The Invisible Hands of Toronto’s Culinary Diversity

Whiffs of grilling meats. Plates of rice and beans. Spoonfuls of umami and the roundhouse kick of black pepper. Click! Click! Click! Choose filter. Share spoons, wipe face, wash hands. Pay cheque.

Three stars: the curry had too much potato.

If this dizzying smorgasbord of events smells intoxicatingly familiar, it’s probably because you might have seen it take place when dining with younger clientele. Or — low-key — you might be one of the chosen Jambalaya’s Witnesses, posting on Instagram like missionaries knocking on doors. The author promises not to tell. Really.

Foodie-ism, and its closely related cousin, culinary tourism, have swept Toronto with pomp and fanfare. Food truck zoning debates are as lively — if not livelier — than world hunger, irony included. Food security is the talk of the town with International Development Studies graduates while “agro-food” rolls off the tongues of businesspeople with ease. Anthony Bourdain is the global Brillat-Savarin of today, and Oliver and Bonacini are Toronto’s culinary spirit animal and ambassador, respectively.

From “we are what we eat,” we have: we are what we Instagram before we eat and assign ratings on our blogs soon after.

Don’t get me wrong: food photography is an endeavour I strongly believe in and support. And social media has only helped to democratize the process from Canon 5D shutterbug to iPhone 6 Snapchatter. The ephemeral taste, the ephemeral shot. Or Instagram: the personal visual archive with annotations, tags, and geotags. Crowdsourced. It’s the digital humanist’s dream.

But to paraphrase my father’s customary prayer before meals, where are the hands who prepared this food?

In the heart of Toronto, we are treated to prodigy chefs with impressive résumés, or none at all, or whose repertoire comes from watching their mother scramble eggs and tomatoes for breakfast, with dreams to elevate that homely cuisine. Larger-than-life headlines of new grand openings, or replications of Sukiyabashi Jiro, or local and authentic dishes season our feeds. On our televisions, kitchen stars and competition judges, and Italians in fancy cars driving to local spots, guaranteed to be boisterous.

And so these chefs are not quite invisible. We make myths of them, mull jealously over their apprentices, and envy their transnational empires of lucky peaches and Michelin Stars.

But the hands. Where are they?

Stirring the Pot

Her mind bubbles with the memories of her old pupils. Eager students of science, notebooks kept clean, periodic tables recited with precision. Fingers skillfully drawing axes on blackboards, and her favourites shouting answers to equations she can derive in her sleep. Singsongy gratitude at the end of every class. Hands waving goodbye, promising to see her bright young scholars again the following day.

In those hands now, a ladle. Its neck cutting through a vat of rich adobo, oily caramel brown in its wake. Chunks of beef and potato peek above and bob below the simmering surface, synchronized swimmers practicing for their main event. Between those fingers, dried bay leaves and black pepper, the feel of her family’s kitchen, the scent of her old dining room. Stained with the starchy kanin she scoops in heaps into Styrofoam. The palms of her employers, with whom her secret is kept safe, ring the bell for service. Her hands are the only part of her the public world can see.

It stings like a demotion. Her first nights at work in Toronto lodged gravelly pits in her throat, which squeezed their way into a shameful indigestion. Kneading dough for steaming, or chopping garlic for grilling — was this the North American dream, from nurturer of minds to feeder of bellies?

But she was a national hero, and she muttered to herself the homeland’s rallying cries for her service abroad. Far away from the islands, she was an Overseas Filipino Worker. The Filipino — never shed. Across the Pacific, she could provide for her family, and give back to the bayan. If she persisted

longer, she could qualify for permanent residency, and see her family again. Both Canadian and Filipino. She would return home, a balikbayan, with a gift box of dimensions 24x18x24 inches bearing the same title. With a precision blade, she and her family would tear apart the sealing tape, and it would undo every torn part of her that migration had cut.

Until then, she stirred. She tasted and seasoned, the flavours of her childhood channeling into this pot. It wasn’t the stone palayok of her mother, but it did its job. And at the end of the day, some earnings silently slid into her wallet, a large cut of which would return to her mahal at ang mga anak, with whom she would Skype call with her last bits of energy.

And of her toil, only her hands are seen. And the memories of her home cooking, served Combo 1 or Special. Carried to table on plastic tray with can of soda and spoon and fork.

Click! Click! Click! Choose filter. Share spoons, wipe face, wash hands. Pay cheque.

Three stars: not enough potato.

Pushing the Cart

She sorts through bamboo leaves, choosing only the deepest green with the most leathery skin. Among the other patrons, she always took her most time with the leaves, while most others swiped the bags at the top of the heap. This was the secret to good zongzi — everybody comes for the bundles of bamboo, stays for the sticky rice and meat filling, without realizing that the unmistakeable aroma of freshly-opened dumpling lies in what they just tore apart and threw away.

At five o’clock in the morning, she dashes to the counter, where the rice had been soaking away. Its companion, minced là cháng and xián dàn, sweet and salty, the yolk still gelatinous, ready to soak into the rice. Another one of her secrets.

Her daughter snores away on the cot. She wraps the rice in bamboo tight with twine, her father’s technique. Wrap them like gifts. Each bundled and sold, but each profit made a gift for her daughter.

Queasy from the first day. She met her daughter at the Greyhound terminal, who left her New York job — administration — to come take care of them. Don’t worry, Mother, I want to do this. Don’t worry about me. I am here to take care of you. Frail hands cared for hardened hands.

Frail hands turned to failed hands. Early onset of arthritis ignored as a typist in New York. Writing, cooking, and lifting — no more.

The mother turned to selling zongzi, her daughter’s favourite snack. Every morning, three on the living room table. The rest — about fifty of them — loaded into her push cart. She wraps herself in a thick coat, scarf, and mittens, hauling her cart into the biting mid-February Spadina streets. She pulls into a corner, under a dark canopy, avoiding eagle-eyed law enforcement. Her wares sell themselves, and knowing eye contact is enough of a sales pitch for the well-dressed masses to grab an easy bite to eat. They don’t see her hands, callused and cracked from a lifetime of labour, behind the soft wool of mittens.

Pay dollar. Click! Click! Click! Choose filter. Share dumpling, wipe face, discreetly rub hands on jeans.

I wish she were on Yelp. I’d totally rate her five stars. This is so exotic. So much better than mashed potatoes.

Originally published at adrianlikesfood.blogspot.ca on May 29, 2015.