Crossing Cultures: Food misadventures
Part 1
While we shelter in place during Covid, I have been seesawing between enthusiastic forays in the kitchen — cooking and baking all manner of new and challenging dishes — and an utter lack of inspiration. Meals have taken on even greater significance during the pandemic as we hunker down and no longer dine out or with friends. As the world collapses around us, I am profoundly grateful that I still have enough food and food choice. And I extract humor from my many past food adventures and misadventures from the Eastern to the Southern United States, to Europe, and India.
Cake
When we lived in Massachusetts, my father’s research career necessitated entertaining colleagues. Faculty and visiting professors would often come to the house for a fancy dinner. My mother, playing a classic female role, would shop, cook, set the table for the occasion, serve, and clean up afterwards. I routinely helped her. Prior to Massachusetts we resided in Switzerland for four years and, along with my father’s being born and partially raised in Germany, our meals reflected a strong European influence. One of these European style dinners stands out in my memory.
My mother decided to make a dessert of rum-soaked cake layered with sliced bananas and whipped cream, adorned on the outside with pillars of lady fingers (a tongue of delicate sponge cake common to European desserts). I assisted with the assembly of the cake. It was like erecting a house of cards. My mother, always distracted and anxious while preparing these dinners, was even more on edge given the complexity of the cake.
The dinner went smoothly and the guests enjoyed the meal. My older brother and I were permitted at the table on these occasions, helping to serve and clear, and silently listening to what seemed exquisitely boring conversation. The appearance of the cake was greeted with delight and murmurs of appreciation. My mother seemed pleased and carefully sliced into it: the layers were lovely. I took a bite. Something was amiss. The bananas were rock hard. I looked around the table. The guests were all carefully dissecting their slices of cake, eating around the bananas and not uttering a word.
After the guests departed, my brother and I thought the mishap of using unripe bananas was hysterically funny. My mother was mortified. All these years later, I feel for her and how incredibly hard it must have been to always be the hostess with the mostest.
Lobster
When I was 14, my 5-year-old brother Michael and I accompanied my father on an off-season holiday weekend to Cape Cod. The house we rented was mere steps from a rocky beach and the ocean. I recall feeling slightly melancholy: the sky was overcast, people were scarce, and it was too cold to swim. But my father, undaunted, was upbeat and, as always, happy to be on an adventure. My parents’ marriage was in its death throes and thus my mother was not with us. My older brother was attending a school track meet.
The first order of business, as per usual with my father, was to take stock of our surroundings, find a good bakery, and plan a nice dinner. We ambled on the beach, picking up pebbles and stones, got our toes wet, and dug some holes in the sand. We poked around our rental home, a thoroughly uninspired box with colors in the narrow range from brown to taupe to grey. The great attraction of being on the New England coast for my father, in addition to the seaside, was eating lobster. He adored lobster. So we drove into town and purchased a large live lobster, baked goods, and other groceries for dinner.
During my childhood years spent outside Boston I became quite familiar with, but never enamored of, lobster. When we cooked it at home I was always uncomfortable when the crustaceans — looking quite prehistoric with their eyes on protruding swiveling stalks, menacing front claws, and sectional tails — were dropped into the boiling vat of water to cook. They thrashed about briefly and then all was quiet, save the roiling water. Eating the lobster was a production. We had nutcrackers and little metal picks fashioned like a crude dentist’s tool to extricate every morsel from the shell. We donned long bibs to keep our clothes clean. And each of us had a small vat of melted butter in which to dip the lobster pieces. The trouble to which we went to extract the meat, especially from the skinny tubular legs, seemed hardly worth the effort. My father insisted we do our very best, even with the legs, and he would gather up the discarded ones and suck on them to enjoy the tiniest residual morsel of flesh. I didn’t find lobster nearly as delicious as I hoped. I was revolted when my parents uncovered the greenish grey slime in the lobster’s body cavity (“tomalley” which is both the pancreas and liver; I always heard “tamale”) and slurped it up contentedly.
On this particular trip, my father suggested we boil the lobster in seawater, something he had recently heard about but never attempted. He sent me off with my little brother to fill the cooking pot with ocean water and we dutifully returned with a sloshing container full. The lobster was dropped into the boiling seawater and we waited for it to cook, checking from time to time to see if it was done, waggling a leg or arm to see if it had enough give. My father wondered aloud why it seemed to be taking so much longer than usual. The shell had taken on a consistency that was strangely pliable rather than brittle. After far longer than was normal for cooking a lobster, my father lifted the poor beast out of the pot and attempted to crack it open. No dice. After several unsuccessful attempts, he put it on the linoleum floor and stamped on it. The lobster went flying out from under his shoe like a hockey puck. My little brother and I were agog and then in stitches. My father attempted several more stamps and each time the lobster careened across the kitchen floor. We were laughing hysterically and begged to try a stamp ourselves.
