A Process

Let's get down and dirty to begin with: editing sucks. I spent over a week revising that bloody piece and it was an arduous process to say the least. You demanding sots all wanted this and that and I barely knew how to provide--well I knew how to provide I was just lazy and already over word count and that was frustrating. That isn't to say that I waited until the last minute, because, in an out of form move by me, I actually added most everything about a week before posting today--I just had 1500 hundred words. No fun indeed. Adding a bit of this and a bit of that really started piling up in a way I wasn't familiar with. But I had fun. Journalism kicked in with the editing process--did I really need to say that, am I being clever for the sake of being clever. A friend of mine tossed the screen-writing phrase "you have to kill your little darlings" over to me while he observed my neurosis. It instantly put all those little sentences into perspective: was I telling a story or trying to show that I was a talented writer? It was humbling to say the least. There was a conflict between the writer in me striving to prove something to himself, and the storyteller in me trying to actually put together a cohesive tale in the restrictions I was given. That isn't to say the conflict was resolved--every word was a battle, every sentence was a struggle, and every paragraph a war. It is incredibly tempting to cut a paragaph that you are quasi-foggish about that is 73 words long when you are 76 words above the limit.

While I did cut a lot to achieve a concise narrative--count em 1005 words Marin--I didn't want to just burn and turn, I had to know WHY I had written the things I did, so I went over the whole bloody thing over and over again. It was the most extensive edit I have ever done, practically changing every sentence--and it is terrifying not knowing if I am being true to myself as a writer or I am being effective in my story telling. What if the edits went to shit and there is no personality? What if the edits went to shit and the story doesn't make sense? Oi vey. By the way, this whole rant was dedicated to the Perfect Meal piece. Just saying.

Overall, food writing was a new experience, a happy medium between concrete journalism and creative writing. The restaurant review was interesting, if expensive. I felt giddy writing down all the details, feeling all fancy with my notebook eating fancier foods. It felt like I was doing what I wanted to be doing: straight up writing about experience. Maybe I should try a little more Gonzo. I feel like I need a little more oomph, like all my self-perceived strength is in my absurd rants and quirky adjective use. I am not sure if I am proud of that, or what I can do to change that, if people like it, or what. It is a terrifying, self-reflective and vulnerable position one puts themselves in and I am not sure if I am comfortable fulfilling that role--even if I want to be within that role. I constantly feel like I am not getting my thoughts across, that I am plain-old not funny, and that I am rather boring. And I am not looking for handouts or pity here either--it is just something that kept popping up while writing my posts.

I want to create a character that I can step in and out of so I can perhaps take it less personally, and so mayhaps it will be easier to follow and understand rather than looking at Zac and trying to figure him out. Mayhaps that is what I was trying to do the entire time. Its a process turning yourself into text, and it is fretful and full of self hate.

Any Night (Revision)

A few friends and I clink bottles of beer together in celebration. The rest of the guests cheer a big “woop” in agreement. Down go the drinks.

I wake up the next morning on someone else’s couch in someone else’s house, no blanket, perhaps missing an article of clothing or two, and not quite sure what put that crick in my neck. Pulling on a shirt and jacket both smelling of charcoal smoke I figure it is about time to head back to the source of the wonderful buzz in my head and the comforting warmth in my gut.

I tried to prepare for this, but up until its occurrence I was was oblivious as to what it was. Micheal Pollan spoke of the “perfect meal” in his book, The Omnivore’s Dilemna, as knowing the full karmic consequence of everything that was available at your table. To be involved in the hunting, gathering, cooking, and consumption of the meal is no easy feat, and definitely brings one closer to the meaning of ‘you are what you eat’—and the sonofabitch pulled it off, too. However I had no composite bow available to me, so murdering the bunny rabbit in the grove behind my house wasn’t an option.

On a deadline with only a day more to create the perfect meal, I had made more progress figuring out what I didn’t want to do then what I did, resulting in a belief that there is more imperfection to the perfect meal than anything else. I had no clue what I was doing when I went to bed the Friday before, and was no more enlightened in what to do when I woke up Saturday morning. But before my neuroticism led me to use Pollan’s book as kindling for whatever meal I pulled out of my ass, I got a text:

“Hey, we’re on our way. Perhaps 1 hour 30. Can we drop our shit off at your place?”

