Foodie Rants

An Ode to Ramen

2009-11-10T14:49:00.018-05:00

A few weeks after I started my job at MU, a student of mine who occasionally reads this blog asked to interview me about food. I was happy to oblige but still remain a little embarrassed that the best response I could give her was about how college students should not shun ramen noodles.. I'm still a little embarrassed that this is what people will know me for, assuming they paid attention. But there is another part of me that must stand up in defense of this humble, misunderstood and oft-maligned noodle. I grew up eating ramen. I ate ramen before I knew it was ramen. I ate it when all I knew was that it was called Maggi Instant Noodles. I ate it because there was an awesome spokesperson for the product in Malaysia called the Mammee Monster.

The Mammee monster was blue. Like the cookie monster. My other favorite monster. What is not to love about a product associated with a blue furry monster? It stands to reason that if you love cookies because you love the Cookie Monster, you will also love ramen for similar reasons.

But what I especially love about ramen was that it was flavorful. It was always a base upon which to build a dish not an end in and of itself. M sometimes eats ramen and he microwaves it in gobs of water. It seems so nasty that way. No wonder ramen has such a maligned reputation when prepared the way my beloved gringo husband does. The way I learned to prepare it was so much more (excuse the hyperbolic moment) sublime.

Eating ramen was almost a daily ritual for me. I would come home from school and my mom would always make me a snack-meal. The meals would vary from corn on the cob to cheese toast to bread pizza and then during my starvation phase, homemade coleslaw or salad. But ramen was always good. And I would never eat it plain. I would mix the flavor packets, which usually included flavoring plus chili powder plus a packet of sesame oil and then add extra chili sauce for good measure. When I would go to my friend Sharmila's house, we would fry up onions with mustard seeds and add the cooked noodles and mix in cheese. It was so versatile. Associated as it is with longing for my childhood/ adolescence, I can't fully separate the nostalgia out of this memory. But taste is 90% nostalgia and 10% flavor anyway, right?

When I first came to the US, I was appalled that they sold food in places like CVS and Walgreens. Even more surprised that ramen came in gringo flavors like 'roasted chicken.' And I was even more surprised that people did not know that there was a world of ramen out there and that no self-respecting Asian would eat just plain ramen. I mean, seriously. Look at the packaging and compare with the packaging from the Asian brands?The American ramen packets so BORING.

So now I've turned my love for ramen into something of an obsession. I don't eat it every day, or even every week. But after I teach, and come home for lunch, it still feels right to cook up some kimchee ramen and add a boiled egg for good measure. But my taste for ramen has actually taken me into the cultural representation of this humble noodle and has lead me to a few predictable places. The first is the classic film by Japanese director, Juzo Itami, Tampopo.. Tampopo, simply put is one of the smartest and most brilliant food films out there. It takes a very simple premise--what is a single mom who is the owner of a failing noodle shop to do--and makes ramen the star ingredient. One of my very favorite scenes in this movie full of sensual, sexual, repugnant and suggestive food scenes is one where a character explains how to eat ramen. When I watched it a few years ago, I immediately ran to the closest Japanese restaurant to partake in the ramen noodle soup they sold. Tampopo takes food seriously, and it also takes the craft of making ramen seriously.

It is fascinating to me that a food associated with speed and efficiency in the US is actually a labor intensive cuisine. Ramen is incredibly difficult to make from scratch and both Tampopo and the Oishinbo manga, Ramen and Gyoza, take this seriously.

In Ramen and Gyoza we learn numerous ways in which ramen titillates and its a remarkably smart and beautiful paean to this noodle.

So following my interest in ramen, I was delighted to come across a film, The Ramen Girl, . I watched it on Netflix instant viewing and from the beginning it just did not satisfy. First of all, it is a film that can best be described as Tampopo meets Lost in Translation. Since I did not like Lost in Translation it did not bode well that this film was about gringa alone in Tokyo who tries to find herself. The culture-clash narrative is trite and all of the humor comes from seeing how the Japanese sensei and the young Americaine can't communicate. Eventually of course, they become friends and she earns his respect and opens up her own noodlery in NYC, in the shadows of the Empire State Building. (Technically, the 34th street area south of Herald Square has more Korean eateries, not chi-chi ramen shops, but I’ll not quibble over that particular detail). What astounds me in the film is that ramen is all about her. She wants to learn how to make ramen because it makes her happy one evening. She is interested in becoming the perfect student, replicating her sensei's art. The reason the sensei teaches her is ostensibly because he has an estranged relationship with his son and wants her to take his place. Perhaps I'm just a cantankerous curmudgeon but details matter to me. Once Brittany Murphy learns how to perfect the art of ramen-making, she up and leaves for the US. Is this carrying on her sensei's legacy or has she merely appropriated another form of Asianness? Her restaurant is even called "The Ramen Girl" suggesting a kind of ownership that seems at odds with the film's supposed espousal of a cross-cultural ethos predicated on mutuality and respect. Just look at the stupid DVD cover of the film. Its as if ramen can't be interesting unless you can locate the white American girl dead in the center of the narrative, in this case the bowl of ramen.

But more than anything, I didn't love this film because the character has no 'authentic' relationship to ramen. She goes to the ramen shop to feel better. She wants to fill a void. She never enjoys the luxuriating flavors of the dish after her first time sampling the noodles. It could be ramen, but it could also be any other labor intensive culinary item.
Herein lies the difference. Ramen here, is merely the conceit to speak about cross-cultural exchanges whereas in Itami's film, ramen is the ingredient that drives the narrative forward. It is the star ingredient and is robust, multi-textured and complex.

I did enjoy the film, I won't lie. But its not as engaging as Tampopo. But even after all these years (I've been eating ramen for almost 30 years now), its still amazing to me that ramen can be such a powerful basis upon which to build narratives. In these films, ramen is that base and for me, my narratives were more culinary. But there was always a different story to tell, and with some good luck, there'll always be more stories to tell with ramen as the star ingredient.

Side note: After posting this, I noticed that said-student mentioned at beginning of this posting has also written about this film on her blog. Check it out!

Mango Ice Cream

2009-10-24T10:17:00.018-04:00

I've recently starting experimenting with ice cream flavors using the ice cream maker that my friends Kirk and Brenda gave me for my wedding. For anyone who loves ice cream, an ice cream maker is well worth the investment! For anyone who likes flavors that get rendered as 'exotic' but are just everyday flavors for us (I'm thinking mango, lychee, pineapple), an ice cream maker is a good choice, because lets face it, los gringos don't get the nuance or luxurious qualities of the tastes native to India, Southeast Asia etc. Even when I read about this recipe, it presented mango and lemon grass as trendy ingredients. I wish I had known they were trendy when I was growing up. I just thought they were 'normal.' Speaking of this construction of xotic and non-exotic, there is a cool ice cream shop in Chinatown NYC called The Chinatown Ice Cream Factory. The menu is divided into exotic and regular. On the regular menu are things like red bean, mango, durian, lychee--you get the idea. On the exotic are vanilla, chocolate, strawberry. I love the way the shop deconstructs the language of exotic vs non-exotic:

But back to mangoes. Anytime I buy mango ice cream in the US, its either too sweet or not sweet enough. Don't even get me started on how sad it makes me feel to cut into those red and green skinned mangoes only to have to confront some kind of pale yellowy whiteness. No, its really more simple. You need to get your mangoes from an Indian grocery store AND you need to use the canned mango pulp. Canned mangoes may seem a counter-intuitive choice, but the canned mango pulp which uses Alphonso mangoes is so divine and rich, the flavors of which cannot be found in your run-of-the-mill Kroger or Stop n' Shop mango. Don't be all fake gourmand and say, "I can't use canned food"--you're just going to have an inferior result.

So in honor of the divine mango, I made a mango ice cream. I modified a recipe from epicurious.com and reproduce it here for you.

Mango Ice Cream

1 cup milk (2% works fine)
1 cup cream
2 tsps lemongrass paste
1 cup mango pulp
1/2 cup sugar
3 egg yolks

1. Combine milk, lemongrass and cream over low heat for about 5 mins. Do not allow to boil, just bring to a low simmer and remove from heat. Cool for 30 mins to allow lemongrass to steep, then strain the lemongrass out of the milk-cream infusion.

2. Combine yolks and sugar with a whisk until yellow, thick and creamy. Slowly mix into the cream mixture over a low heat. Stir over medium heat until custard thickens enough to leave path on back of spoon when finger is drawn across, about 5 minutes (do not boil). Cool custard 30 minutes.

3. Add mango pulp. Cool mixture for at least 2 hours. Pour mixture into your ice cream maker and proceed according to manufacturer's directions. Then place into container with lid and freeze until ready.

Diwali, or Why I'm a Skeptic of All the Celebranding

2009-10-23T12:20:00.003-04:00

Last week was the Hindu festival, Diwali, a date that in my 16 years in the US has largely been unremarkable, unnoticed, and uneventful. There are no firecrackers, no diyas lit in the houses around the neighborhood, no new clothes, and certainly no indulgent consumption of mithai and delicious eating. I always feel a twinge of sadness that I am not part of a larger Indian community. Driving past a gurudwara on Saturday, I felt a sadness in seeing the revelry of people with sparklers celebrating. It is not that I live in some impossibly white space with no brown people; it is just that I don’t have a large family here and without that connection, I’m less connected to a desi community. So usually, Diwali comes and goes. I’ll allow myself the indulgence of not turning the lights off for a day, but mostly, its business as usual. No new clothes. No mithai. Certainly no one besides my parents calling to wish me a happy Diwali.

