This term has been bandied about the food world these days and although I have a general concept about what it is, I had yet to actually taste food branded as molecular gastronomy, that is until last Saturday night.
The concept of molecular gastronomy is relatively simple: a scientific exploration of the processes by which food is cooked, presented and tasted. It's been around since physicist Nicholas Kurti coined the term in 1988 because of his basic assertion that:
" it is a sad reflection on our civilization that while we can and do measure the temperature in the atmosphere of Venus we do not know what goes on inside our soufflés."
I'm not going to try and attempt to give a history lesson here (you can find it here), I merely wanted to draw attention to the fact that the science of studying food, which has made it's way into mainstream kitchens, has firm roots in science. This style of cooking is definitely trendy, and with each discovery comes a revelation, but underneath it all I want to know that it's more than just a parlor trick. The fact that it is rooted in science tells me it's not, but eating is believing.
The food at Colborne Lane, in Toronto, certainly was not. We had some friends visiting from Vancouver and they are used to eating at places like Vij's and Salt, so we wanted to take them to a place worth remembering, and it was.
Each item on the menu contained an array of flavors, uniquely combined to create perfect bites. I had seared Sea Scallops with sweet chili, citrus fruit, coconut milk and licorice yogurt. Other dishes included squid with peanut brittle or lamb medallions with quinoia.
The real trickery lay in what was presented for desert: lemon creme fraiche sorbet made at your table with a bowl of liquid nitrogen. It was quite a show, the whole table was covered in a campy horror movie mist while our server madly stirred the mixture, producing one spoonful of the best ice cream I have ever had.
The funny part was that his efforts produced about a pint of ice cream which he then took a away to be "plated", but he came back with a minuscule amount of sorbet with a couple of Timbits. The question in all of our minds was "What do you do with the rest?" In the end the question faded into memory as we polished off the rest of our wine. We were paying for the display, the showmanship, not the quantity. If we wanted a tub of ice cream why not just go to Loblaws?
So it seems that although this new style of cooking has sound roots in scientific principles, there is an essential component of showmanship. And why wouldn't there be? This scientific type of cooking has been happening for decades, silently, behind closed doors in food labs such as Kraft or McDonald's.
Looking out my window on this fine Christmas morn, I was heartened to see that my neighbour had decked his halls with sides of bacon. It made me pause and solemnly consider the agony of Christ on the cross.
This weekend, we decided to head up to Taipei for a Sunday snackathon. First stop: Little Burma in Nanshijiao. Thanks in part to the old KMT-Burma-heroin highway-connection, Taipei is home to a thriving Burmese community. Xinhua Street is packed with Burmese restaurants of all shapes and sizes. Being a virgin to Burmese cuisine, the most difficult part of the outing was selecting a restaurant. We fell back on the old Taiwanese trick of following the crowd and headed in to a hole-in-the-wall style joint that was almost full. It turned out that this was because of the time of day, it was mid-afternoon and apparently the Burmese enjoy congregating in tea shops around this time. Everyone was drinking milk tea and eating some kind of coffee cake. I didn't come all the way to Big Town for tea and cake, but being sporting types, we ordered up these items to start. The cake had a unique spicy taste which was pleasant enough, although it still had that overly spongy texture that is an unfortunate trait of most Asian baking. The milk tea hit the spot on a cold day. It was strong and sweet, reminiscent of the street teas served up by chaiwalas throughout India.
But enough with the tea and cake. The real test of any East Asian cuisine is its noodle. Luckily, this tea shop also happened to have noodles on the menu. We ordered up a liang mien (cold noodle) and a tang yi mien (flat noodles in soup). The liang mien was a dish I had eaten a few times in Chongqing, China. There, the cold noodles are placed in a dish with the raw ingredients of the sauce spooned on top. These included sugar, black vinegar, peanuts, sesame oil, garlic, and cilantro. You then mix it yourself with your chopsticks at the table. I had never been too impressed with the dish. It was always overpoweringly sweet and the granular sugar didn't have the chance to reduce in the sauce leaving an unpleasant grittiness. The cold oil was also not given the chance to absorb sufficiently into the noodles. It begrudgingly inhabited the same bowl as the noodles in an unhappily arranged marriage.