A spark--both in the oven and for the conversation above the dinner table---was what I needed, and out-of-towners provided. Unfortunately I have little-to-no skill when comes to the culinary arts, save one area—the grill. It can feed a whole bunch of people and whatever you stick on top will cook--or at least be burnt and edible.

Various moral meanderings had led me to the possibility of ordering local meat to feed the horde of people to come. Local communication was developing in and out of the food, between the eaters and the meat, and the urge to feed my guests with a little bit of their home was a cannibalistic treat I was eager to indulge. Simply put, local food just added to strength of my community of eaters.

To find your butcher, Google search. Finding the ‘organic,’ or ‘local’ food in your town seems to have more to do with “knowing a guy,” more akin to a mobster connection than grocer, or “I found them through [insert foodie name here].” Just clatter the word onto your search engine. My perusal led me to V&V Quality Meats. Buying local doesn’t have to be a clique activity. 

V&V Quality Meats: barn-like building, white tile, clear cases where the product is displayed. I arrived there by car courtesy of a visiting out-of-towner. The butchery 10 minutes outside of Kalamazoo is owned by the Vanormans, a Dutch family, who blazon the motto “GOD GIVES US OUR STRENGTH AND HOPE” behind the counter in red and blue letters.

Young Allison Vanorman, daughter of the family and cashier of the shop, caught me on the upsale. With a haul of two dozen burgers running at $12, 16 hotdogs for $3.30, an assortment of condiments, and buns, I certainly had hearty bundle of food for my gaggle of guests. Quantity aside, it only cost $26 dollars for the haul--all produced in Michigan, Ohio, or Indiana. Ms. Vanorman reassured me of the ease of buying local foods, and dissuaded me from the myth of its exorbitant price.

Before getting home, I realized we needed something rather important: charcoal. Normally I use a bag of “cowboy brand” stuff that is basically just burnt up wood-- but I left it outside over the winter. The grizzled cowboy atop a bucking bronco printed on the brown bag had turned into a droopy horse hand riding what looked like a Labrador with mange. Mejier-brand charcoal it was.

Grilling wasn’t as soggy. While snow trickled out of the sky and onto the patio, the flurry of guests was more furious. Knocking my door around like the gates to an Old-western saloon, every guest brought a little something: a 6-pack of Bell’s, a bowl of macaroni, spontaneous salad in the kitchen, some peppers to be tossed on the grill. One raided our spice drawer and treated the burgers with a concoction of lemon zest and something red that made a pleasant burn in everyone’s mouth.

All the while I was stuck outside, confined to the ever-vigilant duty of grill-master. I experienced most of from sending in/receiving more meat or shouts and laughs that would slither out the windows and doors. But before I began to wonder who was supposed to be the one hosting this get-together, I reunited with the guests who had sprawled about my living room playing drinking games, and helped them devour our feast.

Slipping the key in the door I think about the last time I saw my place: I am sitting in the bowl chair across from a few friends lounging drunk on the couch amidst empty bottles of beer and one of my roommates has just come downstairs—he’s been “sex-iled” (a fate we’d share.)The table is covered in bits of charred tinfoil, a menagerie of plastic baggies, and meat-juice stained plastic plates.

This morning things are pretty much the same as they were left. It is a satisfying, perfect –in its imperfection—mess, one that reflects the frenzied, fervor, festive nature of those responsible for its creation.

Any Night

 “They just got done with their first round of fire-breathing!”

Tammer, Manny, and I clink bottles of Bell’s in celebration. The rest of guests cheer a big “woop” in agreement. Down go the drinks.

I wake up the next morning on someone else’s couch, no blanket, perhaps missing an article of clothing or two, not quite sure what put that crick in my neck (although the oblong lump in the cushions below is suspect). Pulling on a button-up shirt and jacket that both smell of charcoal smoke I figure it is about time to head back to the source of the wonderful buzz in my head and the solid, comforting, warmth in my gut.

Slipping the key in the door I think about the last time I saw the place: four people are left in the room, Manny perched on the arm of the couch chatting with Lynn who is sprawled on the cushions below him. I am sitting in the bowl chair across from them amidst a few bottles of Bell’s Amber Ale and Doug has just come downstairs—he’s been “sex-iled.” The table is covered in bits of charred tinfoil, a menagerie of plastic baggies, and meat-juice stained plastic plates. I have also been kicked out of my room for the night and it is time to find another bed to crash in.

