Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts

Friday, 6 January 2012

Funky food

When Fred and I recently spent some time in the Ardennes on something that can only be described as a midweek of culinary frenzy (cooking away stews, curries, soups, etc.), we had ample time to discuss the topic closest at hand: food.

Indeed, food is quite strange when you think of it. For one, there is the massive variety of the stuff that we put in our mouth, qua taste, shape, colour, smell, feel, etcetera. But another thing that has always fascinated me, is the idea what it must have been like for a caveman to first encounter a certain vegetable, fruit, nut, and so on and trying to eat it.

There are, of course, the obvious examples. Stuff like potatoes, for instance. How long do you think it will have taken the ancient Indians to realise that you should boil them instead of eating them raw? And why didn’t they just throw them away after that first crunchy bite? Corn is another one. Indeed, what did primitive men do with corn before popcorn was invented? That’s right, they ground it up, sifted it, added water and salt to it, baked it in an oven and called it bread. But how on earth did they get that idea?

And if you’re a bit critical (as I sometimes tend to be), you can ask the same question about all sorts of things. An egg, for instance. Imagine a caveman stooping, picking up what a hen just dropped out of her ass and holding an egg in his hand. First of all, it seems to me that the chances of him considering to eat it would be pretty slim, seeing that the object just fell out of a cloaca. Secondly, nobody would have told him to boil it up or fry it, and especially remove its shell! Imagine biting into an egg as if it were an apple. Would you give it a second go next time your chicken started pushing frantically?

Come to think of it: even easy foods like fruit could have given problems. Take oranges for instance - a prototypical fruit, if ever there was any. However, can you imagine primitive man first getting acquainted with an orange? Chances are that he first simply picked the fruit from the tree and started eating it like an apple. Now try eating the peel of an orange sometime, you’ll probably be able to imagine said caveman’s face when he bit through the bitter white stuff under the skin. Still, our hungry ancestor would quickly have learned that only the inside of the orange was nice. That’s obvious and would work with stuff like bananas or lychees too, but in other cases it might have taken some time. The apple technique wouldn’t have been quite as successful in the case of coconuts, I’m afraid.

Indeed, with much fruit it seems quite a conundrum how and why someone first started to eat it. Lemons or limes, for instance, seem quite useless in a time before lemonade or mojito. But the biggest mystery to me is kiwi or passion fruit. Indeed, let’s be honest, an orange probably already looked quite strange to primitive man (after all, what else is bright orange in nature?), but the hairy brown kiwi looks plain suspicious. I mean, they do look disturbingly similar to a monkey’s testicles, don’t they? And passion fruit isn’t much better. The only difference is that in this case the monkey must have been a bit smaller, and possibly a lot older too…

Yummy!

Wednesday, 21 December 2011

You are what you eat

A few months ago, Fred wrote a blogpost on Michel Lotito, a man who became famous for eating indigestible objects. Like airplanes, duh. Recently, I realized that there actually exists an official term for people eating things like clay, paper or stone: these people are said to suffer from pica, a medical disorder which is characterized by an unnatural appetite for largely non-nutritive substances. You might feel tempted to conclude that a rather substantial part of the world population suffers from pica, so let me set this straight: burgers from MacDonald's are nòt included.

As with most medical disorders – well, maybe with the exception of an obsession with cleaning – this is not really something that you would want your child to suffer from, is it? Not at first sight, I admit. But once you start thinking it through, it becomes clear that it would in fact be a very convenient way to raise a child. Nothing easier than throwing a birthday party for a bunch of kids suffering from pica, for example: first you play rock-paper-scissors, and then you just eat them.