This year was a little different. All over Face book people were wishing each other a happy Diwali. The secularists were chanting, “Diwali Mubarak”—it seemed that everyone with an advanced degree knew what Diwali was and were happily spreading good luck and cheer. Certainly, this legibility did not come from nowhere. When the first president of the United States that so many of us love (self included) spreads a Diwali message of good cheer, accurately exhorting all to enjoy mithai (sweets) its hard not to enter into this feel-good multiculturalism when Indians (I should say Hindus, by and large) are suddenly on the map in a very obvious way.

Having consumed my share of “Haterade” (a wonderful new term introduced to my lexicon by my friend Julie) I was one of the few who could not jump on the “Diwali is us” celebration. I certainly could not jump on the “Obama is so gracious and awesome because he recognizes our holiday” bandwagon, mostly because I think it’s a tad disingenuous to celebrate brown Indians in America, while ordering secret drone attacks on brown desis in Pakistan. I’ve just finished writing a book, which will be soon released, in which I express my discomfort with multiculturalism that is about sharing food and other innocuous aspects of culture. To me, this Diwali legibility is another version of the “Indo Chic” that made India cool and legible in the 1990s. Suddenly all the sartorial and cosmetic choices of Indian women that had long been mocked—those dots on the forehead, those funny outfits—were cool because Madonna, and later Gwen Stefani said so. I can’t help but feel this love of Diwali is a version of the same cultural logic whereby our new icon of cosmopolitanism recognizes Diwali and so everyone follows suit. It can’t be too long before it starts getting marketed as Hanukkah has been for Jewish communities. I can’t wait for the Hallmark card to hit shelves. It feels to me a little like when ethnic communities ‘get’ their own Barbie—is it good to be recognized, or is it problematic to be recognized within the framework of an always already fixed idea of multiculturalism?

Part of me is happy not to have to explain what Diwali is—“it’s the festival of lights, it celebrates when Rama returned with Sita having conquered Ravana. Its just like Christmas for Hindus.” And part of me is like, really? We’re celebrating this festival that celebrates Ram? The same dude who rejected his wife because she had been defiled by a man who tried to rape her? Really? We’re celebrating the return to ascendancy of the royal family? But like all good secular multiculturalists, I ignore the mytho-religious dimensions and say, its celebrated by all faiths (even though I don’t know if this is true).

My own celebration was a little quieter. M and I went to “Cuisine of India,” one of my favorite Indian restaurants in Columbus and enjoyed their buffet. I loved the quiet of it, and I loved the beautiful arrangement of mithai. gajjar halwa, burfi, rock sugar, jalebi, boondi ladoo, pyaasa and other delectables that skip my mind. We did listen to the Obama message, but we also watched Ohio State get clobbered by Purdue in football. To me it was also important to tell Michael why I wanted to call it “Deepavali.” See, I’m South Indian and we don’t’ say “Diwali”. In fact, in Malaysia, where I was born, and where there is a robust but maltreated Indian diaspora, they also say Deepavali. It’s a legacy of the influence of Tamil culture. I was more interested in using the day as an opportunity to think about the persistent hegemony of the Hindi language. See, even with inclusions, we create new orthodoxies, new exclusions.

Celebrations in our family are a little quieter than in most. We don’t do much in terms of observing holidays but last Saturday we used it as an opportunity to spend some time together, support a local business and learn a little more about each other. And hopefully, with the passing of another Deepavali comes the occasion to think a little more about how we can think of Indians outside of a framework of lights, sweets and revelrous excess.

Parsley, Or Perejil

2009-10-22T13:48:00.005-04:00

Parsley, in many ways is the most mundane of herbs, the most maligned, the most inconsequential. When I was growing up, parsley was always curly parsley, the kind of herb that looked unforgivably artificial, lodged unattractively on pieces of unidentifiable fruit in the little plastic bowls on in-flight dining. I didn’t think people actually ate parsley. It looked like astro turf for heavens sake. It would be years before I discovered that I would love the subtle flavors of parsley, combined with lemon juice to make tabouleh. It would be even longer until I discovered the flat-leaf version of parsley that would impart a delicate flavor to sauces. For years, after moving to the United States, parsley to this Indian girl, was always a trick. It was the green herb that sat unobtrusively next to cilantro, which, if in a rush, would accidentally end up in my supermarket cart, only to prove itself unpliable when I would turn to my lentils hoping to add cilantro. Saffron may be the queen of spices, but to Indians, cilantro is the everyday paesano, the necessary ingredient to render delicious eating. I can still remember the frustration of seeing parsley when I need cilantro. Madhur Jaffrey may have called it “Chinese parsley” in the 1960s but there’s nothing I can do with parsley in Indian dishes. Now that M cooks with me, I send him to buy herbs and worry that he’ll come back with parsley instead of cilantro, that he’ll bring back curly leaf parsley instead of flat leaf Italian parsley. And I think, how silly to think a little herb that doesn’t smell the way I need it to, can mess up my dish. And then I think about a poem by Rita Dove called “Parsley” and I think how tragic and fascinating that this one little herb, which can cause minor devastation in my kitchen, could be connected to so much blood, violence and hatred.

I am teaching Rita Dove’s poem “Parsley” in class as a bridge between two Dominican American texts. In the text I have just taught, no one can speak about the horror of Trujillo and the Parsley Massacre. It falls to a little girl, the littlest in her family, to refer to her Haitian nanny as a “real Haitian too and that’s why she couldn’t say certain words like the word for parsley” (218). Otherwise, this text so uncritical in its nostalgia for a nation-state still stained red by the blood of Haitian cane workers, remains silent on this history. It is Rita Dove who says:

“He will
order many, this time, to be killed

for a single, beautiful word”

General Trujillo, knowing that Haitians could not say “perejil”, but would say “pelejil,” turned this innocuous herb into something that would devastate an entire people. For the sake of this word, which Dove rightly labels, “beautiful” so many would die. While I would joke in my head that it was never a matter of life or death if M confused cilantro and parsley, I think of the tragic lack of justice that in fact, it was a matter of life and death for so many, too many, who could not navigate the word parsley on their tongue. What felt like a foreign taste that refused to roll off my palate was a word that intractably refused to roll of the tongues of an entire people, even as they knew it was a matter of getting to live.

I love this poem for so many reasons. It takes a simple word, a simple herb that adds flavor to any dish, and considers the potential it had to devastate. This beautiful poem that refuses to be just a villanelle, just a sestina, makes parsley larger than life, more immense even than I can grasp.

I think then of my hatred for parsley. It is so often the wrong ingredient. In the wrong place at the wrong time when it shows up in my kitchen. And I think of how, not too long ago, it too was the wrong word and for all the wrong reasons.

Cooking with M

2009-09-19T14:48:00.004-04:00

I've been married to M now for a little over a year and its taken about that much time for us to start spending time in the kitchen. We recently moved from Columbus to Oxford where there are relatively few eating options within 10 minutes. As a result, M and I have been working together more in the kitchen to prepare meals. I still do the vast amount of the cooking, but he pitches in by doing things like clean up, getting things from the refrigerator, sauteeing onions--he's pleasantly surprised me with his willingness to help out and to learn to cook.

Last night we worked together on a recipe that my friend Nila posted to Facebook--her mom's recipe for potatoes. I'd post the recipe, but its not mine to share. But perhaps what I most like about cooking with M is that it is quality time we can spend together on something I love. I've spent months watching football with him, something I never, ever did prior to meeting him. Now I can watch a game by myself and understand what's going on, so is it that far-fetched to believe he might be able to learn how to cook at this stage in life?

Part of my renewed confidence in getting M into the kitchen comes from Julia Child. Julia is "in" again, largely owing to the Nora Ephron film but one thing I appreciate about Julia is that she was 37, only a few years older than I am now, when she started to cook. She of course embarked on much more complicated things but there is something so wonderfully inspired about someone in their mid-30s deciding to shift her focus entirely. But another part of me is sad. We've only just moved to Oxford and we've started a tradition of cooking together--so far we've made risotto, spicy Indian potatoes and then other simple things. And now M is moving back to Columbus and we'll be in a commuting relationship. While I will miss M and K terribly, I will also miss our new traditions of cooking together. I've always loved to cook for people but cooking with people is something new for me. The optimist in me thinks we will have weekends, holidays and those glorious summers which always remind me why I'm glad I wanted to be an academic and not a corporate maven.

I'm thinking that for now, maybe I can retool the way I use this blog so I can share a bit of what I've learned in the kitchen. And for now, the glorious potato dish.

Another White Food Network Star

2009-08-03T10:10:00.002-04:00

A few weeks ago M asked me why I don't watch the Food Network more. Its a channel I used to watch with some regularity about 10 years ago. But that was when Ming Tsai was on. Padma Lakshmi had a bad cooking show. Iron Chef was the actual Japanese version of the show. In short, it was a place where I could go to see a little bit of culinary diversity from around America and from around the world. In recent years I've stopped watching it as much mostly because I'm not interested in seeing cooking shows that are about making food through short cuts all the time. I also do not need to feel like the only people who can teach people how to cook are white ladies. There are a few people of color, here and there, but by and large, the hosts on the Food Network are white ladies and few of them are as quirky and interesting as Nigella Lawson.

I started watching The Next Food Network Star a few weeks ago, and it seemed to have a little promise to me--there was Jamika, the African American, Debbie the Korean American and Jeffrey, who had a really interesting idea for a show. All in all, I was kind of hopeful that there might be some potential to see a bit more diversity. Surely among these potentials, the Food Network would jump at the chance to do its bit for multiculturalism and have a Korean American, or a Lebanese American or an African American woman host a show? Its not exactly like that market is saturated.