This morning things are pretty much the same as they were left. Bottles of Bicardi, Bells, and other various boozes are still littered about the living room and bowls of half-eaten veggies are still sitting on the table. It is enough of a mess that cleaning is needed, but not enough to dial the health inspector. It is a satisfying mess, one that reflects the frenzied, fervor, festive nature of those that are responsible for its creation.

This mess, this air of company, the crumbs of food here and there, the bottle strewn about, all of these are the ingredients to the perfect meal.

For me, the perfect meal boils down to four simple questions that evolve into a few complex answers: who, what, where, and when. Alright so they aren’t full questions, but achieve recognition of the integral ingredients of what makes up the quintessential dining experience. Who do you need to be dining with? What is being served? Where will it be? When will you have it?

The Friday night before the meal I had little to no idea what I was going to be preparing for my idea of the perfect meal. I puttered around with a few ideas in hopes of getting the creative juices flowing—taking notes from Micheal Pollan in his book The Omnivore’s Dilemna¸ trying to set rules out for myself in hopes of narrowing things down a bit. Maybe I should invite teachers, I think, those that have been my “Virgils” in my culinary explorations. Food Inc. and The Omnivore’s Dilemna had basically told me that corn was the Anti-Christ, should I try to stop using these in my cooking? Does my perfect meal not include corn? I’m but a wee college student with almost empty pockets, money sure as hell is going to play into it, right? So should the meal be expensive or cheap? Do I care about organic? Or local? Aren’t those pricy?

While these questions helped me narrow down what I could and couldn’t do, I still felt hopelessly confused as to what I wanted. While coming up with various rules could help me create a meal that could be calculated as “perfect,” nothing sat as mentally appetizing.

This led me to believe, and write, that there is more imperfection to the perfect meal than things that go right. I had no clue what I was doing when I went to bed the Friday before my eventual perfect meal, and was no more enlightened in what to do when I woke up Saturday morning. I guess I will grill, I think to myself. What is that? People are coming from out of town this weekend? Tell ‘em to come over. I wonder if there are any local butchers around and a quick Google search leads me to V & V Quality Meats, a Dutch family-owned butcher that gets all their meat from Michigan, Ohio, and Indiana, 10 minutes away. I jump in the car of one the visiting out-of-towners and was off.

Once there I found out that “buying local” wasn’t all that expensive. I had no idea how many people I would be feeding, so I perused—and was surprised. Meat was cheap—or at least cheaper than what I was led to believe. I was able to buy twenty burgers, sixteen hotdogs, buns, and assorted condiments (all locally produced) for $25. While Allison Vanorman (both the V’s in “V&V”) was good at her upsale, buying that much food was more of a precaution than a crazy, consumer buy. I had gotten a hunger for an event, to bring in people to eat, feast, and be merry. And hell, it was easy on the wallet as well.

We get home, start up the grill, and tell people to bring whatever they want. Well, I invited the people first, which just led to calls for “one more hot dog” and “one more burger” to be shouted out from inside. Guests just kept popping in, and it was wonderful. Everyone brought something to eat or drink, and the meal went from me and a few friends to around twenty guests and growling guts. The meal expanded out of my hands and into the many people making random things in the kitchen, mixing drinks, or going out to buy some-more food. Board games, drinking games, free sundaes at Hicks, and fire breathing followed. The food stopped being a food and became a launch pad for a night that was, in its entirety, perfect.

It was in the initial car-ride over that I think I jotted down what I thought the perfect meal was: “the perfect meal is a community people eating,” and now, I think I’d add “any night.”

The Perfect Meal

                I want to prepare myself for the perfect meal, but I don’t know what that is to me yet. Pollan spoke of his as knowing the full karmic consequence of everything that was available at the table. To be involved in the hunting, gathering, cooking, and consumption of the meal is no easy feat, and definitely brings one closer to the meaning of you are what you eat. However I have no yew branches, flint, or twine available to me, so loosing an arrow at the lone bunny rabbit that lives in the unkempt grove behind my house isn’t an option.