The Burmese version was markedly superior. The sauce was premixed giving the flavours a chance to get to know each other. Much less sugar was added and the garlic was dried, giving an extra crunch to the experience. Cilantro was generously mixed throughout providing a sharp shot of freshness in every mouthful. Being a lover of extra spicy food, I found the flavour a touch bland but this was easily remedied with a couple of spoonfuls of chili seed paste mixed in oil which was provided on the table. I consider this to be the most satisfying of the various species of hot sauces. The flavours and textures of this dish blended harmoniously like an old jazz standard. My taste buds gave it a standing ovation. And the benefit of liang mien is that being cold, there is nothing to stop you from shoveling it down the trap at lighting speed. No burned tongue here. Check out Sherry wolfing back those noodles at mach 3. I'm surprised the camera could ever pick up the the jackhammer-like motion of chopsticks. Luckily she didn't get her hair caught in the sticks or she might have ripped her scalp clean off. A true testament to the quality of this dish.
The tang yi mien was equally unique and satisfying. I love this style of broad, flat, rice noodles. They have more elasticity and chewiness than a standard noodle but they demand a thicker sauce to compete with their girth. Think of how alfredo sauce is served with fettucini as opposed to spaghetti. Thus, this type of noodle doesn't work too well in a standard watery soup. The Burmese soup was well aware of this dilemma and answered the call perfectly. The broth was thickened, but not conventionally with flour or starch. At first I thought it contained creamed potato, but inquiries to the proprietor proved this theory to be incorrect. Apparently it was thickened with some kind of dried fish powder, which was surprising as it didn't have a strong fish flavour. Perhaps the addition of good dose of ginger and garlic was enough to transform the fishiness into a new and unfamiliar flavour. A spoonful of dried garlic and cilantro on top provided variations in colour, flavour and texture that made the whole dish sing. Top marks again for the tang yi mien.
Sorry Taiwan but both of these noodle dishes were better than any Taiwanese noodle dish I've eaten. These Burmese inventions now sit on the shelf of my memory that holds the greatest noodle dishes in Asia. They take their place beside the Saigon pho, the Fujianese dried pork and mushroom 'dry' noodle, and the various super-spicy bowls of noodle ecstasy I consumed in Chongqing.
But little Burma is not only good for the noodles. The Burmese shops have a variety of strange and exciting spices and snacks. Make your coronary worthwhile with a few bags of homemade pork rinds. Deep fried pork fat never tasted so good. And pick up a couple of jars of spicy marinated vegetables and tofu. Guaranteed to add that exotic je ne sais quoi to any stir fry. I've only just scratched the surface of Burmese cuisine. You better believe I'll be making a return trip to little Burma the next time I land in Big Town.
Little Burma: Take the orange metro line to Nanshijiao Station, take exit four and head right on Xing Nan Rd. Walk for about ten minutes past the police station and take a left on Hua Xin St.
Last week, I had the privilege to visit a couple of old friends down in Taitong, on the east coast of Taiwan. They have recently opened a guesthouse and restaurant, and have been working hard to get it all up and running. I was very impressed on the whole.
Artist, leather-worker, and widely-known costumer of Taiwan rock acts, Roman McNamara and his equally talented wife, Emily, are making for themselves a life in paradise worth a thousand envies of us city-dwellers. A few months ago, they teamed up with another old Taichungian friend, Zac Harper and his wife Divine to create a funky, affordable guesthouse equipped with a killer burger restaurant on the first floor.
Pirate's is a four-storey building located on 353 Chung Hua Road, Section 2. It's easy enough to find if you're coming to Taitong via the number 11 coastal highway. Upon entering Taitong City, the 11 forks off left and right. The right tine of the fork is Chung Hua Road. Follow it for few blocks and you will see Pirate's on the left side of the road. Keep an eye out for a leather flag brandishing skull and cross....knife and fork, billowing from the 3rd floor.
Rooms are spacious, the beds are that beautiful marriage of soft and firm, and much of the supporting furniture in the rooms is handcrafted by Roman and Zac from locally found pieces of driftwood. Close your eyes and the aromas of cypress waft in and transform this 4 storey walk-up into a log cabin. Better yet, head up to the rooftop, gaze at the stars at night, or enjoy the sea view by day.
Rooms go for NT400 per person, per night. You can't beat that in Taitong. Hailed as Taiwan's top tourist spot, unwitting travelers often find themselves paying muchos dollarinos for little better than a rinky-dink bed in some reconverted brothel. Head to Pirate's. If you're coming by plane or train, or happening to be heading back to the wan from Orchid or Green Island, they'll even come get you. The same service applies when you must reluctantly depart Taitong's majestic serenity for the train station or airport. Overall, I had a great time. The beach is only a few minutes drive away, and scooters and a jeep can be rented from Pirate's at overly-reasonable fees.