When I was a kid, there was actually a guy suffering from pica in my class: James, aka the Desert Dude; he lived on a diet of sand. I mean, my lunch was wrapped in a brown paper bag, he brought his in one of these blue, plastic starfishes. I liked him very much, and he often visited our place. My mom used to serve me lasagna when he came over: she put the thing in the microwave, and three minutes later – ping – my food was ready. For James, she merely turned the hourglass: three minutes later, his food was done too. Unlike me, James was very fond of school trips. I still remember the third grade trip, a visit to the seaside: 'Yay, all-you-can-eat!'. Or the fifth grade trip, one week in Egypt: 'Yay, the food pyramids!'.

Unfortunately, James passed away last week. I went to his funeral; they cremated him. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

I guess in the end it makes sense.
You are what you eat...

Monday, 31 October 2011

Raclette

I suppose you are all familiar with that Swiss cheese dish called raclette? The funny thing about raclette is that it is one of those foods like sprouts or peanut butter. Either you love it, or you hate it.

And boy, do I hate raclette!

For me, it’s probably the worst food in the world, or at least a very close second to ambergris. Now there’s two ways to have raclette: one was handed down to us in a direct line from the Cro-Magnon-people, and the other is woosier than wearing Speedos.

Option one: you take half a ball of cheese, you slice it in half with a sword, and cook it on a flat stone in front of a open fire (brought to you since 30.000 BC).

Option two: you go buy prefabricated slices of seventeen different kinds of perfumed raclette-cheese and everyone at the dinner table gets to cook them themself, in weird looking little pans.

But what is it about heating up the cheese that is supposed to make it better? I’m perfectly happy with having a slice of cheese on toast. But when it comes to scooping up boiling yellow stuff from what looks like a pan a three-year-old would cook plastic vegetables in, I’m out.

Anyway, I'm telling you this because a few days ago I was having dinner at a friend’s house, a good friend whom I hadn’t seen in a very long time. And immediately when I went in, I saw the bad news. There it was on the dinner table in shiny chrome: a raclette stove, which looked to me like a restaurant kitchen for Leprichauns after Xzibit just came by to pimp it.

Anyhow, I knew what was coming and already started making excuses: “Errm, I’m actually not that hungry, you known?”. But of course, to no avail. I was sat down at the table and started the slow, labourious task of eating pan after pan after fucking little pan of this horrible melted cheese. Because having raclette is like getting crucified: it takes hours. And when finally it has become socially acceptable to stop, people do that retarded polite thing, where they say (tough man voice): “Come on, don’t tell me you’re full, Fred! Come on, mate. I don’t recognize you!”.

And I want to yell: “Don’t recognize me? I don’t blame you! I’ve had twenty seven of those little pans! I probably look like throwing up! Tomorrow I’ll be crapping out Gruyère scented candles! Hell, I wouldn’t be surpised to find horny mice trying to French kiss me tonight!”

(sigh) But you know how it is. I’m a polite person, so I pulled a stiff upper lip (it was literally stiff with cheese) and reluctantly shoved another one of those Barbie-doll pans under the heater. And then, oh then, at that exact moment the guy’s wife came with a digital camera, and she pointed it at the two of us and yelled…

…right. And then I lost it.

Guess that’s one less Christmas card this year.

Monday, 5 September 2011

2011: a space oddity

Pizza marketing wars have now officially reached a point of cosmic proportions - pardon me the pun - as Domino's Japanese branch announced its plans to open the first pizza restaurant on the moon. Just in case you have some weird synonym in mind the existence of which I am not aware of, we are talking about the celestial body rotating our planet. The moon, as we say.

It all started in 2001, when the enemies from Pizza Hut delivered a pizza to astronauts orbiting the Earth in the International Space Station (ISS). Not just any pizza of course: the creation of the world's first pizza in outer space was the product of an intense - and, let me guess, rather expensive - collaboration between Pizza Hut and Russian food scientists. A quote from the official report: "before final certification for consumption was given, the vacuum-sealed Pizza Hut pizza had to undergo rigorous stabilized thermal conditions to determine freshness-stay and life span." Sounds like someone lost the first 3496 pages of the Priority List for Global Problems Humanity is Facing.