                Realistically though, I felt like the whole point of being directly involved in one’s food is the idea that they witnessed every step. When we as a class brought up a few weeks ago that there is a disconnect between the general public and the food they consume, I agreed. People have no idea what they are eating most of the time, having been catered to by colorful labels and engineered flavors. But it goes beyond just knowing where the food has come from, and into the whos, whats,  and wheres that were all involved in the process. The energy that is being placed into every item of food on our plates is astounding: the planning, the preparation, the hunting, the gathering, the cooking. Once you have finally gotten to the eating portion of the food one should be downright exhausted—except we are no longer involved in all of these steps.

                Now it would be out of my means to recreate Pollan’s situation, both financially and physically, although more the former. While I am sure I could forage the forests of Kalamazoo for some nuts and berries to grind into a lovely paste, that doesn’t seem up my alley.

                So I return to the drawing board. While the access to the food didn’t resound with me too powerfully, Pollan’s choice of guests hit home. All those that had taught him, been his Virgils, were at the table. And while the conversation came right back to the topic of the book, the food, each person had more or less been a part of the meal in front of them. They were all involved. It wasn’t as if Pollan had plopped down a frozen pizza in front of them and they had been in the car with him when he had picked up the damn thing from the supermarket. No, each had taught himself something about what he was eating there, what he had cooked, and why he had put himself through the whole process.

                This kind of meal makes someone hungry. It is smart food. The idea that you are learning as you eat about those around you, yourself, and the dish you are cooking, is a fantastic one. And I think that the integral piece is the communication via the food to those around you who took direct place in its creation or presence. 

*I also apologize for the lateness of the response. In my attempts to ponder the perfect meal, something else thought I would make an ideal dish. See you all in the morrow.

Perfectly Ponderous
 

-Espo Clark

A Tapas Tasting; Downtown Kalamzoo's Fandango Bistro (Redux)

Tucked into a little corner on Burdick Street within the Kalamazoo Mall, Fandango Tapas Bistro provides a mildly exotic night-spot for various twenty-something year olds to go out and sample Spanish cuisine.

First and foremost, Fandango is a night-hopping sort of place. There is no lunch crowd, as they are open for 5 hours, from 5 p.m. to 10 p.m., Monday through Saturday. There is a big, semi-circle bar, tiled in the style of a Spanish ranch, which takes up most of the space. Little fern plants stand guard next to the liquor rack and a lonely LCD television keeps the single avid sports watcher’s attention.  Orange-red, swipe-painted walls are decorated with various, generic, Spanish covered paintings there to evoke a sense of exotic night life. Low lights hang and there are tall-tables all around. The place has energy, decent cocktails, and a quick and helpful serving staff that guides you on your little culinary adventure into Hispania.

Tapas are a finicky food—you get a little for a lot. By no means is Fandango cheap. Prices range from $6 to $12 for tapas dishes, and servers will recommend that patrons order 2 to 3 dishes per person throughout the night. While it isn’t necessary to follow their advice, eaters are going to want to take a smattering of this and that from the menu—this is the devilish thing about these small dishes— eyes and stomach not leaving them with much of a choice. 4 different dishes and a dessert to split can easily end up running to about $40 without tip.

But that is the price one pays for intimacy. As previously mentioned, the whole place is packed into a corner of the Kalamazoo Mall. It is a black-Lego block of an awning that has nibble-sized-section of street right down the way from Rustica. According to the owners, the place seats 87 individuals at maximum capacity, but don’t imagine ‘comfortably’ being thrown in there afterwards. The place is built more like a coffee joint in downtown Chicago, with the bar taking up about half of the floor space and the kitchen smashed in further behind it. Whether you like it or not, you are going to become familiar with that 25-year old law student sitting behind you, her 3-minute jogging routine, and her various previous flings she’s had over the past month. The 28-year old bachelor across from her is about as fascinating.

That closeness follows through past the social bubble popping, however, and communicates through the food. The idea of tapas is grabbing little bites of everything. Remember when you went to the buffet as a kid: grabbed a buffalo wing here, a taquito there, and then plopped that pizza puff that looked way too tempting sitting in all that grease right in the middle of the plate on top of all the other food you got? Imagine that, except with goat cheese, chicken, seafood, and other nibbles of Spanish cuisine, served in individual skillets or bowls just a little bit larger than a man’s hand. One should go here in an attempt at satisfying their palate rather than their stomach, so don’t expect to loosen any belt notches.