In proper Hungry Donkey fashion, we shall finish our observations with some tasty meats, cooked up in the D&Z Cafe. Located on the first floor of the Pirate's guesthouse, decorated with old LP art, driftwood tables, and an underlying 50s diner feel, the D&Z specialize in burgers. To be more precise--ostrich burgers. In keeping with their fresh and healthy approach to food and life at Pirate's, Zac chose ostrich over beef for it's low fat content, and in particular for the free-range, chemical and hormone free life the ostrich enjoys before visiting your plate as a sumptuous and choice burger. I couldn't believe it. The texture is a little firmer than beef, but just as juicy. I would say that an ostrich burger patty has everything flavor-wise that beef has, without that heavy bloated feeling you get after eating a sizable portioned hamburger. I tell you this; I experienced no post traumatic food coma. And although their are also pork-based burgers on the menu--and I do possess a pork-tooth, a veritable molar rather, I opted for ostrich each time.
The menu itself is basic enough; yet ranges from a 50 buck kid's burger to a killer mexican burger, then off again to a very good Hawaiian burger. As a Taipeinese, I almost dropped a mouthful of my burger on my plate when I noticed that my bill for a Mexican, fries, and a coke came to only 150NT! Being one of the few foreign-run restaurants in the Taitong area, you definitely need to hit the D and Z cafe for some mouth-watering hamburgarian times.
Nearing my departure, I had a chance to talk to Roman about how he felt his life has changed since moving to Taitong. Wielding a chainsaw in one hand, a thick glass of some purple health potion in the other, he looked up from his work of transforming the neighbor's junkyard into a public park and patio area, and said, "I've never worked so hard, or been so happy in my life." And when the management can say such poignant words as these, whilst separating bags of trash from old sinks in their soon to be park, you know you've found a good spot to visit and stay a few nights. More information can be found at the D&Z Cafe's website. Click here.
Last Friday at the man-shan I was treated to some extra-tasty chicken burritos. Austin worked his tex-mex magic whipping up a home-made salsa for the occasion. The burritos hit the spot, and not to look a gift-donkey in the mouth, but this salsa was chunky to the point where it no longer could be honestly classified under the category 'salsa'. This was a 'salad' if I'd ever seen one. I'm definitely a man of the fine-chop salsa persuasion. In my books, If it doesn't stick to the chips, it's not salsa. I know, in this hectic rat-race of a world, who's got time to be chopping tomatoes and onions all night. We've all got things to do and people to see. Enter the Slapchop! Guess what Santa's bringing Austin for Christmas.
When's the last time you went for some Canton BBQ. Check out this lunch: char sui (cha sao) pork, flash fried deep greens and cabbage, pork scrambled eggs, and rice. This came in at 65nt or a whole 2 bucks. Reason number 3844 why I don't cook in Taiwan. I picked up this box in Taichung on Chongqing Rd and Chinghai Rd. Perfect for the linguistically challenged, just point to the hanging meat and they'll do the rest.
Here's a site to make any donkey cry. This Is Why You're Fat, is a collection of some of the most disturbingly fattening foods known to man. If you ever plan on eating yourself to death, a la Marco Ferreri's La Grande Bouffe, this site shows you how to do it with style. Observe in fascination and horror, the fine line between mouth-watering cuisine and masochistic self-destruction. Mondo food for a mondo America.
From top to bottom: The fat bastard; The meat baby; The latke brisket sandwich; IHOP who-cakes; The double coronary burger with two grilled cheese sandwiches for a bun; The Smortuary; Eggs benedict poutine
Despite the plethora of cool, well-designed coffee shops in Taiwan, all of them (much like Jerry Seinfeld's TV girlfriends) seem to have a fatal flaw. These flaws range from shitty coffee, to way overpriced coffee, to small crowded tables. At 85C, the nations most popular low-end coffee chain, I once sat in amazement as they handed out free noise makers to the kids. You know, the ones with a balloon attached to a whistle. The sound they produce is somewhere between the squeals of a pig being slaughtered and those of a cat in heat. It was great to hear twenty of them going off at the same time as I sipped my americano.
At Starbucks, the coffee is passable and not too over-priced. The music selection generally ranges from great to inoffensive and its always at the right volume. The decor and lighting are also fairly soothing and I even dig on some of the prints decorating the walls. The employees have been well-programmed, and even though I'm sick of being asked if I want cake and being warned that my coffee is hot for the trillionth time, they are generally pleasant and get the drinks out in a reasonable amount of time. Most importantly for a crowded country like Taiwan, the tables are spaced at a comfortable distance so you can stretch out and chill without getting elbowed or assed in the back of the head.
I'm also a huge fan of the Moby Dick inspired name and the quasi-cultish looking logo. Did you ever take a close look at it? What's with the girl in the crown? How about those things she's holding in each hand beside her head?
If you haven't figured it out on your own, she's a mermaid; and that seductress of a siren is spreading her two fish tails in a position readers of Hustler might be familiar with. Check out how the logo has evolved over the years.
