right in front of their extended families. Then there was the food.

Cuban food is terrific. I hope you are not a cretin, and are good with your advanced math to follow my reasoning: it is called "Combination", which is a less prosperous cousin of "Permutation".

Step one: pick one of the following methods of cooking: a) grilled b) all of the above

Step two: pick one of the following main courses: a) pork b) chicken c) fish d) one of the above but will taste like none of the above e) all of the above

Step three: add one of the following sides: a) shredded cabbage b) canned peas c) tastefully sliced, yet absolutely tasteless, carrot stamped to floral designs d) all of the above e) d + boiled f) e+ preserved in vinegar.

My entire summary of Cuban food is: 1-a, 2-e and 3-f.

However, breakfast was uniformly good, for a completely different reason - fruit! Freshest, tastiest, tropical fruit - papayas, mangos, melons, etc. Definitely made the case for vegetarianism.

PS: You cannot say "papaya" in Cuba, because it is slang for the female private part. The more private part, if you are confused. The appropriate slang is "fruta bomba". Which if anything sounds worse!

Bukkake in Tokyo Midtown - explained

Sadly, I must confess I am no John Holmes and there was not an orgy at the basement level of the grand mall called Tokyo Midtown.

I did have the pleasure of queueing up at the food stall with the longest que, an excellent udon place. At my turn, I ordered the 'Bukkake", Udon with special soy broth sauce. The girl at the counter cheerfully repeated my order for all to hear, and it gave me a sense of accomplishment. She clarified I wanted "sumaru",  not "laju"; and gave me my change for the "faivu hunderedu"; and a cheerful thank you.

Best bukkake I have ever had.

Bukkake!!

In Tokyo Midtown. Details to follow, when I finish.

Ra ra ramen

After an uncharacteristic and unusual fuckup with the JR tickets, I finally got to my hotel. I already knew what I wanted my first act in Tokyo to be. First act, that is, after annoying and injuring numerous people dragging my suitcase inconsiderately, running over small mammals, expensive branded shoes etc.  I am sorry Tokyo!

Anyway, first stop: ramen, by way of cultural exception. In Japan, cows were made to be eaten and women to be worshipped (If you read that wrong, or imagined a "vice-versa", that is entirely your fault). I kid you, there is a foot-and-mouth outbreak, and I do not mean my dismal approaches to women. Japan has never gotten to terms with cows - mad cow, foot-and-mouth etc etc. This must be troubling for a people who make everything work so well and look so good.

My hell will be full of fatty lamb with hot pokers and cuddly pigs with whips. Sigh.

Ode to the oltu

I am compelled to write this story. Apparently it is a good one. In Ankara, there is an old fort or citadel a little ways off the city center. As you get up to it and walk around - people still live there, sort of like the Jaisalmer fort - it is a sea of quiet; of shy childlren evincing incredulous smiles from parents and neighbors by virtue of some no-doubt pedestrian (to us observers) act; of families, nay hordes, of multi-generational women selling trinkets as you approach the fort; of tiny little convenience stores run out the front of someone's home, you can peek in through the doors on the side and get a glimpse of the courtyard. Life was approaching the idyllic.

Anyway walking around the ramparts was a lark, and there were some great views of the city. A bunch of kids was playing around; one got picked on and started crying (separately, at Beyazit mosque I think, I saw a gang of boys bully and browbeat a little girl to tears and her came and scolded her); a frantic woman rushed from somewhere as her kid (presumably) was caught climbing up some stairs and he started crying.

Two schoolgirls came to enjoy the sunny morning. They pulled up their socks, perhaps noticing me. I have that effect on women. I should have been a highschool headmaster: if I couldn't get them to pull up their socks metaphorically, at least I'd have created lots of character (the same way bankers create value). A solitary man who looked like he had been there for a while asked me for the time (in Turkish of course). I wonder what rendezvous he had set up of all the places at this one. Hopefully not suicide.

Anyway after an amble around, I left and went left (no reason). I came upon a kebap shop. Not a customer, which is usually a bad sign. Nevertheless, I was cheerfully greeted and seated. Then a chef-looking man came and started on the spit, the meat being grilled horizontally - the oltu. Yes, I know, the trivial things of life that I find exciting.

But wait, that is not the full story. As I await, in walk a couple of ladies and sit on the table to my right. Chef serves me up a skewer, and then another, meanwhile slipping in theirs as well. Then catching me mid-bite, he walks over to me and grabs a piece of my bread in his bare hands. As I continue staring, he goes to his grill, scoops up all the crispy and greasy bits and brings it back with a triumphant smile. The establishment's coup de grace, no doubt. (Btw, can someone explain coup de grace, d'etat and all these annoying latin bits?). In the meantime, as we hit noon, customers - several regulars no doubt - started pouring in.

Best meal I'd had in Turkey.

Deja vu

Tokyo. You know what that means - gratuitous bowls of ramen unsolicited by hunger and Brussels at Kamiyacho.