You might still remember Domino's first counterblow, from December 2010, when they announced their plan to pay the winner of a contest ¥2.5 million (more or less €​23000) for one lousy hour of delivering pizza's. One small job for man, one giant leap for his paycheck.

Today it seems that this was only the first step towards pizza craziness: Tomohide Matsunaga, a spokesman for Domino's, revealed the company's ambition to build a pizza dome on our only natural satellite because they anticipate there will be many people living on the moon: astronauts who are working there, wealthy Dutch tourists and migrant workers distributing pizza flyers. The company added they even expect to be able to offer delivery services. Which kept me wondering to where exactly that would be? Because unless Russian scooter scientists are working on a new kind of vehicle, I wouldn't expect the delivery to be made within half an hour...

In retrospect, I regret not being a part of the Domino think-tank, as I did have a few more bright ideas for the future. Or would you call an ice-cream parlor in the Sahara, a vending machine selling short black hairpieces in China or a night shop in Pakistan a bit too far-fetched?

Saturday, 3 September 2011

Ambergris


When it comes to food, some people have 'strange habits'. How else would you describe the fact that there are nutcases out there, willing to pay a shitload of money for ambergris? For those of you who are not (yet) familiar with this culinary delight, let me first ask you a simple question: how does ambergris sound to you?

French?
Erhm, let me see, Sherlock.
Yes.
Ridiculously obvious associations: plus one.

But my point here, is that the word itself already sounds delicious doesn't it? Imagine this: “ambergris shavings on a seaweed cracker floating in Chinese lily flower broth”. Sounds delicious to me. Or how about “roasted ambergris flakes in a foamy Belgian white chocolate milkshake”? Sounds even better. In case of an emergeny, I would even settle for a late-night home delivery pizza with ambergris sauce. That sounds a bit sick indeed, but once you're ready to order this you are probably too drunk to realize that anyway.

The thing is – and let's be honest, it should be the only thing you are ever willing to give the French credit for: no matter what you are planning to serve for dinner on a first date, just give it a fancy French name and you are bound to get laid. So when I first read about the endless possibilities of ambergris in the kitchen, I was already envisioning myself in hot, steamy, mind- and other spongy-matter-blowing sex scenes.

Until I found out that ambergris is basically – and I kid you not – vomit from a sperm whale. Feel free to make your own jokes about Moby Dick at this point... Vomit from a sperm whale: that means at least two words I did not want to read in combination with 'one spoonful per person'. Just in case you're still interested, let me share a few technical details with you. First of all, ambergris starts off as a white fatty substance with a strong fecal smell. This could be me being a bit picky, but anything that even remotely matches the description of bird poo, is excluded from my menu. Okay? Secondly – and this shit is really getting better – the white fatty substance is supposed to age a few years in the ocean. I assume that you're all familiar with the following experience: you open the fridge, a not too-familiar-looking jar in the back somehow grasps your attention and upon closer inspection you notice that its shelf life ended when it was still okay to wear a mullet.
A few years ago, that is.
At that point we all have the same reflex, right?
We put the jar back in the fridge.

So when I'm having a romantic stroll along a moonlit tropical beach, holding hands with a beautiful woman who just had a delicious French-sounding dinner, and I bump into a smelly white ball that looks like it has been ageing for a few years, I tend to let it be. Or push it back into the sea, at most. Under no circumstance however, would I feel inclined to take it home with me and start experimenting with it in the kitchen. Especially not when you know that, as a result of the ageing process, the precursor of ambergris acquires its typical crusty, waxy texture and animalic odour. Not very surprisingly, of course. I grew up with my grandparents, so this is firsthand knowledge: everything becomes waxy and crusty when you leave it unattended for a few years.

