Of Prohibition, Passion, and Persecution

Alas, I have not been writing as much as I ought. The good news is, however, that in the time I have not been writing I have been gorging and binging. And as is my want my go-to items are pork and beer. Fortunately, like a pot smoking sex fiend seeks out Amsterdam, I knew where I could find my rock bottom: Canada. (I hope you will forgive my e-absence as Canada has no internet.)

I understand however the fine line between a bender and a problem – I swear I do – and I had my moment of clarity once safely back in smoldering L.A. Staggering through Silverlake desperately seeking a Canadian-style fix I ran into this:



In my hung-over, maudlin, and sodium-filled state my initial thoughts dealt with the circularity of nature, the beauty found in simplicity, and the general samsara of both life and my hangovers. Then my teary eyes turned to the sign adjacent the “piece.” Could the “Ring Festival L.A,” be massive-scale hipster-backed boosterism for the NuvaRing; the illuminated sculpture hypnotizing them as they ride by on fixies; unprotected sex and carefree STD transfers without wasting tattoo money on some kid; a bold rejoinder to the ubiquitous “Stay Negative” billboards? No such luck. Once I visited the artist’s website I saw that, in fact, the thing just symbolized all that other meaningful shit plus some overpriced tickets to Wagner. No go on the raw sex.

Speaking of people who like it raw, this article in our local rag speaks to issues I hold near and dear, namely illegal products, sanitary conditions, and food. Basically, “the man” is cracking down on folks who are selling illegal cheese to other folks who like eating illegal cheese. I particularly like the thoroughgoing vision:



I suppose if we eradicate quisillo we’ll have more time to worry about peanuts, peppers, spinach, toys, dog food, tomatoes, ground beef, and swine flu. Or, if we really felt daring we could connect the crackdown to longstanding fears of what non-white-folks eat (groups to think of, think about, or think into: Chinese, Blacks, Jews, and yes Mexicans.) But this blog is not the space for such heady downers. Rather, let’s just picture the cast of characters in an 80s comedy where Don Kass, deputy city attorney, hell-bent on success, tries to destroy the mom and pop shop life blood of an East LA community. Comedy, hijinks, a little racism, food, we gotta hit.

Honestly I felt a real connection to the folks in the article as I too was (and will be for some time) in possession of illegal foodstuffs – of a sort. You see the trip to Canada was not simply for Molson inspired reverie. No, it was also an opportunity to smuggle across the border massive amounts of locally cured, uncut, rind-on Canadian bacon:


(note my diminutive hand emphasizing size)

Yes, like a wily coyote I slinked into this country with 30 lbs (above picture x 4) of the best bacon around. Not only that but I also brought 15 lbs of Peameal Bacon, a product so rare, so Canadian, so packed with briny tenderloiny goodness that it cannot even be found on Wikipedia:





Like the Ring Cycle or the circle of a NuvaRing, peameal bacon has no end, nor can it be found in the “Family Planning” section of the Sunset and Western CVS; its pleasure lies in its never being seen, its passion rooted deep within your body.

Ancient Texts and Modern Marvels

(Farmer, Mad-man, Intellectual, Lab-tech: Pollen)

Jesus, Michael Pollen is so hot right now! It’s already universally known that the Sunday NY Times Magazine is as much a part of our proud bourgeois culture as floppy baseball hats, canvas totes, and brunch. (I don’t actually know what use the canvas tote had before all this fresh, organic produce appeared.) But now M.P. goes and drops another mega-article in the Mag? It’s almost too much.

He basically says that food shows are otherworldly in their impracticality; we spend too much time watching others cook and not enough doing it ourselves and that folks need to get back to basics, get off their asses and into the kitchen. So the argument follows thus: the stuff on TV isn’t real; we’ve replaced doing with watching; we – men and women – need to get back in there and start cooking!

Truth be told, I think Pollen has a future not only in the food world but also that of non-pornographic intimacy videos. Really, we could replace the food-talk with sex and keep the structure of the article intact. I don’t know what role Julia Child would play in all this but Pollen would figure it out, he’s a smart guy.

Pollen does not suggest, of course, that we (good bespectacled, left-leaning, cap-wearing, Obama-voting, tote-swinging, farmer’s market habitués) need to read less about food. Indeed, we develop our culinary stamina through Pollen’s tantric, Svengali lessons. But since I’ve already told you more than you need to know about the article, you don’t have to read it. Now you can spend more time watching pornography, or telling your friend about this blog.

Pollen’s will no doubt spend a lot of time as one of the NYT “most popular articles.” As someone with great faith in the infallibility of popular consensus I limit my reading to only the most popular of articles. As such I was disappointed to discover that Mark Bittman’s 101 Simple Salads for the Season had been dropped from the list like a Julia Child potato pancake. I tried valiantly to get through the damn thing but I just couldn’t finish it. Jicama and Mango? Raw Beets? The remnants of a grilled hot dog? And this guy calls himself “The Minimalist?!” He sounds like a fucking Futurist.

Here are two representative entries (with my red highlighting and commentary indicating points of particular awe:

44. Make a crisp grilled cheese sandwich, with good bread and not too much good cheese. Let it cool, then cut into croutons. Put them on anything, but especially tomato and basil salad. This you will do forever [What the hell does this even mean?].

81. Soak sliced prune plums or figs in balsamic vinegar for a few minutes, then add olive oil, chopped celery and red onion, shreds of roasted or grilled chicken, chopped fresh marjoram or oregano and chopped almonds. Serve on top of or toss with greens. So good [Come on Bittman!!].