But once I started watching Melissa D'Arabian talk, I knew she was going to win. The whitest contestant, the most cliche and obvious and boring contestant--not because she has no culinary training but because she is a stay-at-home mom with 4 children (4? Who has 4 children anymore?) who then purports to claim that this demographic is some kind of blighted minority. She actually presented herself as someone who could speak to and for a supposedly ignored group, and meanwhile, I'm thinking, really? moms are ignored on the Food Network? Really? There are no products that are designed for moms? Really? No one addresses YOUR needs? But her rhetoric is so powerful because it seems in a knee-jerk fashion that someone like Melissa D'Arabian is in the minority, when in reality she emblematizes everything about mainstream America. She is the person to whom everything in the food world, or at least on super-market shelves, is marketed.

I'm reminded here of what Anthony Bourdain says about Rachael Ray:

Complain all you want. It's like railing against the pounding surf. She only grows stronger and more powerful. Her ear-shattering tones louder and louder. We KNOW she can't cook. She shrewdly tells us so. So...what is she selling us? Really? She's selling us satisfaction, the smug reassurance that mediocrity is quite enough. She's a friendly, familiar face who appears regularly on our screens to tell us that "Even your dumb, lazy ass can cook this!" Wallowing in your own crapulence on your Cheeto-littered couch you watch her and think, "Hell...I could do that. I ain't gonna...but I could--if I wanted! Now where's my damn jug a Diet Pepsi?" Where the saintly Julia Child sought to raise expectations, to enlighten us, make us better--teach us--and in fact, did, Rachael uses her strange and terrible powers to narcotize her public with her hypnotic mantra of Yummo and Evoo and Sammys. "You're doing just fine. You don't even have to chop an onion--you can buy it already chopped. Aspire to nothing...Just sit there. Have another Triscuit..Sleep...sleep..

Melissa D'Arabian certainly seems to be able to cook, but like RR, she also seems to want to smugly reassure us that we need to bring middle America back to the center of the world, except that it is already there. Honestly, I can't fault Melissa--she's a shrewd business-woman who knows what will sell. She knows that America can only tolerate diversity in bits and pieces and that they'd rather have a recipe for chicken cooked in lemon, ver 34.0 than try cooking with something else, say harissa.

I wasn't that big of a fan of Jeffrey, but I loved the concept of using a different ingredient and cooking with that. There's really nothing like that on Food Network, and it would perhaps open our minds up to more ingredients and possibilities (sure, there are definitely other issues that might surface with that approach) but apparently we needed another show hosted by Sara Moulton look-alike who will tell us how to prepare dinner using recipes that we could find on the back of a can of green beans.

I know there are a few people of color who host cooking shows on The Food Network but they are not the stars. Sure, Aaron McCargo was a past winner, but most people don't know who he is or that his show was cancelled. But bean counting should not be the way to go--the logic of "but so and so has a show and is a person of color" is lame. The basic paradigm of white hosts rules and the only way we ever see any diversity is of the culinary adventuring genre in which white men are able to host shows which take them around the world. People of color remain firmly rooted in contexts that are always an elsewhere, never in the studios of the Food Network for any length of time. Ming Tsai may come and go, but Rachael Ray, Giada de Laurentiis, Paula Deen, Sandra Lee remain. And now Melissa D'Arabian can join the ranks of the white ladies of the Food Network.

I'm disappointed again. But disappointment is a familiar feeling when you want to see a little diversity and variety. But on the Food Network, white is right. And once again, the suburban mom can claim to be marginalized and prove just how much cultural power she has in the United States.

Zen Cha, Columbus OHIO

2009-06-29T20:18:00.005-04:00

I've been meaning to blog about Zen Cha for some time now. It became a favorite about a year or so ago, but I some how never got around to blogging about it. Now that my time in Columbus is coming to an end, and I probably won't be able to drive to Zen Cha whenever I fancy, I find myself wanting to reflect about it here. For those of you who know me as a caustic and often embittered foodieranter, I think you'll be disappointed here. I'm shamelessly in love with Zen Cha and not being able to go there after I move to Oxford is going to make me feel really sad.

For those of you in Columbus who have not been to Zen Cha, that needs to change! Zen Cha is quite easily one of the best places to get a really good cup of tea, not just in Columbus, or central Ohio, but really anywhere in the US. I've yet to find a place that does tea as effortlessly and with as much integrity as Zen Cha. In the year that I've been going, I've probably sampled every type of tea on their menu, ranging from the coconut chai, hazelnut chai, rose latte, jasmine latte, mango bubble tea, rooibos, almond milk tea, summer fruit tea blend. I've also eaten everything on their menu from the miso ramen, tandoori lettuce wraps, Russian turkey sandwich, spicy tuna rolls, lavender creme brulee, masala chai waffles, Arabian honey waffles with orange, Japanese style savory pancakes. Quite simply, the food is beautifully made and the tea is always brewed to perfection.

But what I especially love about Zen Cha is that it really is a serene space and a place that encourages and supports quiet reflection. When I needed to escape from myself and my impending wedding last summer, I found refuge in Zen Cha. I'm definitely the kind of person who can become incredibly vexed about my writing and thinking space. I can grade almost anywhere but I've rarely wanted, or been able to write in the same spaces where I grade. There is something sacred about writing for me, and at the risk of sounding obnoxious, I am unwilling to combine spaces of writing with places where I might grade. But more often than not, that division of space becomes impossible to sustain because of the practicalities of time etc. But some how Zen Cha seemed to be a space where I could not grade. But, I was able to think and write there. Within the space of the restaurant, I was able to work quietly to put the finishing touches on my manuscript before I sent it off to be reviewed. When I got my copy edits back a few weeks ago, Zen Cha was the only place I wanted to go to complete my review of those edits. And complete them I did--sometimes in 2 hour blocks, but more often, in 4 hour blocks, all the while feeling like I belonged in this space and feeling like the tea was nurturing my mind and soul, allowing me to access the kind of calm and focus I needed to get through that odious process. I'm about to send my copyedits back to the press and I would be lying if I said I did not feel a twinge of sadness that I am leaving Columbus and Zen Cha, and that the book is almost over and I don't have the same excuse to go to Zen Cha. It'll be a while before I am at this stage again of writing a book. And by then, I might have found another place, but it won't be the same, I know...

For this feminist, who loves both Virginia Woolf and Gloria Anzaldua, it has been equally important for me to have a room of my own in which to write AND a room where I can eat and do the things that women of color do. Woolf famously exhorts women to find a room of their own in which to write; Anzaldua suggests instead, "Forget the room of one’s own--write in the kitchen." I like to think that Zen Cha is a space that would have made both Gloria and Virginia happy. Almost everytime I go there, I am in the company of quiet reflection. I see women working, I see women chatting, I see women drinking tea.

I thought about including an acknowledgment in Culinary Fictions to Zen Cha, but I think that's not so necessary. But what I will do, instead, is to offer this humble attempt up for others in the hope that others, like me, might find comfort, quiet and inspiration with a cup of chai in Zen Cha.

Alice's Tea Cup, or Why I'm Glad I Don't Live on the Upper East Side..

2009-06-28T15:23:00.007-04:00

Last week M and I were in NYC for a few days and I managed to convince him to come with me to a place called "Alice's Tea Cup." There are three locations in the city but we opted for the Upper East Side, partly because we were already at the MET. and partly because I'm a glutton for punishment and enjoy being around the superciliousness of the Upper East Side.

Alice's Tea Cup did not disappoint in terms of culinary offerings. It had the potential to be a little too cutesy in its paean to Lewis Carroll's tale but it actually pulled off the idea of tea very well. I liked that the china was not matchy-matchy and I loved the feel of the space. The food itself was amazing. M and I opted for something called the "Mad hatter's Tea", a smattering of buttery-warm scones, nicely made sandwiches and petit fours to end. Of course, everything came with a pot of tea. M and I ordered the pumpkin glaze, chocolate chip and buttermilk scones-yummy, buttery, flaky goodness. The sandwiches we got, the chopped tea-egg salad with watercress and herbed mayonnaise on seven grain and the BLT with Stilton on black bread were beautifully done. The tea was perfectly made, even if they did put honey into chai, which as a Desi I find really suspect. So what about all this wonderful food makes me swear never to return? I mean, what could possibly keep me away from amazing scones, great tea and tasty sandwiches? The annoying diners I might possibly encounter if I were to return to Alice's Tea Cup.

So when we arrived at the restaurant, we were given a nice seat in the window area and immediately it was clear we were a little different than most of the clientele, most of whom were young, twenty-something women who either live the life of Gossip Girls Serena van der Woodsen and Blair Waldorf, or wish that they did. When we got to the restaurant, M and I spent a good ten minutes trying not to make eye contact because we could not believe the inane nature of the conversation around us. There was a pair of friends, a brunette and a blond--so very Blair and Serena--who spoke (apparently for the benefit of the entire restaurant) about their plans to travel. Brunette (we'll call her Blair) was explaining how her family was building a house in Buenos Aires and was telling blondie (hereafter, Serena) that she had to go there. After all, it was Blair's favorite city in the world. Then it slowly came out that Blair and Serena are not upper Eastsiders but actually go to graduate school in Georgetown. Both were apparently single and kept discussing how they could not tell if so-and-so was gay: "Is he gay? He dresses so well, and I just get along so well with him!" Fortunately, this conversation had to come to a halt as Serena and Blair had to leave.

We were able to order and eat about 2/3rds of our meal in peace, before Serena and Blair, ver 2.0 showed up. This particular installation promised to speak as loudly and obnoxiously about their vacations, boyfriends and importance of detoxifying so as soon as I could, I had to nip it in the bud. I don't remember exactly what I said, but I mentioned insipid white girls audibly and magically, these girls became less chatty after that. But this was not before I was forced to listen to Serena, ver 2.0 tell Blair ver 2.0 that she admired her so much because she was SO independent. Her exact words, which M recalls, "You're just so fiercely independent! When did you first leave home?" Blair then responds, that yes, she was so independent, she had been flying on her own since she was 15. I tuned out for a little (actually, I had to try to not laugh out loud at how stupid these girls sounded) and then had to make my well-timed obnoxious comment to Michael about insipid white girls. Soon thereafter we left, but what was stunningly apparent is how hard these girls were trying to impress each other and to fit into some narrative about what it means to be an Upper Eastsider.

