Provolone in Paris

The summer between my Freshman and Sophomore years of high school, my cousins Jenna and Wilson from dreamy Santa Fe, New Mexico brought me with them on a European vacation as their babysitter for 15 month old Jack. We flew business class to London, and from there, visited Spain, Paris, and Corsica. It was quite luxurious… our accommodations were splendid, and of course we were well fed. I couldn’t help but feel as though my fifteen-year-old palate was a bit underdeveloped to be launching on such a sophisticated food experience, uncertain of what we might encounter. My cousins are incredibly hospitable. Although I was merely the babysitter, they were wonderfully invested in my experience and making it the best it could be. We ate nearly every meal together, aside from their romantic dinners when I would stay home with Jack, and they paid for my entrance into every museum, and watched Jack while I had a chance to browse the art. It was quite a dream come true.

In the first few days we went to a fresh food market in Paris. There were dozens of carts in close proximity lining a nearby park, all with dried hanging meats, handmade soaps and bits of clothing, and of course, cheese. We approached the cheese cart with the intention of France-ifying our apartment life with gourmet cheese. While Jenna and Wilson thoughtfully contemplated extensively aged and complex tasting cheeses, I was intrigued by a small round cows milk, provolone type cheese, coated in herbs. I asked the person in plastic gloves to shave me a sliver, and felt transformed. The flavor of the cheese was so simple, the consistency so familiar, filling me with the creamy, raw dairy flavor that I crave periodically. The herbs were the perfect amount of garnish, embellishing the sophistication of the cheese in the midst of its stinky, moldy, aged relatives. I don’t remember my exact outward reaction to the cheese, but it must have been passionate, because my cousins fixated on my obsession for the rest of the trip. Not only were they constantly on the lookout for the cheese wherever we went, they bought me a greater supply than I ever could have wanted over the course of our time there.

The cheese always seemed to appear on my breakfast plate in the morning, and on my dessert plate in the evening. The baby, Jack was possibly the cutest of everything cute I have ever witnessed. He could toddle around the parks, pat on window displays at museums, and say a perfect collection of euro trip words: “art, huevos (eggs), agua, horsies, and pretty”. He was at the stage in his sleep schedules where jet lag really messed with him, causing him to get up at 4 am. My dear cousin Jenna would continuously insist that I sleep through these nightly episodes while she dealt with her wide-awake and ready-to-play baby. Each morning of rising at four Jack would toddle around asking for “huevos” for breakfast, and Jenna would scramble them for him. I would awaken to my own plate of scrambled eggs as well, with a wedge of my cheese on the side.

The cheese came to represent their understanding of me, that something small could make me so incredibly elated, and that they could facilitate that by feeding it to me. It was kind of like my “thing” in Paris, the way I came to experience the country. But I also couldn’t help but feel innocent and childish by what I thought they saw as my immature fetish, and comfort food. It was exotic enough that I could seem to enjoy the culture… through the obvious staple of cheese, but at the same time very comforting.

When we found the cheese for the second time, it was only just a few days before we left. Jenna was so enthusiastic about her discovery of it at a market nearby, she insisted on buying a last wheel for the trip. She also insisted that I bring home a second wheel as a souvenir. We left with two large rounds of cheese: one for me to eat over the next three days, and the other vacuum sealed so as to escape the drug dogs at customs. As our remaining time there became less and less, the chunks of cheese with each meal got bigger and bigger in order to finish it. We also decided just before leaving that it was a bad idea to bring the cheese through customs, dividing the entire thing at our last meal. The cheese became a challenge, an obstacle, and I eventually became very reluctant to eat it.

Looking back on this trip, I really do remember the initial magic of the cheese and long for it, I even salivate when thinking about it. But for about one month after the cheese-gorging period when we struggled to finish it all before packing up and leaving, it repulsed me. This summer we visited the Plaza hotel in New York City, browsing the newly constructed food hall. Gazing into the glass casing at the cheese counter, my heart skipped a beat as I saw a similarly sized wheel of herb-covered cheese, and immediately blabbed my association with the cheese to a confused lady behind the glass who gave me a sample. It wasn’t the same. I don’t even know if my memory of this cheese is accurate anymore. Between my whirlwind of emotions about it after we left, my memory of impression and hypothetical taste in my mouth could be completely inaccurate. Though, whenever I see a wheel of herb covered cheese at market, I will always ask for a small shaving off the top, not because I desperately crave the cheese, but just to see if it is the same as the one I know so well.

