Embracing culinary culture shock
Feb 2, 2009 6:06:34 GMT
Post by bixaorellana on Feb 2, 2009 6:06:34 GMT
All my life I have been open-minded – and let’s face it, open-mouthed – about food. One of my earliest memories is of my godmother spooning butter beans into me, saying “Down the hatch!” My mother’s family is from Louisiana, a place where small children gobble crustaceans and bivalves with aplomb. And vegetables? Even as a little kid, I couldn’t imagine anyone not wanting to eat squash. I happily accepted whatever new foodstuff to which I was introduced. When I turned eight, my family moved to Spain. A child familiar with jambalaya is undaunted by a bright yellow paella bristling with razor clams, and fried calamari were treat food.
One year the family took a vacation to Torremolinos. I remember standing knee-deep in the ocean as my mother showed us how to extract the meat from winkles and sea snails with a pin. I was so impressed with her knowing this, and couldn’t wait to try this new food.
I have to admit a prejudice against people who refuse to give unfamiliar tastes a chance, or worse, who act as though their persnicketiness is a virtue. After all, food is generally served to us by a trusted other, be it friend, family member, or a food-service professional. What do you think they’re going to serve you, poison? Also, there’s the etiquette issue. Wrinkling up your nose, making faces, or otherwise showing disgust at what someone has prepared with care and honored you by serving has got to be the height of bad manners.
When I was in my mid twenties and living in New Orleans, I took my first trip to Mexico. From the moment of crossing the pedestrian bridge into Nuevo Laredo, I was hit in the face by what a first-world puritanical little priss I was. I knew nothing about Mexico. I’d never even had Mexican food. Everything was too different – I thought I was going to have to turn around and go staight back to the good ole USA.
We got on a train in Nuevo Laredo and travelled through the night, changing in Mexico City, and continuing on to Veracruz. This was more like it! A ra-cha-cha city with streetcars and the smells of the Gulf of Mexico felt a lot more like home. As the train had specialized in white bread sandwiches and “continental” dining car food, Veracruz provided my first taste of authentic comida Mexicana. What a revelation! My main thought was, “This, this is the food I’ve been craving all my life!” The cooked dishes seemed a not-too-exotic extension of Louisiana food, but with something ineffably Mexican that was delicious and exciting. There were seafood bars where one could nip in, sit at a zinc counter, and be served ice-cream dishes heaped with fingernail sized shrimp. One helped oneself to garnishes – a green oil and drifts of chopped cilantro. I was swooning with delight.
The next stop was Mérida, a place which cinched my love affair with this wonderful country. Every evening panucho stands were set up in what is now the sculpture walk off the main square. Art is all very fine, but I can only mourn those steaming glass cases crammed with succulent pork. My real education in everyday food took place in La Louvre, a family-style eatery on one corner of the zócalo. Each lunchtime, a different comida corrida was offered. This is a sort of blue-plate special, except served in courses. I wanted to try everything! There were two waiters there, brothers, who entertained themselves endlessly with jokes and general horsing around, including practicing such tricks as balancing a beer bottle on the head while waiting tables. They were delighted with my avid receptiveness, and took pleasure in explaining and in suggesting what I should eat. This had gone on through several meals, when one day the waiter announced with hushed awe that the special was relleno negro. My inadequate Spanish only served to cue me that this might be something black, but the waiter’s heavenward eyerolls & finger kissing convinced me it was something not to be missed. He proudly set a bowl – a BIG bowl, with a BIG portion for his little pet – in front of me. Doubt set in. My thoughts roiled: “Geez, this stuff is watery and black with a halved hard-boiled egg and a mysterious roll of something floating in it. That egg looks awful awash in the murky liquid. And, I’m not crazy about the way it smells.” Meanwhile, the waiter was hovering fondly, waiting for me to take the first bite so that he could bask in the look of bliss that was sure to beam from my face. I put the first spoonful in my mouth, and almost gagged. I hated this stuff, plus it tasted a little “high”. The waiter was practically wriggling with vicarious pleasure. “How is it? Do you like it? Isn’t it lo mas delicioso?” I forced a smile with watering eyes, made some mm-mmm sounds, and continued to eat, since he would not leave. Yes, reader, I finished the whole bowl. Oh, well, it made another human being happy.
The vacation ended, and I returned home yearning to reproduce the South of the Border flavors in my own kitchen. This proved impossible, as I knew nothing of the techniques and seasonings essential to the character of Mexican cooking. Hope surged anew when I discovered “The Cuisines of Mexico” by Diana Kennedy. Mrs. Kennedy’s joyful respect and hands-on research had produced a volume replete with the very logic informing the kitchen culture of Mexico. Led by her Ingredients section, I actually identified and transplanted epazote, which I found growing in the lot of a burned-out restaurant in the Irish Channel. However, this was New Orleans, not a place for Mexican anything in the mid-70s. I soldiered on, making my own lard and attempting to prepare nopales from the huge cactus growing in my yard. Do you know how cactus reacts to Lousiana’s climate? There wasn’t a spine on the rain-swollen pads, nor a trace of the tangy taste and texture which now I know is the reason to eat nopal. I did have a few successes, mainly with the dishes that weren’t so completely “foreign”, such as stews or stuffed chiles. Other things I didn’t bother with, as I was unable to imagine them into being. Chilaquiles, something I now love, on the printed page seemed dangerously close to “taco casserole”.
But these attempts at a complex cuisine hardly became the backbone of my everyday cooking. No, these were only the occasional wistful manifestations of my dream of eventually living in Mexico.