Oddly enough – as in 'how the fuck is this possible' – ambergris can cost around thousands of dollars for a small lump. If these sperm whales weren't the big monstrously huge animals they are, the first thing I'd buy in the morning is a fish tank. A fish tank, and a sperm whale. And even if I would have to feed it rare cask strength single malt whisky's: I would not stop before owning an intoxicated sperm whale.
- “Yes Moby, daddy loves you.”
Petting it, all day long.
- “And now puke, goddamnit. PUKE!”
Thousands of dollars!
For a lump of vomit from a big fat mammal with a head that takes up one third of its total body length: sounds like a few Americans may consider a fruitful job change. You can only hope that these ambergris-buying flapheads have the decency to send a postcard to the undernourished part of our world, next time they go to the Bahamas to buy their salty balls.

“Dear friend,
I've just spent your country's Gross National Product on a bucket of exclusive French-sounding stuff.
PS: enjoy your weekly bowl of rice!”

I guess this is the point where the posh ambergris-lovers start raising their subtly trimmed eyebrows.
- Rice? William, what is rice?
- Well, Asquith, do you remember that city trip in Tokyo, when you wanted to try sushi?
- Of course I do!
- Well, it's the white stuff underneath the fish.
- Aha, you mean 'le riz'?

Thursday, 18 August 2011

Did you order a special meal, sir?

Ever since I was a child, airplanes have fascinated me. Not just because they're basically fucking massive objects hanging in the sky - which, despite all the physics I studied at university, still has a magical feel to me - but also because I once read that there are so many airplanes cruising around our globe that it would be impossible to get them all on the ground in case of an emergency. Which is essentially the reason why there is no such thing as National Pilot's Day.

I guess this remarkable fact also inspired Michel Lotito to adopt his rather unconventional lifestyle, when he realized - just like all dedicated vegans, people deliberately not owing a car and alcohol addicts avoiding flambé pancakes - that some actions, how insubstantial as they may seem to the outer world, can make a difference. Because this French entertainer, who was born in 1950 and died in 2007 of (surprisingly) natural causes, was famous for devouring indigestible objects. And we're not talking about swallowing the occasional Lego brick. We've all been there, done that, bought the t-shirt and liked the Facebook page - right? This guy actually disassembled bicycles, shopping carts and televisions, and consumed 1 kilogram of plastic, metal, rubber or other materials per day.


His pièce de résistance however, and I suppose we can take this quite literally in the present context, was a Cessna 150 (see picture above). Some people can't even sit in an airplane without getting sick, let alone eat an airplane? The contents of the mini-bar - yes, no problem, I could even handle a Boeing then - but two seats, an engine, three wheels and more than 500 kilograms of erhm... airplane? Not really. At least this type of planes doesn't come with a toilet, I hope.

- Excuse me Mister Lotito, did you order a special meal?
- Not really (crunch...crunch), I can help myself.

But let us picture a world in which this were rather common human behaviour (warning! airplanes may contain nuts): getting all airplanes on the ground in case of a disaster wouldn't be that big of a problem, now would it? One could choose to let airplanes crash randomly into the outskirts of densely populated areas (not forgetting the occasional C-130 military transport aircraft in Somalia) and count on the local Lotito's to get rid of the wreckage, dancing around the bonfire and munching themselves through the night. Even from our couches it would look better: instead of staring appallingly at disaster footage, it would rather feel like watching a TV cooking show (the exact opposite of Hell's Kitchen and the likes thereof, quoi)...

"Isn't that too much of a stretch", you say?

Not really. Unless of course this was only half a question, because I do believe it would be quite a stretch for a stomach. Not to mention the rest of the Sanitary Highway...

Monday, 13 June 2011

Tofu and burgers...

The price for the biggest mystery in the veggie food rack has to go to tofu. Undoubtedly. When you buy this stuff in a supermarket, it has no taste, no colour and no smell. I don't know to what extent physical lingo is a part of your daily vocabulary, but this basically means that tofu is a culinary vacuum.