With considerable difficulty, my father finally managed to open the lobster on the cutting board. We cleaned up the floor and sat down to eat. The meat was like rubber and completely inedible. We nicknamed that dinner “Lobster Stamp.”
Backwoods Alabama brunch
While living in Atlanta, Georgia for several years in the late 1980’s, I commuted to Birmingham, Alabama several times a month to continue my study of Indian classical dance. My teacher became a friend and, when she discovered my boyfriend Jim would be visiting, offered us the use of her backwoods cabin.
The cabin was in the middle of nowhere surrounded by mixed growth young forest. On the smattering of properties nearby there were collections of rusting vehicles, gun racks on pick-up trucks, and an occasional American flag. We spent a lazy day walking in the woods, locating a small creek, and playing with a frisky puppy that turned up unaccompanied. The next morning we searched for a place to eat brunch and found a small worn restaurant that was dingy and poorly lit inside, and largely devoid of customers. We placed our orders with the waitress who regarded us with what appeared to be a mixture of suspicion and anxiety. Her Southern drawl was thick and slow. When I requested tea she asked “sweet tea?” (the heavily sugared caffeinated iced tea so common in the South). I clarified that I wanted hot black tea with milk. This elicited surprise and concern: “Hot tea?” “HOT tea?!?!” She disappeared and I was left to wonder what kind of problem my seemingly routine request posed.
It took an agonizingly long time until we were served our food; the hot tea was nowhere in sight. I inquired after the tea. Eventually, the waitress appeared, carefully bearing a covered plastic pitcher. I removed the lid to find a steaming strong-smelling liquid unlike any black tea I was familiar with and the strong odor of melting plastic. I poured some of the “hot tea” into my cup and added milk. I took a sip; it was all I could do not to spit it out. The hot tea was an instant iced tea mix — the kind that is more chemistry experiment gone wrong than beverage (heavily sweetened plus a wallop of artificial lemon flavor) — to which boiling water had been added.
I offered some to Jim. He declined. We exclaimed and giggled as quietly as we could and replaced the lid on the pitcher. To this day we ask each other “hot tea?” whenever we order tea at a restaurant.
Geneva lake Perch dinner
In summer 1998, Jim and I attended the International AIDS Conference in Geneva. We stayed well outside the city in Ferney-Voltaire, just across the open border with France. A formerly rural town, it had morphed into a bedroom community of Geneva. It was an odd combination of cornfields cleaved by high-tension power lines, some charming historic architecture amidst modern nondescript townhomes and apartments, and small businesses as well as big box stores. While shuttling back and forth on the bus to Geneva to attend the conference, we managed to squeeze in a hurried visit to the Saturday farmer’s market in the old center of town. It was an absolute cornucopia of the freshest produce, bread, meat, and cheese. We purchased tiny wild strawberries, raspberries, and gooseberries that had to be eaten immediately and delivered an explosion of flavor with each bite. It boded well for gastronomic treats during our stay.
Voltaire, the town’s most famous resident, escaped there from the censure of Geneva. The initial welcome and tolerance gave way to banning of his literary works and plays. In 1759 he purchased land in what was then a poor French hamlet of 200, and proceeded to build a chateau on the ruins of a 12th century fortified castle. Voltaire undertook intensive farming on the grounds that benefitted the locals, was prolific in his writing, and welcomed a constant retinue of guests from all over Europe. The dinners he hosted, for up to 40, were lively affairs. The most memorable dinner Jim and I had during our stay bore little resemblance to these festivities.
An assistant to Jim’s colleague had been particularly helpful procuring lodging for us, a singularly difficult feat given our late decision to attend the conference. To thank her, Jim suggested we take her out for a nice dinner. Delighted by the invitation, and at our request for a nice local place, she suggested a lakeside restaurant that served the famous Geneva Perch. We made a reservation, dressed up, and joined her at the restaurant.
The setting could not have been lovelier. The weather, uncomfortably hot and humid during the day, was quite agreeable with a lakeside breeze. The restaurant had several outdoor dining terraces with overhanging vines and small pebbles that crunched pleasingly underfoot. Old sycamores were trimmed in classic fashion with stubby arms ending in fists that sprouted skinny short suckers and wide fan-like leaves. We were seated with a perfect view of the water and were promptly attended to by a waiter who appeared as if out of a Monty Python skit. He was a small older gentleman with swarthy features, a hunchback, a gimp, and a twitchiness that was disconcerting. He looked unwell and seemed barely able to carry the heavy metal trays stacked high with plates of food. Clearly overwhelmed and frazzled, our waiter hustled from one table to the next, frowning and apologizing repeatedly. He managed to impart his litany of woes as he took our order. We expressed sympathy and requested the Perch sautéed in butter.