Sent from outer space.

Here we go again

As part of my public service mission - you know how seriously I take that - I announce to beer-lovers that there is a Belgian watering hole in an old courtyard in Shanghai, called Kaiba at 528 Kangding lu. At the entrance is a bar/restaurant run by a Serb; then a Basque pintxos place; and a wine bar.

I call it the "cultural exception alley".

Sent from outer space.

How to feel special

As I was walking around Khor Virap (literally: "deep pit"), an excited but slightly skankily-dressed Armenian girl of perhaps 15 requested through my guide that she's like her picture taken with me. This is surely a sign of great things to come, but alas I fear this dream will dissipate along with the rest. The girl at the museum (they have lots of excess manpower hanging about everywhere) also excitedly confirmed how much Armenians love Indian culture, courtesy Soviet-era adoption of Bollywood as non-propaganda entertainment.

Finally, my (reasonably) cute guide Gayane, on the second of our two-day trip down south to Goris, had invited me and our driver for lunch to her grandma's house in the village of Shinuhayr, where she had grown up. The smart girl, god bless her, had called ahead to inform them I was vegetarian (note the tone of sarcasm). Anyway we were met by an old, sweet crone clad in black, slightly hunched with a headscarf - the matriarch. It was my guide's mom's mom. In the family were her uncle, his wife and two kids; and her aunt, whose husband "works in Russia" and whose 3 daughters were married and gone.

On the right of the dirt track (literally - some water and attempts at resurfacing with mud had created a quagmire) were a few 3-storeyed Soviet-era blocks of apartments reminiscent in style, color and decrepitude of any building in Chembur - or Marine Parade for that matter. The ancestral home was thankfully a one-storeyed house with slooping metal roof, with a large metal gate and a courtyard.  We entered a very small square area on the left, turned left and were at a mid-sized room with a TV and hi-fi system at one end, windows on three sides (including the wall separating it from an interior room) and a table laid out with a feast: green peas (tasted canned, but by far my favorite course of the day), some reddish pickled sort of veggies, fried potatoes and onions (with a side of poultry), some other weird greens, boiled pumpkin, salad etc. I was offered a shot of mulberry vodka ("Home made - stronger but better!"), of which I finished half and finally realized why on my second day in Armenia I had felt a strange sensation that my brain had become unhinged and was floating about (I said"brain" not "mind") - I'd had a shot of pear brandy the first evening. Some raspberry juice (home made, what else). "Foreigners can't drink our vodka", the man of the house was translated saying.

The uncle was a big man, with a head the size of a football and body that may have been used in Star Wars as Jabba the Hut. His fingers were the size of my forearms. He was apparently quite the wit as he was saying things that caused everyone to squeal. Clearly many were at my expense. The boy turned out to be 17, although based on the size of *his* fingers and his monobrow I had guessed him to be 18-22; then I had to guess Gayane's and she turned out to be 26, a little older than I had said (but about where I truthfully thought it would be).

Gayane was given a large plastic bag of fruit, picked from their backyard one assumed. The aunt and the female cousin jumped into the car for a ride till the center of town. We dropped them off and began the long drive back to Yerevan.

A city's birthday

After overpaying ("Sorry, but I have no small notes to give you" - gestured the cabbie with a shrug, for he spoke no English) I walked over to a mid-priced hotel mentioned in the guidebook, hoping they'd have a room. The old, broadly-built, short cabbie in a weathered suit and gold-capped teeth smiled, cursed at lousy drivers, spat at least once at an overtaker, and honked at the cops for they had sealed off several roads, including the approach to my hotel - hence the hike. On the way, there was a fiesta in a nearby park - kids dressed up, singing and dancing. My sophisticated reaction: "Hmmm...??!!"

A quick check-in later, I hit the streets, noticing an increasing number of folks, many waving flags, as I walked to the center. On Mashtots Ave, there was a stage with colorfully dressed performers doing solo and group dances and songs. All roads were pedestrian.

Back on the main Republic Square, packed with people, streets packed too, and cafes overflowing. On the main strip Abovyan, by the Golden Tulip a jazzy quartet on stage. An onlooker explained that it was the "city day".

Settling finally down at a fancy restaurant ("Dolmama"), I asked the waiter again, and he explained it was the "birthday of Yerevan city". The city traces itself back to the 7th century B.C., - "before Rome", many tour guides repeated. I sipped an excellent Armenian red, waiting for my trout manti.

What a way to arrive!

On the way back, Republic Square had absolutely filled up. Live performers on stage, presumably Armenian pop stars. Little groups making space to dance amidst the crowd. Weaving through was an exercise that, however, I am well-trained in. The Marriott was shut, only allowing guests (and me of course - it's good to look different and be clueless some times) but the bar was awful. I went back to my shitty hotel, sipped a beer on the al-fresco bar and watched people. I need a separate article for the girls.

Bah

If you are what you eat, I am now a rather plump sheep.

Sent from outer space.