The Horror

First, a poem:

Totally

Eating

Ruined

Ruminants

Is

Fretful,

You’re

Intentionally

Nuking

Gastronomy

                When I first picked up a copy of Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle, I was half-expecting the pages to be slathered in the blood of bovines and Bolsheviks alike. It had been hyped up by my parents and teachers as one of the most disgusting books ever written. “I wasn’t able to eat hot dogs for years,” my mother once told me after her perusal of the Rudkus’s socialistic trials in the stockyards of an early 1900’s Chicago. Like any avid reader, my skin crawled in anxious anticipation; the new book smell wafted into my nostrils promised notable memorable moments; possible mental scarring. So exciting!

But when I finally got around to reading it, I found my appetite barely bloodied. My stomach didn’t curdle, my eyes didn’t cringe, in fact I felt vaguely sleepy. While the original public that Sinclair had written for had been scared shitless over their food regulations, and my parents—with hot-dogs and hamburgers sweeping the nation during their childhoods—spoke of its horrors and gastronomically gory descriptions as if they were the stuff of Lovecraftian horrors. Jeez, can’t a guy get a little excitement?

I found my Cthulu with The Omnivore’s Dilemna, however. Where Sinclair failed to scare me or rile me into political or gastronomic activism, I bolted straight out of my room when I read Michael Pollan’s first section on “Industrial Corn,” except there was nowhere to run. Corn is everywhere: in my clothes, hair, food, cars, and textbooks. Holy bejeesus. Now, this may sound unreasonable to those unfamiliar with this book, so let me explain. Corn, as Pollan is so eager to show, has become this genetically altered mutant plant that has been skewed as  such to suit our industrial needs, both within the gastronomical realm and within the commercial realm. But just like dipping your chicken nuggets (also made of Zea Mays, a.k.a. corn, coincidentally) in a bucket of nuclear waste, this leads to atrocious and unforgivable consequences to our health both as individuals and as citizens of the earth. In order to fulfill the quota for our insatiable desire programmed to convenience and capital, we need to grow more. And more. And More. Fuck the consequences.  I wish I could list all the things awful for you about super corn, but I’ll just link to one or two articles for a quick example:

http://www.hulu.com/watch/255609/king-corn (not so quick)

http://www.npr.org/blogs/thesalt/2012/02/21/147190101/how-using-antibiotics-in-animal-feed-creates-superbugs (re-post lolz)

  This about summed up my experiences with “Industrial Corn,” the first section in Michael Pollan’s book The Omnivore’s Dilemna. I don’t think even Lovecraft could have even conceived an all-present, super-horror as great, or as influential as industrial corn.

More Terryifying Things

Oddly in stride with our reading: NPR SUPERBUGS

A Tapas Tasting; Downtown Kalamzoo's Fandango Bistro

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 my waitress recommended that we order 2 to 3 dishes per person throughout the night. While it isn’t necessary to follow their advice, you are going to want to take a smattering of this and that from the menu—this is the devilish thing about these small dishes—your eyes and stomach won’t leave you with much of a choice. When I went, I ordered 4 different dishes and a dessert to split, which ended up running to about $40 without tip.

But that is the price you pay for intimacy. As I previously mentioned, the whole place is packed into the Kalamazoo Mall, a black-Lego block of an awning that takes up the kitty corner across from the Kalamazoo Gazette—and that is it. According to the owners, the place seats 87 individuals at maximum capacity, but I can’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, her various previous flings she’s had over the past month, and the 28-year old bachelor who is agreeing with her about as furiously as he is trying to get in her pants.

That closeness follows through past the social bubble popping, however, and communicates through the food. For those of you not familiar with the idea of tapas, the whole idea is grabbing little bites of everything. You know 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 sizzles on your lips and the tip of your tongue, is designed to be a snippet of flavor and texture. The animal fat the dish is cooked in will stick with you for the rest of the night, and the crispness of the thin slices potatoes can’t help but bring baconized potato chips to mind.  You think “wow, that was unique” and go on and order something else off the 40-plus menu of snacklets and appetizers.