Here's the original 15th century engraving that the first Starbucks logo is taken from:
Look at that shameless tart spreading it for the sailors. It wasn't only the siren's song that drew so many men to their watery graves.
But is this subliminal porn at Starbucks limited to the logo? This morning I arrived at my local branch for my daily caffeine fix and decided to venture out beyond my usual coffee of the day. I ordered up an item that had been piquing my curiosity for some time. This item, labeled as a canele, was foreign to my experience. It was a dark, chocolaty brown colour and of a peculiar shape that I found myself strangely drawn to.
Check it out from this angle:
Hmmm, what is it about this shape that I find so alluring? Let's take another look at the name of this tasty treat. Now if we take the 'c' off the front of canele, what are we left with? That's right: anele. Now look again at the shape and try to pretend that it doesn't remind you of something.
Come to think of it, a long time ago at my favorite steak house, I did have the chance to sample this desert. It was delicious. Here's a picture of the place:
Long time friend Andy Kincart has been collecting, selling, and drinking high quality Taiwan tea for many years. His passion for the stuff is so great that I will often receive text messages in the middle of the night from him simply just to tell me that he is drinking tea. As much as any of my friends love anything, I can't really say that I've ever gotten a text saying, "this is the best burger," or "sex rocks." I find this undying and consistent expression of his pleasure very inspiring. It reminds me that even when you've experienced something many times, you can still sit back and appreciate it again through the senses.
Here is a piece written by Tea Andy, describing this year's annual trek to the mountains to purchase winter tea. Andy sells various teas through his website blackdragonteas.com . Check it out. And enjoy.
2009 Winter
Tea shopping began the weekend that a friend of a friend in tea visited from the States for the first time. We promptly left the city and went directly to the home of my tea mentors in Lugu - aka - Deer Valley. Our hostess proceeded to brew three different teas in swift succession. In retrospect I deem this was because she perceived the guest I brought as a buyer interested in tasting the tea she had just finished roasting and had available. Otherwise it would have been a much more casual and spontaneous process of brewing whatever tea was brought to mind in the course of our conversation.
Of course, all three brews were very pleasant and each with its own distinct character - albeit that they were from farms within a five mile radius of each other as the crow flies, and all made in the fashion of Dong Ding Oolong. Their distinctions lie in the variations of flavor and consistency based on their microclimates, and the degree of both oxidation and roasting of the leaves that were harvested from each farm – not to mention the weather around their time of harvest. Some might add that the kind of day that tea maker was having at the time has something to do with it as well. I conclude that all of the above are rather obvious observations that could be called “givens”.
All this having been said, I was not initially struck by any of them as being a tea that I instantly had to have. This also has its own complex combination of influential factors – such as the state of my tastebuds given that I was up til 5 am the night before drinking scotch; or my perceived response of my new tea friend in tasting the teas that he has some serious concepts about. In the end, I think I was just craving some rich, dark, heavily roasted kick-ass winter oolong to revive my feeble form. The three brews I drank were a bit more subtle and delicate than what my needy state warranted. So I kept quiet regarding which one I would choose to procure.
As the conversation ensued in accompaniment of the tea being brewed and imbibed, a specialty tea was revealed to be of interest to the new guest. So the next thing I knew, we were drinking a variation of a tea called “Oriental Beauty”. The variation is called “Gui Fei Cha” – of which I continue to forget the English translation. The variation consists of the tea leaves being rolled tightly in the fashion of Taiwan Oolong in contrast to the traditional “open leaf rolling” that is derived from its mainland progenitor – which is used to make Oriental Beauty. As I understand it, Oriental Beauty is a relatively recent discovery/innovation made by “accident” on this island (although I am not convinced, and I’ll tell you why in a minute). I should research it again instead of winging the story I read/heard somewhere along the line, but it goes something like this...
Once upon a time, a farmer’s (almost assuredly – summer-) crop got infested with what I have observed to be a kind of aphid, although I haven’t scientifically confirmed this. This caused the leaves to shrivel and be stunted in their growth with visible “damage” and discoloration. The latter of which incidentally looks exactly like the effect “oxidation” which is an essential process in the making of Oolong. So in short, the aphid bugs were causing a kind of “pre-harvest oxidation” on the leaves, along with an apparent (or the sense-perception equivalent in the vernacular of taste) chemical adjustment in the leaf resulting from the plant’s immune response to the attack. This all ended up in a scraggly, stunted leaf that made the new growth of the plant look ugly, so the story goes… but the farmer was undeterred, as it was his seasonal crop and was obliged to make of it what he could. So he made it as he evidently saw fit, given the circumstances. And then came the moment of brewing these scraggly leaves… I imagine that farmer as being propelled into a moment of ecstatic revelation that rocked his tea world. Hence, the name “Oriental Beauty” was ordained to this leaf that possessed an inner beauty far beyond the fleeting impressions of external appearances.