More than twenty years went by. Until 1997, I didn’t even re-visit Mexico. Then, after a couple of trips down, I moved to Oaxaca.
What a thrill! Every time I opened the door, there was Mexico in all its splendid otherness. Finally I was living out the daydream of market shopping, actually coming face to face with ingredients I’d only read about.
One year the family took a vacation to Torremolinos. I remember standing knee-deep in the ocean as my mother showed us how to extract the meat from winkles and sea snails with a pin. I was so impressed with her knowing this, and couldn’t wait to try this new food.
I have to admit a prejudice against people who refuse to give unfamiliar tastes a chance, or worse, who act as though their persnicketiness is a virtue. After all, food is generally served to us by a trusted other, be it friend, family member, or a food-service professional. What do you think they’re going to serve you, poison? Also, there’s the etiquette issue. Wrinkling up your nose, making faces, or otherwise showing disgust at what someone has prepared with care and honored you by serving has got to be the height of bad manners.
When I was in my mid twenties and living in New Orleans, I took my first trip to Mexico. From the moment of crossing the pedestrian bridge into Nuevo Laredo, I was hit in the face by what a first-world puritanical little priss I was. I knew nothing about Mexico. I’d never even had Mexican food. Everything was too different – I thought I was going to have to turn around and go staight back to the good ole USA.
We got on a train in Nuevo Laredo and travelled through the night, changing in Mexico City, and continuing on to Veracruz. This was more like it! A ra-cha-cha city with streetcars and the smells of the Gulf of Mexico felt a lot more like home. As the train had specialized in white bread sandwiches and “continental” dining car food, Veracruz provided my first taste of authentic comida Mexicana. What a revelation! My main thought was, “This, this is the food I’ve been craving all my life!” The cooked dishes seemed a not-too-exotic extension of Louisiana food, but with something ineffably Mexican that was delicious and exciting. There were seafood bars where one could nip in, sit at a zinc counter, and be served ice-cream dishes heaped with fingernail sized shrimp. One helped oneself to garnishes – a green oil and drifts of chopped cilantro. I was swooning with delight.
The next stop was Mérida, a place which cinched my love affair with this wonderful country. Every evening panucho stands were set up in what is now the sculpture walk off the main square. Art is all very fine, but I can only mourn those steaming glass cases crammed with succulent pork. My real education in everyday food took place in La Louvre, a family-style eatery on one corner of the zócalo. Each lunchtime, a different comida corrida was offered. This is a sort of blue-plate special, except served in courses. I wanted to try everything! There were two waiters there, brothers, who entertained themselves endlessly with jokes and general horsing around, including practicing such tricks as balancing a beer bottle on the head while waiting tables. They were delighted with my avid receptiveness, and took pleasure in explaining and in suggesting what I should eat. This had gone on through several meals, when one day the waiter announced with hushed awe that the special was relleno negro. My inadequate Spanish only served to cue me that this might be something black, but the waiter’s heavenward eyerolls & finger kissing convinced me it was something not to be missed. He proudly set a bowl – a BIG bowl, with a BIG portion for his little pet – in front of me. Doubt set in. My thoughts roiled: “Geez, this stuff is watery and black with a halved hard-boiled egg and a mysterious roll of something floating in it. That egg looks awful awash in the murky liquid. And, I’m not crazy about the way it smells.” Meanwhile, the waiter was hovering fondly, waiting for me to take the first bite so that he could bask in the look of bliss that was sure to beam from my face. I put the first spoonful in my mouth, and almost gagged. I hated this stuff, plus it tasted a little “high”. The waiter was practically wriggling with vicarious pleasure. “How is it? Do you like it? Isn’t it lo mas delicioso?” I forced a smile with watering eyes, made some mm-mmm sounds, and continued to eat, since he would not leave. Yes, reader, I finished the whole bowl. Oh, well, it made another human being happy.
The vacation ended, and I returned home yearning to reproduce the South of the Border flavors in my own kitchen. This proved impossible, as I knew nothing of the techniques and seasonings essential to the character of Mexican cooking. Hope surged anew when I discovered “The Cuisines of Mexico” by Diana Kennedy. Mrs. Kennedy’s joyful respect and hands-on research had produced a volume replete with the very logic informing the kitchen culture of Mexico. Led by her Ingredients section, I actually identified and transplanted epazote, which I found growing in the lot of a burned-out restaurant in the Irish Channel. However, this was New Orleans, not a place for Mexican anything in the mid-70s. I soldiered on, making my own lard and attempting to prepare nopales from the huge cactus growing in my yard. Do you know how cactus reacts to Lousiana’s climate? There wasn’t a spine on the rain-swollen pads, nor a trace of the tangy taste and texture which now I know is the reason to eat nopal. I did have a few successes, mainly with the dishes that weren’t so completely “foreign”, such as stews or stuffed chiles. Other things I didn’t bother with, as I was unable to imagine them into being. Chilaquiles, something I now love, on the printed page seemed dangerously close to “taco casserole”.
But these attempts at a complex cuisine hardly became the backbone of my everyday cooking. No, these were only the occasional wistful manifestations of my dream of eventually living in Mexico.
More than twenty years went by. Until 1997, I didn’t even re-visit Mexico. Then, after a couple of trips down, I moved to Oaxaca.
What a thrill! Every time I opened the door, there was Mexico in all its splendid otherness. Finally I was living out the daydream of market shopping, actually coming face to face with ingredients I’d only read about.