After a lengthy delay, our food arrived. We assured our waiter we had not minded the wait and thanked him profusely. The fish was heavy, exceedingly oily, and bland. I managed a few bites but, not wanting to insult our guest or the waiter, conveyed as positive an appraisal of the meal as I could muster. The after-effects were yet to come. The dishes were cleared, we gazed at the lake a while longer, the assistant thanked us for the meal, and we parted ways, returning to our small stultifyingly warm hotel room.
Much of Europe seems poorly equipped for the heat and humidity of summer. Airflow is often inadequate; the metal shutters that are common and so good at darkening a room and keeping out cold significantly increase the temperature and claustrophobia in the warmer months. Both of us remarked on the abysmal meal and how bloated and unwell we felt. My stomach did not take long to protest. Sleeping was near impossible as we sweated through the night and our stomachs churned and roiled. We regularly groaned and tossed, wishing for the discomfort to end. Finally Jim, unable to take a moment’s additional torture, went for a jog at 4 a.m., and then crashed on the bed in his running clothes for two hours of comfortable rest. Not long after sunrise, I got up, exhausted and miserable. We went on another jog together, through the cornfields under the high-tension power lines, wondering aloud how the food could have been so atrocious and why the restaurant was still in business.
Kashmir
In 1986 my cousin Esther and I ventured to India for the second time. We set our sights on Kashmir, a mountainous state in the northwest corner of the country bordering Pakistan to the west and China to the east, ringed in by the Himalayas. Our previous Indian adventures were south of Kashmir, in the Hindu dominated northeast plains. Kashmir, which is predominantly Muslim, is unique culturally and geographically. Its history is one of successive incursions and unresolved conflicts. The peaceful interludes since Partition (of India in 1947) have been short-lived, while recurring episodes of terrorism, outbreaks of armed conflict, lockdowns and curfews, and the Indian Army’s immense ongoing occupation have only increased the violent tug of war for Kashmir between India and Pakistan.* (See below for more detail.) At the time we visited however, Kashmir was enjoying a peaceful and economically successful period.
After several days of cancelled flights due to winter’s late departure from the Vale of Kashmir that summer, we boarded a plane from Delhi to Srinagar. The steeply angled and stomach-churning descent was magnificent, but unlike the India we had experienced previously: massive heavily folded snow mountains plunging into the deepest of valleys. Our first few hours in Srinagar were discomfiting. Upon exiting the airport, an aggressive taxi driver and his sidekick hustled us off. Our view from the windows was as unfamiliar as the landscape: numerous old half-timbered buildings, throngs of boats on Dal lake, and cloaked and skull-capped men. We couldn’t understand any of the Kashmiri exchange between the driver and his friend. Esther’s smattering of Hindi and my extremely limited but handy Hindi vocabulary were both useless. Our clear instructions to be taken to the Beauty Star houseboat (friends of mine in Berkeley referred us after their unforgettable visit several years prior) were ignored. Instead, we were ushered onto a houseboat favored by the driver and pressured to stay. Despite considerable wheedling by our driver, we remained steadfast in our request to be deposited at the Beauty Star. This led to intense displeasure that verged on anger, but finally, to our great relief, we were unceremoniously deposited at a rickety wooden dock to take the short paddle from land to the houseboat via shikara (the long, thin, canopied and beautifully decorated wooden skiffs with heart-shaped paddles that ply the lake). Upon our arrival at the Beauty Star, the host and his family greeted us warmly.
From then on, with few exceptions, Kashmir was enchanting: dreamy snow mountains and thick forests, waterfalls and streams and water lily filled lakes, generous and intriguing locals, exquisite handicrafts, rose-filled gardens shaded by ancient “Chinar” or sycamore trees, and beguiling architecture. By and large, alas, the fairy tale did not extend to the food.
Esther and I were happily ensconced on the houseboat, interspersed with multi-day hiking expeditions and other fieldtrips. Far removed from the bustle of Srinagar, the Beauty Star was ideal for observing life on the water. It was a fantasy-like creation of ornately carved walnut woodwork, heavy carpets, dark imposing furniture, and a front porch decorated with red geraniums. Kashmiri houseboats proliferated in the late 1800’s to serve English visitors, especially men who wanted to go duck hunting and fishing but could not own property in Kashmir. Mohammed, the eldest of three brothers, tended to us lovingly. He had a meticulously trimmed moustache, always sported a beautifully crocheted white skullcap, was deliberate and thoughtful, and seemed wise beyond his fifty-odd years. Mohammed had made the Haj to Mecca and thus commanded considerable respect. Wooden walkways linked the Beauty Star to two other houseboats: the Young Beauty Star belonging to the youngest brother Basheer, and the New Beauty Star that was under construction by the middle brother, Sultan. Behind our houseboat were several small, unadorned workaday “doongas”, plain serviceable houseboats where the brothers lived with their families and where the chef prepared our meals.