It is true that tea leaves that have been bitten by this bug that naturally occurs during the warm wet months of summer produce a brew that is in a class of its own. I personally feel that the most striking quality of Oriental Beauty is its substantial character. I mean this tea has body and legs that will make a tea freak weak in the knees. The integrated qualities of flavor are such that it makes it hard to overbrew, i.e. it doesn’t become overly bitter from being too concentrated. It has a dark, distinctly Oolong character that is very reminiscent of traditional Chinese Oolong, yet much more. I always feel like I hit a pathetic wall when it comes to putting an olfactory-palatal experience into words, but trust me – this tea is worth whoring yourself for – if need be. Okay, I’ll say something about how it tastes. It has qualities of sweetness that are very close to honey – that is the first thing you think of as it coats the palate. And then there is something like rose and pine that first fills the nose and then the entire head really. But there is so much more to it than can be said. Something happens, at least sometimes, when this tea is imbibed. It affects the nervous and endocrine system in ways that will forever make scientists and connoisseurs alike sound like nerds trying to explain it. One more thing about its character though – this tea will outbrew even the most indulgent tea lush. A good Oriental Beauty simply cannot be depleted of flavor and essence no matter how many times you brew it – at least within reason – as I said, it’ll give more than you can take if indeed you begin with the first brew and take it from there.
Well I sure as heck didn’t plan on writing pages about Oriental Beauty, but these things happen. So before I move on, let me just mention why I don’t really believe that it is relatively recent discovery. I can sum it up in one word really: natural. This tea occurs naturally – prior to (and with luck, after) artificial means of pest control. So in other words, it probably has happened (from time to time at least) for as long as people have been drinking tea. But most historical accounts have certain ulterior motives employed by those who write it, so we’ll just acknowledge that for what it is… I will also mention though, that making this type of tea by allowing insect infestation does come at great cost to its makers. The yield is something like one quarter of a non-infested harvest, and infestation has a lasting effect on the productive health of the plant. Basically it comes down to yield, which puts the price of Oriental Beauty in a class of its own as well. Nevertheless, I intend to seek out this tea and share it when I can, especially now since I’ve ranted at such length about it.
Back to winter tea shopping, yet continuing on a similar tangent: My guest is all about aged and/or organic tea. So upon hearing about the type of tea that we proceeded to enjoy, he became much more noticeably appreciative of its quality. He is of the conviction that organic aged tea is distinctly different in its composition and consequently its effect on the person drinking it. This is not just an observation in his relationship to tea. It is a central tenet of his livelihood.
He is of the school of “Cha Dao” – basically a spiritual path that is devoted to cultivating an understanding of the transformative and healing nature of tea. While I personally have not pursued such an overt acknowledgment of the secret powers of tea, I was interested to meet someone who is embodying a more defined shamanistic role in relation to leaf that I live for. Another way of describing this class of tea lover is that of the purist. From the stories my new friend related, there evidently is a very small population of folks around the globe who continue to carry on the traditions that have roots in Taoist and Buddhist lineages.
Most of these folks seem to find Pu-er tea to be the leaf of choice. Without going into detail about the rich history and complex character of this leaf, I deem their attraction to lie in the fact that this is one of the most “pre-modern” teas to be had. Quality Pu-er is reputed to be harvested from wild tea trees in southwest China that predate any commercial methods of agriculture. In addition to this, a significant factor in assessing the quality of Pu-er is its age, i.e. how long it has been kept in proper storage after its production. My visitor explained how he experiences the effects of drinking aged tea to be quite different than fresh tea. In his perception, aged tea has a much more calming, soothing, and clarifying effect whereas fresh tea is often too stimulating and agitating for him. While I agree with his point regarding the varying effects of these teas, in my experience, it’s all about moderation. And with this point, I believe he also agrees. The other main aspect of his exclusive orientation toward aged teas is the absence of chemical additives. These folks that make tea into a religion are serious about their eucharist, to adopt the Christian nomenclature – although I personally much prefer the term “Blood of Buddha”. To this, for now, I will plead the 5th. It may well be a valid point, but much more pertinent is that fact that my world is far from pure. I fully respect the promotion of chemical-free agriculture. But in my experience of visiting tea farms and knowing the farmers and drinking copious amounts of their tea for more than fifteen years, I find no signs of this issue being a significant hazard.