Now I must admit to being a Gossip Girl fan. I will definitely be checking out the Anna Sui line when it hits Target in September:

But, Gossip Girl, in my humble estimation is a little tongue in cheek. It does seem to tap into the excess of a particular zipcode in NYC but it is also show that seems to engage in a kind of wish-fulfillment: teenagers who wish to live such lives, people who are the same age as the actors (not their characters) who have a kind of 'ersatz nostalgia' for the narrative Gossip Girl produces and then then there are people my age who seem to watch the show for reasons I am still trying to figure out. So back to Alice's Tea Cup--I am a little bemused to see what I read as people trying to insert themselves into a narrative and their apparent need for an audience. This ritual of going to tea at Alice's Tea Cup seemed to be a kind of performance for both sets of Serena- Blair knockoffs, evidenced by the fact that they were very much engaged in a kind of performance that was as much for themselves, for each other and for us in a bizarre way.

In an article titled,"Playing Dress-Up: Digital Fashion and Gamic Extensions of Televisual Experience in Gossip Girl’s Second Life," Louisa Stein takes a look into an online game called Second Life in which fans can simulate the life of Gossip Girl. She writes:

[GGSL] invites viewers to enter the Gossip Girl world and take on the mantle of an inhabitant of the Upper East Side, where they dress themselves to fit into the elite word of Manhattan private school–goers. Once virtually dressed for the part, players can attend parties, map out the social and geographic landscape, and explore the minute details of the living spaces of their favorite characters.

Second Life is far from the first videogame that fans have used to insert themselves into (or wrest control of)the spaces and narratives of their favorite storyworlds (119).

Stein's article brings attention to the numerous kinds of fan spaces for viewers of Gossip Girl, and admittedly, I am curious whether we might also consider that kind of role-playing to be plausible in other non-virtual spaces. The easy answer is yes, this happens all the time. Certainly, one could also reasonably consider the new Target line of GG inspired fashion, even the reality-show NYC Prep to be manifestations of GG-mania. But I guess the question which interests me is why. Perhaps it is not fair for me to view these civilian restaurant goers who I did not interact with as emulating a kind of GG ethos, but I think its hard not to see the parallels and not to wonder if spaces like Alice's Tea Cup benefit, or suffer from these new narratives into which people which to insert themselves.

Going to restaurants always has an element of performativity to it--we inhabit different roles, different subject positions. We do step through the proverbial looking glass or travel down the rabbit hole to have alternative experiences, but at least for me, this particular convergence of other people's fantasy and my desire to enjoy tea albeit in the kitsch of Alice's Wonderland, makes me feel a little uncomfortable about being in other people's performative spaces. Certainly, this girl is not interested in being at someone else's tea party, especially when I'm made to be a part of someone else's wish fulfillment fantasy where Alice in Wonderland meets Gossip Girl.

References:

Stein, Louisa Ellen. "Playing Dress-Up: Digital Fashion and Gamic Extensions of Televisual Experience in Gossip Girl’s Second Life" Cinema Journal 48.3 (2009): 116-122.

Masala Kraft, Bombay

2009-04-19T11:29:00.013-04:00

In March, M and I took a short trip to India. It was his first time to India. His first time to Asia. It was my first time to be in the role of host in India. It was my first time in Bombay without my parents. As an avid foodie, there was much I wanted to show my husband about the cuisine I love the most. I wanted him to savor the taste of mangoes. I wanted him to see that bananas come in multiple colors, shapes, tastes and do not have to look like the elongated oversized bright yellow, wooody-textured things that are bananas in the US. I wanted him to try piping hot chai. I wanted him to try fresh lime juice and fresh lime soda. Sugar cane juice. Guavas. Indian style Chinese food. Pizza Hut in India. Chaat. Samosas. Mango Ice Cream. Kulfi. Falooda.Tender coconut water. Cool filtered water on a hot day.The list was endless. Wanting him to share that food was wanting him to see a piece of my soul, a piece of who I am, who I have become.

But in a sense, what I wanted the most for him and for me was to taste street food. years of becoming a bonafide 'foreigner' has weakened my gastric capabilities. I cannot eat pani puri like I used to as a child. I cannot eat street food. But what I can do is to show him that food can enliven a place; it can define a city as it can define a state, a country. Even without his cherished beef, I wanted to show him that India could satisfy and nourish his palate and soul.

In recent years, I have become intrigued by the street-scapes of Mumbai. In particular, I like the various everyday things that can exist nowhere but Mumbai. One of those features of Mumbai life I adore and wanted to include in my book was the dabba-wallas, a veritable institution of that city. Much has been written about the dabbawallas, and there is tons of information on the internet that I don't feel I need to revisit the basics of that here. At least not now. The few days in Bombay did not give Michael the opportunity to see any dabba-wallas in action, which disappointed me. I felt this was something he needed to see and I felt so sad that he could not see that. But in truth all these things he "had" to see were more about me than him. I thought I wanted to see India through M's eyes, but I really wanted him to see India through my eyes.

On the last day we were in Bombay, our last day in India, we were both a little melancholic. I am always sad to leave India and M was also a little sad to be leaving. It was our first extended trip away from home together, without anyone else but ourselves for company, and his longest trip away from the United States. I wanted our last meal to be a good one, and having dined at Morimoto in Mumbai the night before, it was hard to imagine a meal topping that one. For one thing, M finally got to eat some beef and the largest shrimp--prawns is perhaps better--that he had ever had.

We opted to eat at one of the restuarants in the Taj which had recently re-opened, Masala Kraft. I knew little about it other than that one of its specialties was innovative Indian cooking. When we arrived at the restaurant, I could immediately tell from the menu that this would not be a meal to forget easily. For one thing, I got to taste sugarcane juice which I had not been able to get anywhere on this trip. Even though it was absurdly priced at over Rs 1000, I had to have some. I suspect the sugarcane juice I had was the sanitized version for gringos who wanted to try streetfood but were too shit-scared to do so--how quickly I had fallen into that category, huh?

But the item on the menu that really got my attention was the 'tiffin', Mumbai-style. When I asked the waiter for a description, he explained that it would be like a thali but that instead of being presented on a large thali, it would be presented in the form of a tiffin box. Needless to say I was intrigued.

When the dish finally arrived, it was perhaps the most beautifully presented meal I had encountered in an Indian meal. Rather than appearing like the standard stainless steel tiffin dabba, this was a deconstructed tiffin box, with each individual dish assymterically arranged on a holder. The waiter then disassembled the dishes laying them out in front of me. The meal itself was exquisite. The flavors were subtle, the meats were perfectly cooked, the rice was seemingly endless and fresh hot roti was prepared to my liking by a cook in the middle of the restaurant.

To me, the dabba-meal at Masala Kraft was a kind of culinary artistry, the likes of which are rarely seen in the US. Translating the complexity of Bombay streetculture is tough and this type of dish would not 'translate' well to American eaters, save for perhaps some of the more erudite foodies. Or maybe I am wrong? But what is more, the dabba meal fits on a broader canvas of contemporary Indian 'art' that uses the iconic image of the dabbawalla to conjure up a nostalgic vision of Bombay. Artist Bose Krishnmachari's art installation, GHOST TRANSMEMOIR uses this icon to make a larger commentary about Mumbai public culture. Swapna Vora's article describes his installation more eloquently than I am able to. There is also another artist, Krsna Mehta (who never responded to my sycophantic message on Facebook. Harrumph) who uses the image on his pillows to evoke a stylized Bombay. The list can probably go on, but these are artists who use the dabba in a way that pos tribute to the power of this icon to conserve, but also re-member the cultural legacy of this amazing city.

So the meal we had was wonderful, but when I returned to the US I was appalled to find (appalled may be too strong a word) to find that the tiffin box had arrived in the US. Not only does Crate and Barrel have its version of the tiffin box:

but mommies around America are also being sold on the advantages of using the "tiffin-box" to send their kids to school with lunch intact. This new kiddie kitsch version of the tiffin box comes in all kinds of colors and deisgns to satisfy the American desire for 'variety' that just make me feel sad.

I was just reading an article by Sandip Roy today and his sentiments capture how I feel about this transformation of the tiffin box. He writes:

When I first came to America, Americans asked me about that “dot on the forehead.” Now Madonna wears a bindi. Bollywood would borrow Hollywood plotlines (well, two or three for one 3 hour film). Now the Kronos Quartet reinterprets Bollywood composer R.D.Burman. Birthday cards are reproducing old kitschy Indian matchbox covers. Tight body hugging t-shirtsworn by gay boys in the Castro say San Francisco in Devnagari script. There are even Bollywood appreciation classes in American universities. My kitsch has become their cool.

Yes, our kitsch has become their cool. I don't know how I feel about this. Well, maybe I do. I don't like to see Crate and Barrel, the whitest of white spaces use this tiffin box as their clever twist on summer dishware for whitey.

Certainly the icon has traveled and mutated but what I like more about what Krishmachari, Masala Kraft and Mehta do is that they layer the history of this institution with their reinvention of this icon.

I guess what I wanted to show M was a context for all I hold dear. I didn't get to show him a real-live dabbawalla, the real behind my fetish, but I hope that his trip to India has allowed him to add and form layers to what he sees about the pieces of India that now travel to the US so easily.

"Going out for an English": A Take on Humor and "Goodness Gracious Me"

2009-02-10T07:14:00.011-05:00

Those of you who know me are aware that I am hopelessly addicted to Facebook. As an antidote to that, I've decided to take up blogging again. Yesterday I posted a short commentary about an English pub and I realized I didn't fully develop my thinking about that. I've become more and more uncomfortable with viewing Asian subjects as ones from whom culture and ideas is unilaterally appropriated and have thus, become much more interested in the place humor plays in intervening into these types of discourse.

