Food, Seriously

Wherever, whenever you are, food is right there, a core element of your experience. Food itself can feel ritualistic, merely practical, off-beat, enjoyable, … it can take and conjure back any and every shade of emotion, feeling. It can also just be a necessity. That was the only way my mother rebelled against her upbringing: she did not cook, no Siree, she just fed us. Indeed, a few years back, there would have been no such article, or just some snappy jokes about local gastronomies. Or, thinking about it, at a stretch, a description of lazy Sunday lunches stretching into the cloying afternoon – very French, very quaint, very familial. 

Then, I started cooking myself 5 years ago.

It is as if, out of nowhere I suddenly discovered how to use a pot and many pans. I actually could, you know, cook. It could be ghost voices from the kitchen in the summer, advices recorded unconsciously and complaints about small onions and the dwindling quality of tomatoes. Or the whispers of ghosts, my grandmother, my father and the sorority, watching over my shoulder and arguing in the ethereal background: add more lemon, do not forget small onions, shut up, you could not cook an egg to save yourself … Or maybe just that I discovered that I actually enjoyed the primal chemistry of it, the artistry of it. 

Cooking is not only the pride of getting that taste and texture just right, it also sends a message. That much I learnt from my family, my friends, and living abroad. 

Cooking was the best, the natural, occasion for my grandmother to reclaim her true culture: French provincial 19^th century bourgeoisie. She kept all her life every menu of events in her youth, before the trail and the tent. Set a table. Dress it as per rules. Chose a traditional recipe and execute it to perfection. Anything less, and she would have incurred the wrath of her redoubtable grandmothers. The food put on the table had to be worth the standards of The Eternal French cooking everyone envied us for. That applied for a piglet on a Sunday afternoon in Panda, Katanga, or in Claviers, Var.

Her cooking could as well have waved a flag: “this is France”. That is the same as when I first landed in India. My team had to make sure that I was culture-compatible, hence they chose the food and venue accordingly. It said: this is who we are. Challenge accepted, test passed. 

A dish gives visuals, texture, tastes and smells to a culture. It is cultural reclamation. 

But, beyond the recipe itself, people who like cooking make choices as a personal introduction, or a declaration of intent. My father did not talk much, and never about himself. But his cooking spoke volumes! He discreetly shared with us his travels. An international breakfast of homemade pickled herrings, chutneys and bitter oranges marmalade for example. Or, when he felt nostalgic, an antique recipe fished out of a well-thumbed Escoffier recipe book. Or just whip out a pot-au-feu. With turnips. To get the true flavours. That way, André/Doum/Papa was saying “get to know me”. Whether we liked the food or not.

A friend recently introduced himself thus: a lime, coriander, pili-pili and some twangy salt chicken thighs extravaganza. A Cajun dish without the accent, but with its soul, with his soul. Creatively whimsical, felinely lean, colourful, tasteful, solid. An unspoken introduction to someone who writes eloquently but rarely speaks about himself, Patrick Fellows; musician, writer, long distance runner, running coach, chef. Friend. Pat.

Cooking is also a cook’s message: this is me. 

And that is precisely why food, cooking, cuisine is also entertainment. It says “enjoy”, and inadvertently pushes you to discover newer things. That was my aunt Colette, the youngest of the sorority. Technically gifted, she would always stay at the cutting edge of culinary novelties, on the edge of modernity, at the forefront of Today. Coke and Ketchup. Respectful of her heritage, just as much as necessary to keep moving on. Hers was a transgressive performance. And, indeed, cuisine always merges heritage and transgression. Ottolenghi. 

Just looking at some photos, artefacts, movies, food is always there – at the forefront or in the background – but always there, anywhere, any when, anyhow. 

Ultimately, food is a cultural proclamation, a personal message and a statement: what could go more wrong if you reject the offering made to you? However odd, scary or even repulsive, can you just say “no”? Everything in my personal history always said: try first. That dish simply says : I challenge you to accept me, whether “me” is culture, ethnicity, individual. That said, gratuitous animal cruelty on fishes or octopuses, just says; I dare you to… So, no, it is not worth the effort. 

That is why I will always endeavour to try and appreciate local food. Try jungle snake “wings”, duck blood cubes, giant sea cucumbers, teeth melting Laksa, or brain-freeze Ice Kachang. You might like it. I love it. 

That is why food is a serious business. Joking about it is tasteless. Insipid. Off-colour. A bit like Stoverij or Carbonades then. 

~

Two Stories

April 1998 – The Bund, Shanghai, China

Andy, the then MD of GfK China, Guido a colleague from Germany and myself at a local restaurant. 

As it was my first visit to Shanghai, with the Bund being restored to its former glories as a background, the newbie “GweiLo” (white devil), aka me, got introduced to the true Chinese delicacies: chicken feet as a starter (hmmm), crunchy soft shell crabs as one of the main (molting crabs), and, as the main event, fried jungle snake. The tradition was to drink the snake’s blood mixed with rice wine. To prove freshness (and the provenance of the meat, it is China after all), the waiter brings the snake to our table. I thought that I had to check it by myself – would you not? I catch the snake, shock the waiter, Andy grabbed a camera, and the rest is history.

A few years later, eating snake was forbidden in the entire province due to pollution and diseases.

20 years later… May 2018 – Beijing, China

Gerard, my ex-colleague and now friend, the new commercial team of China and myself at the hotpot restaurant.

They feel that it is important that the newbie GweiLo (white devil, ie. me) be introduced to true Chinese delicacies: mala hotpot (formerly known as steamboat), softshell crabs one of the main … But I enjoy the food way too much. So, we go into the third round of Tsing Tao, and the local team leader orders congealed duck blood cubes. All wait anxiously to see my face when I see, and, worse, try it. I contemplate for a moment, because catching a gelatine cube with joysticks and dipping it in hot sauce is Advanced Imperial Chopstick use. Am I forfeiting the challenge? No. I pick up the cube, dip it, gulp it, enjoy it! The table sighs in half delight/half disappointment.

The moment has to be recorded! So, a second order arrives, and I replay the sequence for posterity.

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