The meal will truly hinge around that first tapa, though—and that was what concerned me. The aforementioned patatas bravas will definitely be a conversation (and meal) starter, but when it came to some of the other dishes I grew a bit disenchanted. The cheesy roasted eggplant, thinly sliced eggplant served with a delicate cheese crust and a red sauce on the side, was hearty at a first, but ended up tasting a bit too much like sit-down pizza, as well as being a bit rubbery. I also feel it is important to mention that is was so salty that my chapped lips began to throb while eating it, leaving me to gulp down water like a cowboy in a Spaghetti western just in from the desert. And what I had hoped to be a enlivening end to evening ended up being a bit of letdown, as the habanero chicken that had been glaring at me from the menu all night and sounded so sadistically promising with its sweet glaze and Scoville searing sauce ended up tasting more like Asian chicken with some sweet sauce on top.

The mango shrimp cocktail, what is basically a bowl of shrimp smothered in your average cocktail sauce presented charmingly in a glass goblet with bits of mango thrown in with and a bit of a lime zest for flavor, however, grew on me.  It wasn’t over complicated, nor presented many ‘unique’ or ‘exotic’ flavors, but served as nice talking food, occasionally biting at you with a fruity after taste combined with a touch of the sea.

But these are only four dishes, not even a tenth of the tapas menu, and that is not including the variety of flatbreads, paella, and salad dishes that are served as well—although ordering these would be akin to ordering a hamburger at a high-end Italian restaurant after pouring ketchup all over your breadsticks. One should go in with a group of friends and take a little nibble, sometimes it only takes one bite to get hooked.

Frankly quite full,

-E. Clark

(I Hope) That Something (Will Be) In The Air (Tonight), Fandango

                When I think of tapas, I think of something cold—isn’t there supposed to be a difference between hot and cold items? To say that I have never been to a tapas restaurant would be a lie; my Dad brought me to one a few years back that lay in some secluded country/ suburban area in the affluent town of Naperville, Illinois. The whole thing was set up in an old plantation: white country walls, a wide porch, and the tables strewn about the large, mansion like house while waiters scurried about through doorways and down stairs to bring everyone these appetizer-like dishes. Whenever I eat with my Dad I straddle this paradoxical line between ultra-aware—of everything from cultural significance to dining setting---and lemming –like passivity. He tends to know more about where and what were are eating and it is easy to zone out, so when I think of tapas I just think of what is supposed to be a significant difference hot and cold dishes, because he told me there was one.

                So it might be good if I mentioned the restaurant, no? Fandango and I have only had fleeting glances of one another, as I have passed by on my way to this or that in downtown Kalamazoo. It is easy to miss, but when you do notice it, it sort of snatches your eye, in a similar fashion to that of The Union—out of place, but in a good way. Night-life seems to be an elusive scene to get a grasp of here in Kalamazoo, so it is refreshing to see a bar full of night-hawks capturing a few drinks in a not-so-well lit place in some random part of the city. To be honest, I had no idea the main attraction here was tapas until it was mentioned in class the other day, I just thought it was classy bar. On one of those many trips downtown I always had the “in a few years feeling,” in regards to Fandango, that I wasn’t ready to go yet and wouldn’t for a couple years. It was refreshing when I found out that wasn’t all they are about.

                 Now, I have to admit I am a sucker for nightlife. My mother was a bartender for the first 10 years of my life, and having both lived in and frequented downtown Chicago, I have to a say am a bit of a neo-noir nerd. Give me an atmosphere that evokes that emotive, cool, slick city feel with the hint of grime and I feel right at home. The way to my heart in a restaurant isn’t through my stomach, but how dim the lighting is, how big the bar is, and whether or not the sweet scent of cocktail-liquors waft their way over to me while I sit across from a conversation worthy of any night hawk roof. I hope to find a little piece of home at Fandango.

 *note: I forgot to post this before I left to review, but these were the emotions and feelings that were evoked upon my initial interest to head on over to Fandango

Always Apologetic

-E. Clark

We Don't All Wear Fannypacks and Flower Print Shirts

We have discussed using food as exposure to other cultures before in this class. In “Stealing Buddha’s Dinner” we saw a girl try desperately to achieve the status of authority and authenticity within a culture she felt as semi- foreign within to her through the consumption of food that was what “authentic” American’s ate.

Why do we obsess ourselves with culinary tourism, however? Long, in a socio-philosophical way, constantly references the idea of “otherness,” that culinary tourists actively try to pursue when visiting new restaurants/ restaurants of other cultures, all within the confines and safety of their own culture.  We have spoken much about experiences in class, and I was curious as to how many of us would react upon the assumption that we are all culinary tourists? Do we eat to gain authority? Do we eat to meet a challenge? Or is it just the desire for some late night sesame chicken? Molz describes the “existential, experimental, and experiential tourists,” or those that pride the authenticity of their ethnic experiences within food, use their food tourism as a sign of their “sophistication and competency.” I don’t know about you, but the phrase “I was into [blank] way before it was popular” comes to mind.