There is clearly a lot of power in humor and satire and within circuits of South Asian diasporic culture, the sketch comedy "Goodness Gracious Me", based in Britain, is an excellent example of how humor can be mobilized to point out the inconsistencies in cultural appropriation etc.

In the skit titled, "Going out for an English". Its been rated one of the top comedy sketch's of all time and deservedly so. I want to share my ideas about this here, but given that I'm writing a book and am worried about things like, oh copyright, and having my ideas taken, I'm going to quote a lengthy section from a rather brilliant reading of this particular sketch written by English media scholar, Ben Highmore:

"Such a scene of bravado, inebriation, trepidation, ignorance and hunger are given a brilliant reverse-image in the British-Asian television comedy show Goodness Gracious Me. In its pilot episode the comedy team staged a reversal of the white enthusiastic aggression towards South Asian food. With a prelude that mimicked 1970s cinema advertising, the sketch started with an invitation to eat at the Mountbatten restaurant in Bombay for ‘‘the authentic taste of England right here in India’’. Once inside the restaurant a raucous group of Indians are getting ready to order. Asking themselves why the come here every Friday one of them replies, ‘‘You go out, get tanked up on lassis and go out for an English. It wouldn’t be Friday night without going for an English.’’ Clearly drunk and patronising towards the waiter (who is called James, but who the customers call Ja¯hme´s) the two conscious men (one man is slumped face down on the table) ask what the ‘‘blandest thing on the menu is’’, the waiter replies that ‘‘the scampi is particularly bland’’. One of the men goes as far as to order scampi with a prawn cocktail on the side, much to the consternation of some of his friends. The women want to order a ‘chicken curry’ but are cajoled into ordering something English, with the compromise being that they can order something that isn’t ‘completely bland’" (385).

The article has much more to it (obviously!) and is really a very thoughtful reading of the psychic dimensions of going out for Indian food and seeking out the most extreme forms of cuisine.

But if you get a chance to view this skit and are able to comment about it here, I'd love to start a conversation about it.

The full citation for the article quoted above is:
Highmore, Ben(2008)'Alimentary Agents: Food, Cultural Theory and Multiculturalism',Journal of Intercultural Studies,29:4,381 — 398

The Pub, Columbus OH

2009-02-09T20:09:00.003-05:00

M recently began to write restaurant and bar reviews for a city-guide website and I've been lucky enough to accompany him on a couple of these visits. I wasn't sure whether I wanted to blog about these places, especially since I seem to have been afflicting by the blah-blogging syndrome. I mean, what else do you call an affliction that prevents you from blogging for over two years?

I was interested in blogging about The Pub, a new English-style pub that has just opened near the Polaris mall in Columbus. The first thing that struck me as I went into the restaurant is how much it plays up the "Cool Britannia" vibe--its certainly trying to show that Englishness is not stodgy and just for old guys looking to eat bland food. Its decidedly working to draw in the hipster crowd and the menu is more "international" than I expected. Two things on the menu (perhaps because I ordered them) stood out--the Jamaican cheesecake and the curry and chips. The food was generally good but isn't it stunning how these food items are now being brought into the fold of Englishness? I know that England has a far more complex of what constitutes English fare than what we think of it in the US. But this is precisely what intrigues me. Does the idea of Indian influence and Jamaican influence make sense to Americans? Do they fully get the idea that "curry" has some complicated connection to India because of colonialism, and do they get that Jamaica was a part of the British empire because of the desire among the English for sugar?

The questions the Pub raised for me are hardly novel--people have been speculating on what it means for curry to be subsumed under British or English for years. Just this weekend, I was reading two very interesting articles about the history of Indian food in Britain and one of the authors, Ben Highmore, also has this wonderful reading of how to think about the fact that a recent British world cup song was called "Vindaloo" or why British pub goers so frequently go out for an Indian.

Part of me is curious about this. Indian food in Britain is seen as post-pub fare, right? It's the kind of food people go to after drinking and there's a lot of masculine bravado about eating in excessive terms--wanting the 'hottest' dish, the most 'spicy' dish. So what does it mean that The Pub in Polaris (and I'm sure countless other places) imagine curry (a British invention anyway) to be part of the culinary offerings in this place that celebrates Englishness in America?

Clearly, multiculturalism is not about whether India and Jamaica can happily coexist with "English" on a menu; it can never be that simple. But at some level it bothers me to see these foods so easily appear on the menu at the Pub like colonialism is the same thing as going on vacation and getting a recipe from some 'ethnic' and then adding it to make one's palate more interesting.

Again, I know I'm not treading new ground here, but I really just want to think through these issues and try to understand why and how an English pub can do well in Columbus given this crappy economy.

An Omnivore's List of Hundred

2008-10-27T19:35:00.001-04:00

I read about this post on Kyla Tompkins blog and thought I'd add it to mine. Being allergic to shellfish, I can never make it to 100 but I'll do my best with the others:)
I'd love to know what governs taste, outside of allergies. I don't think there is anything on here I would not try, at least once except for things which will induce anaphylaxis.

The Omnivore's Hundred
Here’s a chance for a little interactivity for all the bloggers out there. Below is a list of 100 things that I think every good omnivore should have tried at least once in their life. The list includes fine food, strange food, everyday food and even some pretty bad food - but a good omnivore should really try it all. Don’t worry if you haven’t, mind you; neither have I, though I’ll be sure to work on it. Don’t worry if you don’t recognise everything in the hundred, either; Wikipedia has the answers.

Here’s what I want you to do:

1) Copy this list into your blog or journal, including these instructions.
2) Bold all the items you’ve eaten.
3) Cross out any items that you would never consider eating.
4) Optional extra: Post a comment here at www.verygoodtaste.co.uk linking to your results.

The VGT Omnivore’s Hundred:

1. Venison
2. Nettle tea
3. Huevos rancheros
4. Steak tartare
5. Crocodile
6. Black pudding
7. Cheese fondue
8. Carp
9. Borscht
10. Baba ghanoush
11. Calamari
12. Pho
13. PB&J sandwich
14. Aloo gobi
15. Hot dog from a street cart
16. Epoisses
17. Black truffle
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes
19. Steamed pork buns
20. Pistachio ice cream
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries
23. Foie gras
24. Rice and beans
25. Brawn, or head cheese
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper
27. Dulce de leche
28. Oysters
29. Baklava
30. Bagna cauda
31. Wasabi peas
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl
33. Salted lassi
34. Sauerkraut
35. Root beer float
36. Cognac with a fat cigar
37. Clotted cream tea
38. Vodka jelly/Jell-O
39. Gumbo
40. Oxtail
41. Curried goat
42. Whole insects
43. Phaal
44. Goat’s milk
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more
46. Fugu
47. Chicken tikka masala
48. Eel
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut
50. Sea urchin
51. Prickly pear
52. Umeboshi
53. Abalone
54. Paneer
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal
56. Spaetzle
57. Dirty gin martini
58. Beer above 8% ABV
59. Poutine
60. Carob chips
61. S’mores
62. Sweetbreads
63. Kaolin
64. Currywurst
65. Durian
66. Frogs’ legs
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake
68. Haggis
69. Fried plantain
70. Chitterlings, or andouillette
71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini
73. Louche absinthe
74. Gjetost, or brunost
75. Roadkill
76. Baijiu
77. Hostess Fruit Pie
78. Snail
79. Lapsang souchong
80. Bellini
81. Tom yum
82. Eggs Benedict
83. Pocky
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant.
85. Kobe beef
86. Hare
87. Goulash
88. Flowers
89. Horse
90. Criollo chocolate
91. Spam
92. Soft shell crab
93. Rose harissa
94. Catfish
95. Mole poblano
96. Bagel and lox
97. Lobster Thermidor
98. Polenta
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee
100. Snake

Various cafes, Queen Victoria Building, Sydney, Australia

2007-07-11T07:19:00.002-04:00

I've been hosting a guest writer, Sugi Ganeshananthan at my college for the past few days and have been inspired to start blogging again. Sugi blogs for Sepiamutiny
(and I won't even go into how jealous that makes me) and that really
pushed me to think about why I haven't blogged in so long. Certainly it
is a commitment and one that I had to consciously step away from while
I was trying to finish my book manuscript. I've now completed it and
its under review, but I'm really not done with food. I guess I don't
know how to be done with food. Its not the same as other types of
intellectual work where one can work on it for a while and then move
into a different direction and the simplistic and reductive side of me
thinks it is because food is more than intellectual--we don't have the
option of opting out without serious consequences, and, its also
visceral and reminds us of the past even when we don't want to.

I was looking through the backlog of things I have to blog about and
decided to start with blogging about eating in Sydney because, frankly,
food in Sydney makes me happy.

The Sydney I visited in '07 is not the Sydney I remember from the 80s. Sydney is a much more Asian city now and I had no problem finding delicious Malaysian food like
beefrendang and Korean bi bim bap. That simply didn't exist back in the
80s in Australia to the same degree. But for some reason during my week
in Sydney, I kept being drawn back to the Queen Victoria Building--I
must have passed through everyday and for no real good reason, shopping
wise. I did buy a fabulous outfit from Witchery, which a year later, I
have still to wear but that's a digression...