As you may have noticed (if indeed you are still reading) that I tend to ramble when telling tea stories, and that I’ve yet to get around to buying tea… Well, following our mid-afternoon tea session in the home my closest tea friends, we proceeded to visit the home of an award-winning tea maker up near Phoenix Mountain. A fellow American ex-pat’s in-laws introduced me to this farmer from whom they have been buying for 30 years. His tea has repeatedly ranked among the top ten, including first place, in local competitions that are comprised of up to 5,000 entries. But other than the complimentary award plaques on the walls of his dimly lit, old farmhouse style tea factory – there is no sign of such status. This stands in stark contrast to the pretentious houses, cars, and personalities of other award-winning tea farmers that I have met over the years. This guy is strictly roots, and everything I’ve perceived about him so far represents this.
I met him a year ago and bought winter tea then, followed by spring tea, and now winter again. But this visit was a wholly new level of connection. The previous visits involved crowded scenes of family and guests where I was the foreign anomaly that amused the locals with my interest in tea (been there done that a thousand times in varying contexts). This time I pulled up outside his house as he walked out of the adjacent building that housed his tea factory. He was the only one around, and was tasting some freshly roasted winter tea, carefully assessing its qualities to determine how to proceed in further roasting to bring out its full potential. Just a few standard white porcelain tasting cups, bowls and spoons on a very weatherrd drain tray and an electric kettle under exposed wooden rafters built on a worn concrete foundation. We sat on plastic stools in a temple of my liking.
Fuck the falderal of fancy wares and pretty clothes and sophisticated art. Fuck the poser mannerisms and thinly veiled pretense comprised of petty book-learned wisdom sans weathered faces and leathered hands and world-wearied vibes. Fuck all the concepts about what some oh-so-subtly- sensitive bitches in robes experience in their fabricated fairy dollhouses as they sip tea and unconsciously strive to get over on some sorry ass maladjusted spiritual seekers that show up with cash to trade for something meaningful. Pardon my sentiments getting reduced into ghetto expression, but after all this word, I guess I just want to get to the point.
This is the heart and soul of tea culture. This humble farmer who has worked his ass off for decades to become what he is. He fuckin cleared mountainsides and planted tea trees and dealt with typhoons and fungi and everything else that gets in the way(and hence is an integral part) of making something beautiful. He created the substance that gives existence to the entire world of tea. In short, this is where all my respect and reverence is given – to the makers of tea. I personally have no need for any city slicker entrepreneurs or temple dwelling posers – although I readily acknowledge their place in the overall scheme of things. But I just want hang with the farmers.
In this edition of Eat Yer Werds, we will be looking at a tasty morsel of literary gumbo called A Confederacy of Dunces, by John Kennedy Toole. Only two of Toole's novels have ever been published, and both many years after his unfortunate suicide. The other, The Neon Bible, I have not read, and know little of. In short, there are some funny books out there. But the laughter that a reader experiences is usually an inward laughter; a laughter of the mind, so to speak. It is like when we hear our own voices when we read. The fact that this laughter of consciousness is not an outward physical manifestation doesn't make a book less funny, but my point is that very few books are capable of making one laugh out loud. You know, LOL? In fact, I can only think of a handful that wield that power; and A Confederacy of Dunces is definitely one of them.
Inspired by Foomanchuck's Cortezian journeys around the globe, seeking the perfect sausage, I was reminded of a passage from A Confederacy of Dunces, in which our hero, the 30 year old, obese, unemployed, and highly eloquent Ignatius J. Reilly finds a job peddling frankfurters around the French Quarter. Perhaps this short passage will inspire those who have not read this great book.
When he had finished the first hot dog, Ignatius prepared and consumed another, contemplating other kindnesses that might postpone his having to go to work again. Fifteen minutes later, noticing that the supply of hot dogs in the little well was visibly diminishing, he decided in favour of abstinence for the moment. He began to push slowly down the street, calling again, "Hot dogs!"
George, who was wandering up Carondelet with an armload of packages wrapped in plain brown paper, heard the cry and went up to the gargantuan vendor.
"Hey, stop. Gimme one of these."
Ignatius looked sternly at the young boy who had placed himself in the wagon's path. His valve protested against the pimples, the surly face that seemed to hang from the long well-lubricated hair, the cigarette behind the ear, the aquamarine jacket, the delicate boots, the tight trousers that bulged offensively in the crotch in violation of all rules of theology and geometry.
"I am sorry," Ignatius snorted. "I have only a few frankfurters left, and I must save them. Please get out of my way."
"Save them? Who for?"
"That is none of your business, you waif. Why aren't you in school? Kindly stop molesting me. Anyway, I have no change."
"I got a quarter," the thin white lips sneered.
"I cannot sell you a frank, sir. Is that clear?"