We spent our days on the houseboat watching the weather change over the lake and mountain peaks, hearing vendors call out their wares from their boats and investigating the goods, learning some of the Kashmiri language and customs from our hosts, catching the brilliant iridescent flash of the kingfisher bird’s wings, gazing at the sunset and its reflections, observing swallows dive for insects at dusk, glimpsing bats in the encroaching darkness, and contemplating the stars as they appeared in the sky and the shimmer of electric lights from other houseboats on the water. The only problem was the food.
Despite our eagerness to sample Kashmiri cuisine, our meals were tailored to what our hosts thought would be acceptable to Western palates. Breakfasts consisted of sliced toasted squares of tasteless white bread with an oily sort of butter and the ubiquitous overly sweet and sticky red jam with a flavor reminiscent of cough syrup. The black tea was hot but uninspired and could not be significantly improved with the addition of milk or sugar. After several days, we requested more local food and drink. Small inroads were achieved: we were served Kashmiri green tea or “Kaawah” prepared with cardamom, cinnamon, and almonds, sweetened with sugar in the late afternoons, and occasionally enjoyed “czochworu” a soft flat baked circle of bread adorned with black and white sesame seeds. We pressed our hosts further: what did they eat for breakfast we inquired? They were reticent, assuring us it would not be to our taste: “nun chai” a pink beverage made with black tea, milk, a great deal of salt (an important feature in our cooked meals aboard the houseboat), and baking soda. We tried it once or twice and concluded it was an acquired taste. One morning, two beautiful terracotta pots of fresh yogurt appeared with breakfast. It was delicious, particularly in contrast with our usual breakfast menu, and we begged for more. We were rewarded on several occasions.
Lunches and dinners were a challenge for our palates. Since we generally avoided red meat, mutton, and lamb, we were served chicken or fish, rice, and a cooked vegetable. However, nothing but the overwhelming taste of salt remains in my memory. Salt overpowered each and every mouthful. We imagined the chef carrying on an intense conversation, tipping the salt dispenser for several minutes until he remembered to right it. We ate little but sent appreciative messages back to the chef. When we could bear no more, we politely requested the food be less salty. Of course Mohammed assured us, no problem. Nothing changed.
We escaped our salt-laden meals on the first of several treks to the mountains. The number of people in our retinue, beasts of burden (donkeys), and amount of equipment to support just the two of us was impressive. This included many supplies and considerable equipment for producing meals: heavy army-issue canvas and poles served as a mess tent along with a big kerosene stove, a willow basket full of chickens (one was sacrificed daily for the evening meal), immense cooking pots and pans, myriad containers of food, and canisters of cooking oil. Every day in the late afternoon our hosts would hike ahead and set out a picnic blanket with china and embroidered cloth napkins for our high tea on an improbably exquisite meadow by some gurgling stream, ringed in by shaggy conifers and snowy peaks. Lunches and dinners were heaping mounds of rice and chicken that were tasty if uninspired but, most importantly, normally salted.
Soon after we returned to the houseboat and resumed the dreaded salt diet, we were taken to meet the extended family and chef on the doongas at the rear. There we discovered the secret to our chef’s predilection for salt. A spectrally thin elderly gentleman suffused by the odor of cigarettes with the throaty cough of a lifetime heavy smoker, he had clearly lost his sense of taste!
*Footnote
Over the centuries, Kashmir has experienced repeated incursions. Early Hinduism was followed by Buddhism, Muslim Moghul rule, an invasion by the Afghans, and a short period of Sikh rule. The British occupied India in the 19th century and sold the Kashmir Valley to Gulab Singh, a repressive Hindu ruler. In 1947, Partition resulted in further conflicts and bloodshed that was supposed to end with a 1949 cease fire and plebiscite to give the Kashmiris the right to decide if they would cleave to India or Pakistan; the plebiscite was never realized. U.S. support of Pakistani dictator Zia ul Haq aided another war in 1965 and resulted in the establishment of the Taliban, a continuing destabilizer and source of violence in the region. A separatist rebellion, bombings, and other attacks have been occurring since 1989. Kashmir’s special status that gave the region a certain measure of autonomy was revoked by India in 2019, giving rise to further conflicts. Recently, the Hindu nationalist Prime Minister Modi revoked Kashmir’s special status, annulling their constitution and for the first time ever, permitting non-Kashmiris to purchase land. India’s estimate of lives lost to the conflicts since Partition is 40,000; Pakistan’s estimate is 80,000.
A young man from Srinagar recently related that he and his friends were not fortunate enough to live during the peaceful and prosperous time when Esther and I visited. Born in the mid 1990’s, all he has witnessed was “political turmoil, conflict, devastation and destruction.” But, he said, “What remains constant is the beautiful and spectacular views you get to see and enjoy while living here.”