I think what I most loved about the QVB was the abundance of cafes that were in the in-between spaces--tables arranged around the edges of the stairwells, tables in the center of the mall: very different than the food court experience in the US where
food is on the basement or in a separate space from shopping. I was
first drawn to the bakeries and cafes inQVB, honestly, to satisfy cravings for food from my childhood. I was in Australia for 10 days and I had to have a meatpie, sausage roll and a lamington dammit--no two ways about it. While that got me to the point of eating food, what kept me coming back to this space was a curious phenomenon I noticed at 5-6 pm. In Australia, shops close at around 5 or 6 in the
evening, and that's it--everyone goes home or whatever. But what I
noticed after 2 days was that professional women did not go straight
home, nor did they automatically head for the bar to drink their stress
and woes away. They would rush to these cafes and meet other women and
eat cake and coffee: an honest to goodness snack. This might emerge out
of the British tradition of tea and finger sandwiches, but also, it
strikes me as so healthy. Its so healthy to not go from work to the
store but to sit, drink a nice cup of coffee and chat with a friend.
Even though I was mostly alone, save for the days whenPasandi and Jody, friends from PNG came to spend time with me, I found myself returning to these cafes at
5pm just to be around another type of socializing. Its so wonderful to
think of people taking time to eat cake and coffee. I am an academic,
so I don't worry about the 9-5 hustle, but if I did, I think it'd be
amazingly therapeutic to know that the stores are all closed and that
people are slowing down for a bit, and that its okay to have that extra
hour before I have to be home or going grocery shopping. I know I'm
romanticizing a wee bit, but there's something very healthy, sane and
just nice about this life: it refreshed me for the few days of my
vacation before heading back to the States and its the one experience
in the US I crave for in some way or form..

Bharat: Canberra, Australia

2007-07-11T07:18:00.000-04:00

This post is for my "uncle" Desh, aunty "Anil" and Sandeep--none of them are my blood family, but desis will understand the use of the term uncle and aunty.

When last I was in Canberra--some 22 odd years ago--all I remember about it was how wretchedly cold it was. That, and the fact that there were no real Indian restaurants. Even as an 11 year old, I would pore through pages of restaurant guides trying to find the type of food I wanted to eat. Initially, my attention would go to novel cuisines--things my parents would not want to eat--Polish, German, French etc. Then I'd look for the familiar things. Growing up in Papua New Guinea where there were no Indian restaurants, I also had a strong love for Indian restaurant food. So when my family moved to follow my dad on his sabbatical to Canberra, I fully expected to find all manner of Indian food. This was the "West"--a civilized place where one could find tandoori chicken and the rest. But sadly, I was disappointed for there was not an Indian restaurant in sight in the sub-zero inhospitable climate of Canberra. The closes we got was going to a Sri Lankan restaurant between lunch and dinner. There, we chatted to the owner; as a fellow diasporic, he offered up appam and invited us to pay the next time we came back. That--we never did. And I don't know why.

So imagine my surprise and delight, when 22 years later Anil aunty and Desh uncle suggested we go to Bharat for lunch. Bharat? In Canberra? What was this little piece of India in this parochial capital city down under? As I soon found out, Bharat is a unique treasure, well worth the trip. Bharat is an Indian grocery store, the likes of which dominate ethnic neighborhoods in various nodes of the South Asian diaspora. I might well be revealing my own ignorance here, but I've also never really encountered a grocery store with a semi full-fledged eating area. Granted, we're not talking Tabla style decor here--its basic white nondescript furniture. But we are talking amazing food. Arguably, even the best Indian food I've had anywhere. Now maybe that speaks to the poverty of my culinary experiences, but I tend to doubt that narrative. What I loved about Bharat was that it signalled a radical shift in the way the Indian community imagined itself. Here was a space where immigrants and Indian-Australians came to buy spices, but also stopped to eat.In the 1980s, my mother would have given ANYTHING to have access to a place like that. What my mother wanted, in short, was an Indian community.

In her wonderful ethnography of bay area grocery stores, Purnima Mankekar identifies Indian grocery stores as important cultural sites for the production of Indian culture, and where the commodities the stores sell are “deeply enmeshed in the social lives and identities of Indians in the Bay Area.” (211). For Mankekar, the commodities sold in Indian grocery stores are significant, not because they feed immigrant nostalgia for the fabled homeland, but because they enact a form of “polyvocality”—engendering complex emotions amongst its consumers: pleasure, ambivalence and in some cases hostility." (210.) Central to the drama of the grocery store, if one can call it ‘dramatic’ in an everyday sense, are not the foods per se, but the dynamic forms of exchange and community constructed around the commodities within the space of the store.

Thus, what I appreciated about Bharat was that it lent a particular form of polyvocality to the Indian community in Canberra. Too often Indians are invisible, but here was a way that Indians were not only not invisible, but also making it clear that there was a space for articulating home in this cold and soul-less city. Sorry, I still can't love Canberra. So thank you uncle and aunty for taking me to the little piece of India that is in Canberra, and for what might well have been the nicest impromptu birthday celebration I've had in many a year!

ps. "Bharat" in Hindi, means India.
pps. Duh.

Latitude 41, Columbus, OH

2007-06-02T08:55:00.000-04:00

Latitude 41 in downtown Columbus describes itself as a 'destination' restaurant. Such stupider words have never been used to describe a restaurant. What is a destination restaurant? Is it like a vacation? Can you stay there forever? Does it mean that it is the highpoint in culinary dining; once one has arrived at Latitude 41, one will never need another place to go? I highly doubt it.

First up, Latitude 41 thinks it is something it is not. The bread basket, I'll admit, was fabulous. The gazpacho, pretty much rocked my socks. But the entree: I was a sucker and lured by the description of pork tenderloin and pasta with chevre. Little did I know that it was Pork with macaroni and cheese. Why on earth should anyone pay that kind of money for something that comes in a blue and yellow box, even if it has been elevated for les gourmands? Latitude 41, for me, is like the opposite of a good wine; the more and more my experience of going there ages, the more annoyed I get at the fact that I even bothered to go there.

I should have known better than to go to a restaurant inside a hotel. There are so many better options for good eating in Columbus: skip Latitude 41 and save the 41 dollars and go some place less in love with itself that also serves food that is worth spending money on. Anyone who knows me knows I will spend money on food. But this was an insult in so many ways. The only good thing about Latitude 41 is that I got 100 dining points on Opentable.com

The Laughing Seed, Asheville NC

2007-05-11T22:54:00.003-04:00

On the way back from South Carolina I took it upon myself to not repeat the mistake we made on our way down.Stopping at the side of the highway to eat whatever because one didn't have time to look up a place is a grave, grave mistake. Indeed, one can 'eat' at terrible places like Shoneys if one is not careful to plan.

I wanted to stop in Asheville for purely arbitrary reasons; I'm on a idiosyncratic quest to visit all US states and am up to 35 or something like that, and I thought Asheville might be an okay town. Googling places, I landed on Laughing Seed because it was vegetarian, and after a tip away, I always eat too much meat and need to detoxify and vegetarian food always sounds good.

Laughing Seed, to those not from the Asheville area , simply put, rocks. I'm not one for discussing restaurant websites: I'm not promoting the restaurants I eat at, but am interested in thinking what their cuisine offers for a critical culinary sensibility. But I will depart from my convention, and quote the opening to the website which explains what the restaurant name means:

"On the Indonesian island of Bouton there is the legend of the Laughing Seed. This plant was sacred to the people of the Spice Islands for centuries. When the seeds of this plant were consumed, the people were intoxicated with laughter and able to communicate with the gods. It is said that this wondrous food satisfied the appetite and created a sense of fullness and well-being which lasted for many days"

I simply love this notion of laughter, food, community and intoxication. This concept is one that truly works and it also proves that vegetarian food is complex and interesting.

I don't have much else to say; Asheville seems like a pretty awesome little town, and in this day and age of meat, more meat, and more meat, Laughing Seed is an awesome alternative.

I post below just some of the descriptions of food listed on their menu. I'm not trying to promote the food, per se, but trying to make it clear that I for one, appreciate the notion, that vegetarianism is not some random, crunchy-granola weirdness but a thoughtful and inspired way to prepare food.

Check it out:

Reuben:
The classic. Marinated organic three-grain tempeh, sauerkraut, grilled onions and Swiss cheese on organic multi-grain bread, grilled and topped with vegan Russian dressing.

Hempnut Burger:
This hearty burger of hempnuts and millet is a nutritional powerhouse as well as a fantastic veggie burger. Nutty and moist, it’s delicately seasoned, grilled and served on a toasted bun with basil aioli, lettuce, tomato, red onion, grated organic carrots, grated red cabbage, and onion sprouts.

Havana Cuban Sandwich:
Crispy, batter-dipped organic three-grain tempeh, black bean spread, tomatoes, caramelized onions, dill pickles, and spicy mustard, grilled with Gruyere cheese on a fresh torta roll. A new Laughing Seed favorite.

Sloppy Jo:
Our version of an American favorite. Sweet and tangy tofu barbecue served on a whole wheat bun with lettuce, carrots, cabbage, sprouts, and tahini mustard sauce.

Tempecado:
Layers of marinated tempeh, avocado, lettuce, tomatoes, grated carrots, red cabbage

Gullah Cuisine and Magnolia's, Mt Pleasant and Charleston, South Carolina

2007-05-11T22:53:00.001-04:00

I've decided to team up on posting, because honestly, I don't always think of restaurants in isolation, but put them in conversation with other places too. Blame it on my comparatist training if you must. During the weekend M and I spent visiting his mom in South Carolina, two restaurants stand out. The one, perhaps an obvious choice is Magnolia's, a much famed restaurant in downtown Charleston. Gullah Cuisine, in stark contrast, is one of those places that one can so easily overlook if one is not paying attention. In fact, had I not googled for an area restaurant in advance of our trip to visit M's mom in Mt Pleasant, SC, I might never have found out about this treasure. Actually, I think I would have noticed it--it is after all, located next to a Cat Bakery or Cat Clinic which caught my eye.