"Whatsa matter with you, friend?"
"What's the matter with me? What the matter with you? Are you unnatural enough to want a hot dog this early in the afternoon? My conscience will not let me sell you one. Just look at your loathsome complexion. You are a growing boy whose system needs to be surfeited with vegetables and orange juice and whole wheat bread and spinach and such. I, for one, will not contribute to the debauchery of a minor."
"Whadda you talking about? Sell me one of them hot dogs. I'm hungry. I ain't had no lunch."
"No!" Ignatius screamed so furiously that the passerby stared. "Now get away from me before I run you over with this cart."
George pulled open the lid of the bun compartment and said, "Hey, you got plenty stuff in here. Fix me a weenie."
"Help!" Ignatius screamed, suddenly remembering the old man's warning about robberies. "Someone is stealing my buns! Police!" Ignatius backed up the cart and rammed it into George's crotch.
"Ouch! Watch out there, you nut."
"Help! Thief!"
"Shut up, for Christ's sake," George said and slammed the door. "You oughta be locked up, you big fruit. You know that?"
"What?" Ignatius screamed. "What impertinence was that?"
"You big crazy fruit," George snarled more loudly and slouched away, the taps on his heels scraping the sidewalk. "Who wants to eat anything your fruity hands touched?"
"How dare you scream obscenities at me. Someone grab that boy," Ignatius said loudly as George disappeared down the street. "Someone with some decency grab that juvenile delinquent. That filthy little minor. Where is his respect? That little guttersnipe must be lashed until he collapses!"
A woman in the group around the mobile hot dog said, "Ain't that awful? Where they get them hot dog vendors from?"
"Bums. They all bums," someone answered her.
"Wine is what it is. They all crazy from wine if you ast me. They shouldn't let people like him out on the street."
"Is my paranoia getting completely out of hand," Ignatius asked the group, "or are you mongoloids really talking about me?"
"Let him alone," someone said. "Look at them eyes."
"What's wrong with my eyes?" Ignatius asked viciously.
"Let's get outta here."
"Please do." Ignatius replied, his lips quivering, and prepared another hot dog to quiet his trembling nervous system. With shaking hands, he held the foot of red plastic and dough to his mouth and slipped it in two inches at a time. The active chewing massaged his throbbing head. When he had shoved in the last millimeter of crumb, he felt much calmer.
A Confederacy of Dunces--John Kennedy Toole. Penguin Books.
As with the great American humourist Mark Twain, reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated. The ass-end of the donkey is alive and well and on location in the great city of Edmonton, Canada. I have been undercover in this city for one reason and one reason alone. To procure and consume the greatest sausage ever made by man. I have made the trip in great secrecy, (daring not to even alert the famously loose-lipped other half of the donkey, Kinger), so as to avoid the inevidable throngs of media that plague my every move.
Sausage hunt in lovely Edmonton
I, like anyone with a serious meat tooth, have a deep and profound love of the sausage. And while I do enjoy tossing a few hotdogs down the proverbial hallway, the 'sausage party' is in fact my favorite form of social get-together. Just the other week, I picked up a few extra pricy links of Italian and German sausage to be enjoyed at the home of meat-loving percussionist, Pete Holmes. Where better to enjoy a few fat sausages than over at the 'man-shan', I thought. I passed the links off to Holmes and he cooked them to perfection--half blackened on the outside but still juicy on the inside. My first few bites were rewarding, but as I continued to stuff my face with sausage after sausage, I began to realize something amiss with these particular species of links. The spice was good, if unremarkable; the casing broke with a satisfying crack; the flavourful juices trickled down my chin; so what exactly was the problem? Finally, the great gynalcohologist Wade Davis alerted me to the problem: the texture. The meat was ground too finely, the tooth passed through the meat with little to no resistance. There was simply nothing to chew. Much like a standard, fleshless blood sausage (or a bowl of jello), this textural impotence left me feeling like I was eating food more fit for a nursery or an assisted care center, than a manly man-shan barbecue. So as you can see, the production of the perfect sausage is a complex affair. It involves selecting the right cuts of meat; adding the perfect percentage of fat; finding the ideal chemistry of spice; choosing the right girth of casing; and just as importantly, grinding the meat to the correct degree of fineness.