(phone ringing)
- Hello boss, you've got a minute there? I successfully extracted all flavouring and colouring from this product. What shall I do with the residue?
- Errr, what does it smell like?
- Nothing.
- Wrap it. Put a sticker on it that says 'tofu'.

My guess? Tofu is the biggest unresolved question within the field of culinary philosophy: apart from trying to figure out whether the poached egg came before the fried chicken or not, and whether a bag of chips in the middle of the forest is still crispy when there's no one around to taste it, academics should really be trying to find out whether tofu actually exists, or whether it's just a soy-based illusion.

Luckily enough, there's also burgers. Vegetarians have a choice between oodles of burgers. However, there's nothing worse than ordering a veggie burger and having to face the resolute meat-eater who feels the urge to point out that this is ridiculous, 'because you choose not to eat meat, yet you do buy things that look like meat'.

Listen to me, you bloody moron, since when is the round three-dimensional shape exclusively reserved for meat? The day you will start buying yourself cow-shaped pieces of steak, I will start to cook myself carrot-shaped burgers, deal? Thank God you're not the head of the 'Food for the Future'-think tank.

(guy entering the office)
- Hello boss, you've got a minute there? I just invented this new type of food, and I believe it's a winner: it's highly nutritious, very tasteful, super cheap to produce, can be grown in the most extreme weather conditions and has a negligible carbon footprint.
- Sounds interesting. What shape?
- Errr, I haven't really thought about that boss. Round slices, I guess?
- That's impossible: that's for meat.
- Ah. Erhm... square slices?
- Sorry. For meat.
- Balls?
(shakes the head)
- How about... cauliflower-shaped?
- Sorry, that's for veggie burgers.
(thinks hard)
- A collection of colourful interlocking plastic bricks, which can easily be stacked and rearranged?
(giving the are-you-serious-look)
- Dude, you're fired...

Tuesday, 24 May 2011

Hyperreal food

My Lord! Lordy, Lordy, Lord! (to use a phrase from Stephen Fry). That does it. I had been planning to write something more substantial later about Baudrillard and his concept of hyperreality, but with today's newspaper in mind, I can't help myself.

Appartenly (according to this article in today's De Standaard) a new social phenomenon has sprung up in Flanders! Friends, colleagues, etcetera are massively imitating the TV show Komen eten. If you'd like to pretend you don't know it (because we all do, even if we all say we don't watch stuff like that), here's the show's premise. Four people (could be five, dunno) go over to each other's house, have a meal, talk pompous shite involving words like cuisson, bisque or cappuccino without knowing what they mean, and then übercritically rate each other's cookery in categories of food, atmosphere, and so on. Each day of the week figures one dinner (hmm, could be five participants after all, logic suggests), and at the end of the week one's declared the winner.

So apparently, people in Flanders are now doing just that. Good heavens. If the French philosopher Jean Baudrillard (1929-2007) were still alive, he'd have a field day. Without going into too much detail, Baudrillard claims consumer culture has forced modern man into a dissatisfaction with reality. In fact, reality is not real enough anymore, hence modern kids prefer playing tennis on the Nintendo Wii instead of on a clay court. And so now the same thing has happened with food. Entertaining guests at home and cooking a nice meal for them has been the backbone of social culture for centuries. Now, people are fed up with it and need to imitate a television show of entertaining and cooking to enjoy real-life entertaining and cooking. (Of course, Baudrillard would contend that the only 'real' cooking has become the one on TV).

Frankly, I'm fed up with it. Fed up with kids wanting to be on a TV show that takes them back to the fifties and then proclaiming that discipline is good for you. Fed up with people who want to be Made on MTV, because it's 'a unique opportunity to change their lives' (TV changes our lives, not vice versa anymore). Fed up with people who want to videotape themselves while having sex, because they can't enjoy real sex anymore without being reminded of fake sex (pornography).

Hyperreality sucks walrus-ass, as Adam Carolla would say...