Magnolia's is everything I'd hoped it would be; it took Southern cuisine and made it into something so delectably unique and richly layered. Brunch there was simply amazing. Salmon on grits with fried green tomatoes is every bit as amazing as it sounds; the flavors work well together, and there is really a lovely blending of flavors that keep the richness of Southern flavor without all the stereotypically requisite fat and lard that leads to that "I've eated a deep fried cow and am suffering the consequences" feeling. Indeed, for me to continue to write about Magnolia's is kind of pointless because it knows its identity and it has the reputation to keep people coming back for more. I am not the type to buy a cookbook after going to a restaurant, but the Magnolia's cookbook was a good investment--at least I hope it will be:)

Gullah Cuisine, on the other hand is non-descript, and not the kind to show up on Opentable.com anytime soon. I, honestly was curious to find a place in our short weekend trip that we could go to which is owned and patronized by African Americans. It just seems egregiously wrong to go to South Carolina and to see only what white Southerners have done.

Unlike Magnolia's, GC does not really 'dress up' its food. Its a simple buffet, although an extensive one, full of Southern yumminess. I've always been a big fan of buffets, but GC takes the cake. I don't know Southern Black food terribly well, but the food at Gullah Cuisine is to die for. It has everything this novice could dream of--fried chicken, collards, dirty rice, okra and rice, sweet tea, banana pudding with vanilla wafers, bread pudding.

Thinking about Gullah Cuisine and Magnolia's makes me think of the difference in South Indian food at places like Udipi Cafe and Dosa. Dosa is fancier, because to some very real extent, it imagines its clientele as a cosmopolitan one that is not exclusively immigrant in origins. Udipi, on the other hand, make no pretensions towards fancier food because immigrants would laugh at chutney drizzled attractively on dosa. Its just not why one would go to Udipi Cafe in the first place.

I can't help but think that Magnolia's is good Black food, but it is for white people who need the luxury of fried green tomatoes without the black people there. GC on the other hand is not quite FUBU cuisine, but it is for the community and those comfortable enough with themselves to eat Black people's food with Black people. It worries me that food, despite being seen as the great equalizer, is still such a charged racial arena. After all, eating corn bread and collard greens, to paraphrase Frank Wu, is not the same as breaking bread with black people.

Why do so many of our cuisines by people of color need to be fused with whiteness to be rendered palatable? I'm not saying Magnolia's food is not amazing, that is not my point at all. But rather, it occurs to me that the same questions I ask about fusion in a South Asian frame also apply to the way we might think of food in other contexts. We're still careful about what we mix and how we mix food. Ive been reading Stanley Fish this week and his notion of boutique multiculturalism is really interesting and relevant here. Fish argues that there are two types of mutliculturalists. The boutique version of multiculturalism is one in which one might enjoy food, fashion etc. while being intolerant of the real differences people inhabit. Fusion cuisine, it seems is boutique multiculturalism par excellence. Its a socially sanctioned way to take what we want, and leave behind the rest. At some level, GC is not providing unmediated access to Black Southerness; there is after all, no such thing as an unmediated access to authenticity. But it is worth considering what is brought to the table, who brings it to the table and how it is presented. These are just some of the questions/ ideas that come to mind as I process my two similar but yet so different culinary experiences in Mt Pleasant and Charleston South Carolina.

Puebla, Mexico

2007-05-11T22:52:00.001-04:00

Disclaimer: since the food in Puebla was uniformly fabulous, I see no reason to go into details about how awesome the food was. Honestly, while eating in the varied places in Puebla, I was charmed by the food and the complexity of flavors, but also could not help but do something quite annoying. While in Mexico, I developed an annoying habit of comparing everything to India. This, I've realized is something Indians do a lot; we see Indianness in everything from the smell of bathrooms, to the sounds on the streets to the placement of trees :)

But what I especially loved about the similarities between Mexico and India, is the notion that you do not charge extra for large groups of people! As a kid, the only times we went out for food was with large groups of people. Often it was two families, sometimes a group of friends, sometimes the whole extended Mannur clan. Whatever the case, food was shared by a large group and restaurants didn't balk at that or complain about what a pain we'd be as a group. I noticed this pattern to also be true in Puebla; large groups (and not just the conference peoples) would be eating together, the way one ought.

on a more serious it about Mexico that made me want to compare it so much to India? I know Octavio Paz has written about it at length; perhaps in my case it is a perverse habit. But I also think the reason so many people think it is amusing is because we're not really aware of the deep connections between the two spaces. For one, the famous China Poblana is fabled to be an Indian lady. Evelyn HuDeHart and Rohni Rustomji have written more about her, but I find the connections to be quite stunning. I don't want to post the article in its entirety here, but here is a link to Evelyn's article.
http://clave.org/lachinapoblana.pdf

But in terms of food, the connections also go back far connecting India and the New World.It would surprise many Indians to learn that cashews, tomatoes, chili peppers and tea are not native to the Indian subcontinent, but were brought to India from South America via Portugal and Spain between the 1500’s and 1800’s as a result of colonial expansion into the “New World.” Given the non-native origins of many “Indian” foods, does it matter then that many intrinsically Indian foods such as maize, chili originate from “elsewhere” ? Does it matter that the actual words used to refer to food items in Indian languages can be etymologically linked with the languages of the colonized and colonizers in the “New World”? Pineapple, known in Hindi, Kannada and other South Asian languages as ‘ananas’ is derived from the Portuguese “ananas”; “tamatar,” the Hindi word for “tomato” comes from the Nahuatl “tomatl”; “caju,” or cashew comes from the Tepic “acaju”; the South Indian “sapota”, and North Indian “chiku” is derived from the Meso American “Chicosapote” and “achar,” the sub-continental referent for pickles bears a similarity to the Carib term for chile peppers (axi or achi).

Given this history of connection between Mexican and Indian food, perhaps it is not so strange I looked for the connections. Maybe it is just a way to more accurately honor our braided histories.

The Magnolia Bakery, New York

2007-04-18T21:57:00.002-04:00

Dude, so if anyone told me at the age of 3o-something I would stand in line to buy a cupcake for 30 minutes, I would have been in some serious surprise. But, yes, among the million things I could have done in NYC, I chose to stand in line at the Magnolia Bakery for 30 minutes to buy a cupcake. The fact that it was the day before Easter Sunday probably led to some of the mad rush for cupcakes, but maybe cupcakes warrant that kind of passion.

What strikes me as interesting about cupcakes is that they've suddenly become a huge thing. Granted, I'm defining 'sudden' rather loosely, to encompass, oh the last 10 years.... But seriously, cupcakes are huge! I had a student in my Food and Culture last year submit the most amazing research paper, organized as a cookbook on the history of cupcakes. That was sheer genius!
There are also entire cookbooks on the ins and outs of cupcakes. Last year, I too fell prey to the allure of the cutesy cupcake by buying the Williams-Sonoma cupcake mould that makes cupcakes which look like ice-cream cones. Of course, the cupcake blog, "All Cupcakes All The Time" is probably the biggest tribute to the love for cupcakes.

But what strikes me as fascinating and disturbing is how cupcakes are so associated with childhood (how many times did I have to learn to make cupcakes in school, or bring cupcakes to school, or buy cupcakes at school) There is something both delightful and deeply disturbing about grown women going ga-ga over little bitty cakes. A little self-infantilizing?

OK, but onto Magnolia, the cupcakes seriously ROCK. M and I bought 4 cupcakes and brought them back with us to our hotel room and like children, we sat on the floor and ate all 4 of these cupcakes, laden with the most delicious frosting ever, in under 10 minutes. I want to say, well cupcakes are just fun, but just because I like cupcakes does not mean the infantilizing factor is not valid. I can't buy the narrative that cupcakes remind us of a happier time etc. Who is that time happier for? While Magnolia may bring all kinds of joy and happiness to cupcake munching persons, I also think of the beautiful Asian American woman who was slaving away behind the scenes of Magnolia making cupcakes. To her, I doubt cupcakes are romantic and sweet; they might be a source of income, but the way she had to work, sweating to death, spreading frosting on cupcakes at break-neck speed certainly reduced the sweetness for me, as it ought. I can't be a self-deluded consumer who thinks cupcakes frost themselves; there is a person who has to individually make these delectables. Even though I did not do more than say hi to her, while we waited for our cupcakes to be boxed, I hope in whatever small way to send her a thank you. Without her sweat and labor, I would not have been able to taste the most delicious cupcakes I have ever had .

Fatty Crab, New York

2007-04-18T21:57:00.001-04:00

Okay, let's get one thing straight. I am the biggest proponent of family-style eating especially when it comes to Asian food. It does not make sense when going out to eat Indonesian, Thai, Chinese or Indian food to order an entire dish and not share it with the table. One of the ways one achieves balance in one's diet is to order a vegetable, some meat, some rice and to share it. Pure and simple--you do not order General Tso's Chicken and eat it all by yourself. Apart from that being about 1000 calories, it is also really gross.

That said, Fatty Crab in the West Village does nothing to further the cause of family style. Don't get me wrong--the food was delicious, but it just didn't work to serve the food family style and then bring the food out whenever the dishes are ready. For family-style to work, well, you have to serve all the food at once!

The highlight of the meal was getting to have two of my distinct worlds collide--I got to introduce M to two of my former students, May and Justin. I do love the name of the restaurant, though, and it really does serve good food. I just can't get beyond my sense of feeling peeved that the place set me back in my eternal argument with M that family-style is perfectly acceptable for restaurant eating. See, he is under the impression that family style is good for home cooking, and not for restaurants. I disagree in such a fundamental way b/c it occurs to me that a way of eating that works in two of the largest nations in the world are excellent things we can export. When you share food, you can actually talk and commune and feel connected. There is a sense that your choices are important because you have to care what the other person can and cannot eat. You learn about others by going to eat out with them because your food tastes affect their palatal options and vice versa. I'll never concede that family style is a bad option. I love to eat out because I love my friends. Food and friends go in logical categories of togetherness--now I just have to convince M that it ain't so bad. Taking him to Fatty Crab was not a good idea so I have to recover. So as advice to anyone trying to 'sell' family-style, make sure it is done properly. It helps all of us in the long run!