Pure Pleasure

             Reading about world renowned chef and pretty much hard-ass Anthony Bourdain in his book A Cook’s Tour, we were transported into his food life and taken on a whiplashing journey of what it reveals about his character. Through all of my impressions of Bourdain from start to finish: casual, crazy, real, relatable, genuine, harsh, picky, selfish, emotional, respectable, I have jumped around based on his experiences in each country, and his resulting opinions and thus, commentary of each. However, I was truly touched by the scene in San Francisco where he advises a fellow Chef about how to deal with his work dynamic challenges in the kitchen. The way Bourdain talks to the Chef is so telling of his own experiences, and his language is indicative of his character and how he deals with people in the kitchen. Through this section, I could hear his genuine empathy and understanding behind his man-to-man lingo.

            In class we have talked a lot about voice, and the ease or lack of ease with which we can hear and experience Bourdain. His book is an uncensored, stream of consciousness, detailed reflection of his experiences. The strong sense of voice has caused me to want to watch his TV show, and experience him in person. It is far more difficult to judge someone in a book, because you hear their reactions and impressions to what is happening in the moment rather than merely witnessing their behavior and physical interactions on the scene. I judge people, too. For this, I am happy that I could have read his book and had this opportunity to get to know him in this way before watching on TV. Many avid viewers describe him as “fucking insane”. There is a really good chance my judgmental self would have thought the same.

Additionally, throughout the second half of the book, Bourdain continues on his quest for the perfect meal, declaring some meals to have achieved this feat. I agree with him that, the perfect meal must not be ruined… it must remain a purely pleasurable experience from start to finish, thus his frustrations with the interference of his TV show. Furthermore, his indicators of a perfect meal, one that is erotically supreme, are largely related to sex: orgasmic, surging, sensational. His most striking description took place in Japan, where he describes the Sushi: “It took every bit of discipline I had not to moan and giggle and gush throughout the meal… Togawa-san… you showed me the light” (142). It sounds like Togawa-san pretty much rocked Bourdain’s world. Good food gives you chills, makes you contort into weird positions to convey the satisfaction you feel, for which there is sometimes no words. He later finds himself “plunged unexpectedly into yet another orgy of drinking and eating” (142-143). In my house, the perfect food or meal gives us a “food boner”. I do believe that appetite conjures this manner of appreciation for something that just “hits the spot” so easily. Between his largely alcoholic experiences, and indescribable, unsurpassable meals, his journey is largely sensual. The Japanese continue to lead him into other equally pleasurable experiences with hot preparation baths, geisha performances, and digestion massages. The combination of environment, ambiance, place, meal, appetite and hunger translate into an experience of pure pleasure.

P.S. Sorry for all of the profanity, but it was hard not to use whilst trying to capture the mindset of someone like Anthony Bourdain.

Changing Perception

While finishing the book Stealing Bhudda's Dinner it was powerful to watch Bich’s relationship with Rosa waver during the scene with the blueberry pies. For a brief paragraph, Bich refers to Rosa as her “mother”. Is this acknowledgement of her domesticity and conformation to the mothers in the media that Bich has been so resentful about? Even though Bich would prefer that Rosa bake a “lattice top pie and cool them on the windowsill” she acknowledges her effort and the brief sense of homeyness she associates with the pies. However, once Bich realizes the failure of Rosa’s gesture, she resorts to calling her by first name once again. This passage held a flat, almost bitter tone during the exchange between Rosa and Bich about the pies, as if Rosa understood that even for a day, she was finally fulfilling the role of a house-cleaning, pie-baking mother, reluctant to admit this feat because it would legitimize her lack of these behavior previously. She proceeds with calm stoniness, declining Bich’s offer for help. Bich refers to her mannerism and voice as “calm as a river covering a bed of razors”. Rosa is protective of her role as a pie-provider, but does not want to admit it as an anomaly. I could feel the tension and Rosa’s unspoken eagerness to prove something in this scene as though I was there.

            Finally, as the story progresses, Bich’s undying obsession and fascination with food and eating “American” begin to change. Her tastes mature with her adolescence. There seem to be so many distractions during this coming-of-age time in her life with her family, and the passive role she assumes in the household, watching the teenager-hood of her older sisters, and resorting to books for pleasure. She marks her progression into adolescence as a nonevent, though it had been a time she looked forward to for many years as the day she could no longer eat off of the kids menu. She acknowledges its passing with regret. It seems to me as though her family life has been causing her to withdraw from her sense of identity through food.

            In our class discussion of Part 1, we talked a lot about Bich’s desire to be white and her strategies to Americanize herself.  In the end, Bich distinguishes between fantasy and reality. To me this could parallel her sense of whiteness, which she sees as a fantasy, accepting the reality of her family immigration. Her visit back to Vietnam paints an even clearer picture of their old, life and how it juxtaposes the life Bich has now for her reality. The separation she feels from her homeland and culture confirm her identity has American, and as a foreigner in Vietnam. She realizes that she spent so much time thinking about what she didn’t have that she never acknowledged what was right in front of her. This is such a real emotion or feeling that I can really connect with. Many times it takes removal from your own life to see its true worth.