While I might claim that I may or may not have more “authority” on a specific type of food over one who hasn’t eaten or cooked it, I feel that an important part of the argument is missing from Long and Moltz’s articles. What I believe isn’t touched is that of individual experiences that expand past the mere location or preparation of the food, but the who, what, and whys of food. Who were you eating with when you went out for Thai food? Were you celebrating someone’s birthday? Perhaps nuptials?

While I would be a bit incredulous to have expected all these factors to be taken into this socio-philosophical discussion of food and travel, I felt it was a little light on the individual experience, and rather focus on trends of middle-class tourism for those that like to go see the leaves change on the east side of the country.  We may all not be food adventurers, but each and every day we form a new experience, and I believe the  same thought process must be utilized when taking food tourism as a series topic.

Stealing Sam's Style

While it may seem that my word salads come across as tamed coupling of clever words and phrases tossed by a talented sous chef, I’ll assure you that this is all a rouse. I have such little control over my word vomit that I might as well be popping ipecac every time I sit down to try and write. Hence why I wanted to set down my frothing keyboard and nervous digits to perform a more educated, in depth look at Sam Sifton’s food writing and just what exactly (I think) make his pieces tick. Please note that all of these are just my semi-educated blatherings.

Character:

This is something that Sifton seems to introduce in each piece that we read, at least those concerning restaurant reviews. In his article “Because The Fat Lady Has To Eat,” Sam focuses on creating a space around Mr. Benno, his cooking, how he interacts with his cooks, and what brought him to the this new restaurant in Lincoln Center. This helps settle some of the ‘whos’, ‘whats’, ‘wheres’ , ‘whys’, and ‘hows’ of the article. Without the background on the chef, or a focus on some character—as he focuses on giving the restaurant Il Matto more character than any other person in the article of the same name—the reader loses a bit of the drive to read the article past “2 Stars.”

Word Choice and Playing with Ideas:

“Mr. Benno’s skills as a pasta technician are high. He is no slouch at the fish station either. His work makes it possible to eat well at Lincoln and, as at Per Se, to savor some bites as if they were sonnets.”

Writing such as this tends to invite me in as a reader. Not to say there weren’t a hundred other ways to say what he had to say, but if I am a reader uneducated in cooking lingo and looking for something more than “the food was good,” comparing food to another topical realm assists the in grasping in what the experience is all about.

Structure of the Piece/ Answering Questions:

Each of Sifto’s pieces had order. It was as if he went in there knowing what questions he was going to ask, and filled the blanks in a little work book tucked into his back pocket in between wine sips. While it may not have been that ordered or benign, each piece made sure to tell the reader a few important things about each establishment:

1. The history of the establishment and/or its cook (aforementioned)

Some more 4 Ws + H going on, helps provide a sense of place and not just some floating restaurant in the sky.

2. What is going on in the restaurant/ atmosphere?

 A much more ambiguous section, but it is important nonetheless. The experience of dining, what the wait staff is doing, is the chef doing handstands, who goes here? “This is their shtick” and “this is why there shtick is/isn’t working” sort of thing. The “so-what” of the piece.

3. Food

 How does it taste, how does it look, to what extent is the chef (or anyone else) involved in its delivery. Always makes sure to head back a few times, and talks about more than one dish. The whole meal is examined, appetizers to desserts. Which leads us to…

4. Drinks

A good meal isn’t complete without the appropriate drink, be it a beer, a chilled White Russian,  a bottle of Cognac, or a glass of chocolate milk—the description and availability of drinks (most often times liquor) leads to a full description of the meal, and insight into a whole important section of food culture, for the reader

5. Price

This one should be a no-brainer for many of us, let people know how deep that mussel shell is going to bury itself into their wallets.

6. The Final Word

So, would you go here? Who would? Good experience, bad experience? Its judgment time, but before you slam the gavel, make sure you have taken all of these other factors into account. It isn’t necessarily a yes or no sort of question. I may love the taco stand around the corner, but I wouldn’t bring anyone there on a first date.

So this is what I gathered from Sifton’s articles, and while they were only a few, I feel rather re-educated. Please feel free to talk about adding to this, editing out contentious bits, and helping me clarify.

Analytically Apparating

-E. Clark