Which is perfect, really; bloating would ruin a meal at Fandango. Each dish, such as the patatas bravas for example; sautéed potatoes, garlic and onions, topped with a perky pepper sauce that sparks on your lips and the tip of your tongue, is designed to be a snippet of flavor and texture. Imagine potato chips dipped in bacon grease then sprinkled with a hot-pepper sauce.

The meal will hinge around the order and collection of tapas—and that was what remains concerning about Fandango. The aforementioned patatas bravas are hearty, and one could nibble on them as the night goes on—but other dishes disappointed. The cheesy roasted eggplant, thinly sliced eggplant served with a delicate cheese crust and a red sauce on the side, is filling at a first, but ends up tasting a bit too much like sit-down pizza, as well as being a bit rubbery. Is it also so salty that it may end up leading eaters to gulp down water like a cowboy in a Spaghetti western just in from the desert.

And while the habanero chicken looks intimidatingly enticing, its Scovilles just fail to sizzle—tasting a bit more like sweetly glazed Asian chicken from your local Chinese-place.

The mango shrimp cocktail, what is basically a bowl of shrimp smothered in your average cocktail sauce, is presented charmingly in a glass goblet with bits of mango thrown in with and a bit of a lime zest for flavor.  It wasn’t over complicated but served as nice talking food, occasionally biting at you with a fruity after taste.

But talking food is the deal at Fandango Bistro. With spill-over from Rustica, and only five hours of kitchen time, everything is placed upon the diner rather than the restaurant. This is a place where one creates their food experience for themselves with the list of over 40 tapas on a Friday night, then either goes over to one of the bars that is open later, or continues on with whatever other late-night plans they have for the evening. One takes a bite, and sucks in the atmosphere and continues speaking with whichever guest they have brought along. That said, don’t go to Fandango alone. This is a place for the quick in and quick out. A few spicy bites here and a few sweet bites there, coupled with spicier and sweeter conversation with the crowd whom you brought in with you. Where a restaurant like Rustica or Manga Manga may invite you to sit down, fill up, and stay awhile; Fandango is the place that tells you to go to the bar, whet your appetite, and get on with the rest of your night.

Pasturized Grass and All Its Delights

Local farms. So Pollan proceeds to scare the lunch right out of me, and then tells me there might be hope? Blasphemy. I want to wallow. I want to whine. I want to whip those bovines out of their pens until they revolt against their masters and graze upon their very flesh so they fatten up and I may feast upon them in turn. I want to….eat that delicious beta-carotene filled eggs that sound like eating a little piece of protein filled sunshine.

And I mean it when I say sunshine. Pollan’s description of the Polyface Farm had me hopeful, hungry, and enlightened. It also almost had me sign up for an internship to go put my hands to work up on a farm in Northern Michigan, but who would want these pasty fingers away from the keyboard? Pollan’s reiteration of food from sunlight truly hit home within his “Pastoral Grass” section within The Omnivore’s Dilemma, along with his description of Joel Salatin’s world view and farming system.

How could one not feel so pure, so hard working, so bleeding bloody American, when working on that kind of farm. Constant observance and dedication is needed in order to make sure the chickens/cows don’t over-peck/over-graze their specific little sections of the 500 acre Salatin farm, but in no way is this diligence unrewarded. A healthy mind, a healthy crop, a healthy herd, and a hearty stomach are all benefits of this lifestyle. Dear god, he may make a neo-foodie of me yet.

                For the first time in my life I really looked at the labels—I also critiqued those I already knew who did. There was a difference between looking at the label—your nutrition facts, dietary labels, calorie counting, so on and so forth—and knowing if a food is good for you. Sure, this may sound a tad bit asinine, but Pollan opened my eyes: I need to know where my food comes from.

                For instance: the café. Oi vey, is there a dozen complaints for every compliment, but that isn’t the point. I wanted to know the story. Did the food come from nearby? Did they grow it “humanely”? Did that even matter? If anything, Joel Salatin taught Pollan that it doesn’t matter how food is killed, but how often the one who is doing the killing is subjected to their role. Yes, I realize the power dynamic here, but we have always been genetically engineered to kill for sustenance, be it the life of a plant or animal.  I think Pollan was on to something when he commented that there has been a shift in income from 20% to 10% devoted to food—sustenance has stopped being a priority and has become privilege.

                All this typing has given me the urge to get my hands dirty—my hands should be half-way delved into compost and neon-green hot peppers. Maybe I should apply to an internship or something.

-Consciously Carniverous

E. Clark