Is he high?!? Did these recipes come to him in some bizarre dream? If you want to know what it felt like slogging through Bittman’s article watch this:



Or better yet take this advice: don’t read Bittman, don’t read Pollen, stop reading this blog for a few minutes and go put some sea salt and lemon on fresh spicy arugula. Eat it. These things will make you happy.

Of Mantras and Men [sic]

One of the less promising developments in our vocabulary in general and our culinary vocabulary in particular is the ever increasing use of the term “so good.” This pithy descriptor annoys me to no end. Applebee’s bread: so good. The chicken nuggets at the cafeteria: so good. That meat thing at that one Middle Eastern place: so good. Some crappy bullshit at an unimpressive bar... you get the idea. If you haven’t gotten the idea, here it is: First, as the examples show, this epithet always follows a monologue regarding a specific item at a specific locale. The item and the place are always mediocre, middling. Usually the aura of the speech act suggests that this little treat is something I have not tried or have under-appreciated. I am, of course, lesser for the lack. I think that often these fools assume that since I cook, write, and talk about food that I actually like eating. I don’t. In fact, despite what I may lead others to believe, I increasingly despise food and eating. That’s why I started this blog: sublimation. All of this makes my hatred of “so good” (the saying, not the blog, though I guess there's a connection) so much stronger. It goes without saying that I am not pleased with the man known as “Mr. Food” who has taken up “so good” as his battle cry. This brings me to my second point.

No one describes a meal at Le Bernardin or St. John as “so good.” Hell, even a burger on the grill gets better treatment. When food is truly enjoyed its description should emerge as a culinary-linguistic performance piece. The passion with which the meal is described should approach a form generally reserved for erotics of the most vile and fantastic sort. When food is truly great one should swoon, get lost in a hoodoo-trance and reemerge into consciousness weeping. This is, perhaps, asking a lot but it brings us to my third point.

Along with the foodie explosion of the last few years has come a certain democratization of taste. While the movement’s elite get all in a froth over “Fresh, Sustainable, Local; Fresh, Sustainable, Local” they limit their passions to foods once thought only fit for peasants, or maybe freaks. For sure this mantra is beginning to sound a lot like this:



There was a time after all when eating local was a form of dietary slavery. So while this elite neo-provincialism blooms so does the pedestrian desire to join in the chorus. People used to wolf down the mediocre food of their little berg in grudging silence. Now everyone wants to share: “So Good! So Good!”

This brings me to my final point. Food reviews (professional ones) have always been a great source of colorful vocabulary and metaphor. Unfortunately, as the English language tops 1,000,000 words it seems like foodie-speak has access to fewer and fewer of them. For sure culinary mediocrity pairs nicely with simple language but the overall blandness of the food we put in our mouths and the words we spit out of them is a bummer. Maybe we should think more and talk less about food. Maybe we need to realize that eating food does not a foodie make. Maybe we ought to see that “so good” and “fresh, sustainable, local” are both dumb mantras that stand in for real thought – D.U.M.B:

Into The Fire

This is a blog about food. Or, this will be a blog about food. Or perhaps, this will not be a blog about food but instead will ridicule contemporary food culture, or at least that of Los Angeles... But I guess that would again make it about food, only in the negative. I don’t have grand dreams or ambitions for this thing; I don’t have grand dreams or ambitions for most things. I do like to eat, and drink. I suppose I like to cook. But really, more than anything, I like to sit on a couch and stare at a wall. I’ve never written a blog – or much else for that matter – but I’m supposed to like to write.

But this isn’t about me. I’d actually much rather insulate my real feelings in irony and condescension. I think the blog is a sanctioned forum for this type of megalomania. Or that’s what I’ve been led to believe. Moreover, I’m not going to exclusively address food topics – Jesus, who wants to hear another culinazi talking about the Kogi Korean-Mexican-Fusion-Fad-Food-Truck? (Kamsa Hamnida, Pero No Gracias!) Maybe the reader wants to hear rap lyrics, or read a position paper, or just look at pictures. As an arrogant Frenchmen with a taste for California once said “Do not ask who I am and do not ask me to remain the same: leave it to our bureaucrats and our police to see that our papers are in order. At least spare us their morality when we write.” I’m going to allow myself these types of self-important, obscure references because, really, how interesting is food? (Yeah, I said it!) Honestly I’m not enthused enough to be jumping on the bandwagon, I’m just moving to the club car.

See I vacillate between thinking I love food and knowing I hate the “food culture” that has emerged in the last several years – these two feeling are not actually distinct or even in conflict. But for sure the debates, discussions, rants, and raves (?) that surround this whole culinary zeitgeist are “interesting.”

I’m not a culinista. I’m not part of the contemporary food culture. I don’t have impassioned debates about artisanal or raw milk cheeses, local vs. organic, macrobiotic vs. vegan. I’m glad my friends don’t demand this of me. I don’t think people should accrue social capital because they know how to use a chinois – I think it has something to do with high-grade methamphetamine. The local farmers market is a schlep and I’m suspicious of its vendors. My passion for roast marrow bones, though not equaled, is rivaled by my love for cheap beer.

I’m the wrong person to be writing about food. But if everyone else can write about themselves and other things they don’t know about, why not me? Welcome to L.A. Food Urchin. Enjoy.