Aquavit, New York

2007-04-18T21:55:00.000-04:00

Thanks to opentable, I have now become completely indiscriminating in my choice of restaurants; the more points I can accrue for a single meal, the better. I have found out the hard way that this is not always a wise choice--simply because one can get points for eating at an establishment, does not mean one ought eat there. What one earns in points, one makes up for in other ways.
This, however, was not the case for Aquavit. While I found Aquavit accessible via opentable, I forgot to register through my account. But what I lost in points, I made up for in terms of the most exceptional meal I've had in years. If you'd asked me if I would like a restaurant specializing in Swedish food, I would have said, okay. Honestly, my exposure to Swedish food comes from Ikea. I love the meatballs, lingonberries and mashed potatoes you can get at the Ikea cafe but never thought my horizons would expand beyond this particular framework.

I have to admit, I was intrigued by Aquavit because of Marcus Samuelsson; I love the idea of an Ethiopian adoptee being the person who puts Swedish food on the map for many Americans. I love the idea of a person of color putting an extremely homogeneous country on the map.

But this aside, I have to say, Aquavit is truly transcendentally amazing in its food. I know this sounds cheesy but sometimes cheesiness is the best truth one has, and this is one of those times. It wasn't just that the food was amazing, but that the portions were just right and the price was right. I was also glad that we decided to order Aquavit, the signature beverage. The vodka is distilled a number of times and then infused with amazing flavors--I had something with mango, because well, if it has mango, I have to have it.

I actually ended up ordering Aquavit's version of the Ikea meal, but I love that this fancy place is not above presenting the same food one finds in a particle-board furniture store. Sure, they charge a little more at Aquavit, but they do it well.

My advice--skip the restaurant, and go to the cafe. Its half the price and the food is amazing and worth every penny, even if opentable won't honor my request to retroactively get credit for completing my reservation there :)

Arroz con Pollo, Buckeye Style

2007-01-02T19:09:00.000-05:00

A year ago, I could not have even dreamed of devoting an entire blog posting to football. I will either blame, or credit Michael, who may well be the BIGGEST buckeye fan around, for this new affliction that had me rooting for underdog Boise State to crush OU last night. (My usual thing is to root for the team with the most p.o.c or the underdog..)

But, for now, all eyes on the big game on the 8th. In honor of the event, I have promised M I will partake in festivities only if I can give it my own twist. My suggested mode is to make the favorite dish of one of the minorities on the BUCKEYE side, Anthony Gonzalez. He is of Cuban heritage, and one of his favorite dishes is Arroz Con pollo, "Rice with chicken"--and here is a recipe I found online.

One of Anthony Gonzalez's favorite recipes:

• 10 chicken pieces (I usually use drumsticks and boneless, skinless thighs)
• Garlic powder
• Salt and pepper
• Cumin powder
• 6 cloves garlic -- chopped
• Bouillon cubes
• 3 cups rice
• 8 cups water
• 2 packets of Azafran seasoning packet (Can substitute 1 pinch safffron for 2 tbsp azafran)
• One can petite peas, drained
• One small jar diced pimento
• One can beer
Season the chicken with spices. Fry in extra-virgin olive oil and
garlic until the chicken is almost done (about 25 minutes). Add rice,
water, seasoning packet and bouillon cubes. Let cook until the water
is almost gone and you can see the rice. Add the can of beer.
Cover and let cook on low for about 45 minutes.
Add peas (drained) and pimento on top.

Its Me!

2007-01-02T18:46:00.000-05:00

I know I haven't been blogging for a while--write it off to a seriously busy semester. I'm slowly catching up on my old posts, but for now, I wanted to share an audio clip. I was interviewed to talk about fusion cuisine about 2 years ago by WBAI in NYC, the Pacifica Radio affiliate. Last November, they re-aired the segment, so I'm attaching the link here.

Love to hear thoughts on my debut radio performance.

http://www.asiapacificforum.org/show-detail.php?show_id=49

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Taste of Bali, Columbus

2007-01-02T18:45:00.001-05:00

One of the reasons I absolutely love Columbus is that it has these secret culinary gems (I like to think of them as secret) that one does not expect in "Ohio." Let me rephrase that--it is not that a generic "someone" does not expect, but many who are of the East and West coast persuasion who subscribe to the largely unsubstantiated assertion that the "Midwest"--monolithicaally constructed--is a culinary wasteland. To my detractors who have never encountered the Midwest except for spaces like DTW, MSP, ORD, CIN, CMH (yes, the airport versions of the Midwest, en route to the west and east), I say, "you is dead wrong!"

One thing that surprised me when I returned to the Midwest is how many really awesome restaurants are tucked away in strip malls. That might account for my sense that they are 'secret spaces' but more than that, these places often look nondescript from the outside and are really spaces to get excellent food.

Consider Taste of Bali. I only found out about it because I am a committed dollar movie aficionado (not as much as Michael) and on a trip to the Bethel Road Dollar movie place I noticed Taste of Bali. To me, Indonesian food is one of the most sublime forms of Asian food--mind you, I'm not objective. As a child, born and raised in Malaysia, the tastes of Indonesian food ( also part of Malay food repertoire) are more than familiar to me--they are downright nostalgic.

I'm not uncritical of nostalgia guiding taste, but I know that it is what brings me back to Taste of Bali time and time again. I miss having tastes I took for granted as an 8 year old readily available--things like mee hoon, roti chanai, bee hoon, nasi lemak, nasi goreng, pisang goreng and of course cendol. These are all dishes I weaned my palate on, and they are tastes I thought would be relegated to the realm of distant memory, but now there is a place I can go to feed my nostalgia.

Perhaps this is an oversimplification, but part of what I like about eating Malay food is that it reminds me that I have a complicated history, one that cannot be encompassed by a simple term, Indian-American, with or without the hyphen. Malaysia is a vital part of who I am; its where I was born and in that sense it makes me different than other Indian immigrants and other Indian Americans. India is not my 'motherland' in the same way (although Malaysia is not that either) but in claiming part of Malaysian identity (problematic as it may be to do this through food) I can remind myself that binary identity categories are just that; binary. They do not account for a sense of polyculturalism in the same way as I imagine myself to be.

I realize I've slipped from Indonesian to Malay, but the foods are similar and I feel that rhetorically there is a connection that allows me to feel kinship to Malaysianness via an Indonesian restaurant. The other part of this is that I then spent the next 11 years of my life growing up in Papua New Guinea, a country that shares its only physical border with Irian Jaya, a space (thought much contested) under Indonesia.

So for me, A Taste of Bali is the kind of place that is worth returning to, not just because of fabulous food, but because it helps remind me of who I am and the histories I've left behind to become the person I am today.

Morimoto, Philadelphia

2007-01-02T18:45:00.000-05:00

For some, the only real restaurants are those owned and managed by high profile/ celebrity chefs. Certainly, Morimoto would fit the bill. And who knows: maybe there is something to that notion. While I seriously doubt that there is a food meritocracy in the restaurant world, one cannot deny the absolutely fabulous nature of the food at a place like Morimoto.

I've only recently begun to partake in the wonder that is the tasting menu--prior to now, I've often found it an extravagance of unnecessary proportions to eat that much food. I wanted to do the the tasting menu but found out that my shellfish allergy was too much for the chef toaccommodate, so alas it was not for me. I did, however, get to do the next best thing which was to try the sushi and sashimi platter--all fish of course. In truth, there is little I could say about Morimoto that is not patently obvious; the food is amazing, but it is to be expected.

Instead, some six months later, as I find myself thinking about Morimoto and what I loved about it, I find myself returning to a rather minor episode--eating dessert. I know very little about the types of desserts Morimoto offers, but the item that caught my eye was the mango mille feuille. Dessert aficionados will know that mille feuille literally translates to "thousand sheets" and refers to a type of pastry which is made of puff pastry usually encasing some kind of cream. The version atMorimoto is spectacular, and I ordered it because I had never really had a good mille feuille, and I had not had mille feuille since a colleague told me a fabulous story about mille feuille in India.

As the story goes, the person had grown up in Kashmir eating something he knew as malfi cake. He did not know how to spell it, but why was that important? Malfi cake was something to eat, not spell. For years, he had known this flaky pastry concoction as malfi cake, and it was only upon migrating to the West some years later that he re-encountered this fabled cake of his youth, only to find that it wasn't called malfi cake, but mille feuille; over the years, mille feuille had been translated to Indian ears as malfi cake. And why not? Haven't the Europeans been changing names left, right and center? Kanpur/ Cawnpore; Mumbai/ Bombay; Kannada/ Canara--the list goes on. What is it about a Kashmiri re-rendering of a French sounding dessert that strikes me as a precious, even cute narrative?

I like this story at numerous levels, not least of which is my sense that the malfi/ mille feuille transaction speaks to an interesting way in which European cultures are domesticated when they are fused with other cultural contexts. If we can have mulligatawny soup, Worcestershire sauce, kedgeree and rice pilaf, why notmalfi cake?

So again, my posting has nothing to do with Morimoto, save that his dessert offering leads me to make another kind of cross-cultural connection. I do believe that mille-feuille represents part of the offerings in Morimoto that speak to a tradition of fusion cuisine. And honestly, as I look up the menu and read the exact description of what I ate that night, "mango-shiso mille feuille white chocolate mousse, mango with shiso and black sesame, kataifi," it is palpably evident that Morimoto has made mille-feuille a truly fused dessert in which Japanese tastes blend wonderfully with
this flaky pastry concoction. That it reminds me a story of malfi-cake in Kashmir is just all that much sweeter.