Wade Davis with friends at the man-shan sausage party
I have enjoyed many an exquisite sausage in my life. In Sao Paulo, I slid back six or so spicy numbers as part of a churasco mixto. I squeezed lime juice on these babies and enjoyed them with a large bowl of fresh arugula. In Winnipeg, I was treated by the famed architessa Suzy Melo to an obscenely large and mottled homemade Portugese blood sausage prepared by her mother. It was heavy with garlic and contained chunks of pork meat to satisfy the tooth and jaw. I have feasted on various sublime German wursts, English bangers and Italian salsiccias. But all of these variations of the sausage pale beside the smokey satisfaction of a good kolbasa. The kolbasa comes in two varieties, Polish and Ukrainian. The Ukrainian kolbasa--also spelled 'kovbasa' and 'kobasa'--is made from quality smoked ham and predominantly spiced with salt and garlic. It can be eaten cold and emanates an enticing shade of pink. The Polish variety is a uniform grey colour, it requires cooking and generally contains a larger amount of black pepper.
By far the finest kolbasa I have eaten in my life is made by Marchyshyn's Home Meat Market in Edmonton. To get an idea of how dear this sausage is to me, the word 'Marchyshyn' was one of the first I ever spoke. Before the age of two, I would demand of my parents "more Marchyshyn!" My mother would find rings of the stuff hidden under my bed for safe keeping. I have not lived in Edmonton for more than twenty years and I have never missed much about the city. But when my friends in Taiwan sometimes see me staring off into the distance with the hint of a tear at the corner of my eye, they know what I am thinking about.
Marchyshyn's Kolbasa
So what makes Marchyshyn's kolbasa so superior to all other varieties? I have pondered this question for many years. After the textural disapointment of the recent links at the man-shan, I realized that texture was key. The Marchyshyn sausage is coarsely ground, you feel the girth of the ham as you bite in. But the art of sausage making is not simply a matter of grinding the meat coarsely. One must begin with meat of the highest quality. I'm sure you can imagine the disaster of taking a bowl of lips and assholes and grinding them coarsely. All would be revealed. Thus in a certain sense, one can say the beauty of the Marchyshyn kolbasa lies with its honesty. By starting with quality meat, and hilighting this quality through the coarseness of the grind, we are not simply given a quality sausage, we are given truth itself, embodied in the form of a sausage. Let us now ponder Aristotle's realm of the ideal, where the essense of all things lives in eternity. Here there exists not only a perfect triangle, square, and circle, but also one perfect ring of Marchyshyn kolbasa.
It was on November 29th when readers around the world witnessed Foomanchuck's final post--a hi-rez photo of a bunch of beer cans heaped up in a sink. The caption: Ninja Still Life. After receiving numerous queries from humble followers, imploring me to find out the meaning of this caustic last post, I hesitantly began to dig deeper into the sink--ignorant at the time of what dark matted matter I would pull up in my investigation.
What I found was horrifying enough to give me a trembling hand. It would appear that after Fooman began dealings with an outside source, a lasagna specialist located somewhere in Taichung City, he went missing. P______, a long time Taichung restaurateur, who carried with him not only a reputation for being a fine chef, but also badges, how do I say, forged of a darker metal. Reliable sources have oft seen P______ traipsing around in some pretty mealy circles. It must also be noted that he had, on more than one occasion, been seen with a bottle of Cutty Sark by his side--as if it were a cutlass of sorts. It leaves no doubt in my mind that Fooman's correspondence with the Taichung Underground is at the bottom of his disappearance. No doubt.
It was near this time that the Ninja Still Life post surfaced. I got a chance to talk to some people who were near and dear to Fooman, one of whom we shall call, Johnifer. He said, "last I saw him he was at a night market with P______." I asked what they were doing there, to which I was given the reply, "they was eying up this real toothsome lookin steak, you know." "No, I don't know, sir" was all I could say.
It has now been almost two weeks since our fine writer and journaliste has vanished from our inter-world--we pray that he may soon resurface unscathed, and with the most optimism I can manage in this worrisome time, that he may have a story or two to tell of his adventures with a pirate, masquerading as an Italian chef. Yet in a deeper place of my most alert mind, I fear that Fooman's final blog was a cry for help...
If a nice ass is dependent upon the pants that enshroud it, then its pretty fair to say that a good Indian curry depends on good spices. And I have none. They were good when I got them; aromatic and almost damp with freshness...but now they look and taste like the dusty crumbs found in the bottom of a post-war box of corn flakes. And that blows.
There are keys to making a good curry, all of which I follow, in various orders, depending on how I'm feeling. But generally, without a good mix of powdered spices, you end up with one flavor, instead of the marriage of many.
I'm bummed. I used to consider my curry the jammy of curries. And now, it's more like the Huggies of curry--baby poop with the color of raccoon crap; yellowish like a jaundice-stained rummy. So, in short, keep your spices in well-sealed jars, freeze them, duct tape them if you have to. Don't let those precious BO making aromas escape from their little glass sanctums. Otherwise, you'll be laying on some serious salt action; which is what I gone done. Now, that's all I got to say about it.
