My First Fork

A preference for one thing over another is a natural human tendency. Rather, it's a survival tendency. If this watering hole is better than that watering hole, and you're an elephant, it's in your genes to communicate that fact. And those that don't follow you take their chances. Literally.

For humans, stating a preference - declaring that one food or music or way of thinking as being better than another - can be perceived by some as being elitist, arrogant, or as they say in Britain, "up one's self"; which perhaps help explain their food.

As I write this, I'm in front of a new audio system. While I consider myself a music fan and want to treat food and music as equals, I tend to listen to music while making food; the auditory being a single stimulus while the sights, smells, and tactical nature of food occupies the other senses. A good soundtrack makes audible what the other senses are celebrating.

Due largely to coincidence, I now have a sound system which is disproportionate to my previous dedication to listening to music. In short, it's expensive. Really expensive. It would be as if I had been fishing a few times, and then decided to buy a river. And yet, I'm discovering things I've never heard before. Recordings I hearing through a tiny record needle, are being played before me anew; like a high school crush frozen in time and is now presented again. And not in black and white, slightly out of focus and faded a bit by time, but enhanced and enchanted. As if you had the perspective of now way back when and truly appreciated what you saw and felt. It's like that, but with sound.

This notion of the "hardware" affecting the "software" does, of course, relate back to food. And of youth.

If food is the "software" of dining, then dishes and flatware, napkins and wine glasses are surely the hardware. While none of these alters the flavor of what we're eating, they can subtly affect our enjoyment of it.

Growing up, my parents had what I would call a "modest" kitchen. Dishes were always unremarkable (and unbreakable) melamine or "Corelware", flatware was modest and no more than about 5 of any one utensil matched. Table knives were dull and/or serrated, prep knives looked as though they'd all served time in a slaughter house cutting on cement slabs. It all matched the skills and level of passion my parents had about food. Neither the food nor utensils felt slighted; they were in perfect harmony.

While cleaning out my mother's house of every single item imaginable, I came across a random but remarkable memory, a single element which may have inadvertently uncovered my early interest in food and how it's consumed - a single fork. I've no idea where it came from, nor why we only had one of them (I suspect a neighbor brought it over and it was orphaned along the way), but it was distinctly different than the rest. It was a bit too ornate for my taste but implied the object had value. Most noticeable of all, it was heavy; especially when compared to the stamped-out-of-sheet-metal flatware it shared a drawer with. It was a bit shinier than the others, but not in a showy way. It felt "right" in my hands and it became my preferred fork whenever it was available in the drawer.

I wonder if anyone else in my small family noticed it. Could they honestly reach into that drawer and grab just any old fork when this one was there? Were they all equal candidates for conveying such important cargo?

Surely this single piece of metal is, in part, responsible for (or indicative of) my tendency toward better utensils now. Dining out for a living for 8 years exposed me to a lot of dishes and glasses and forks and knives, and I found one company and one style that reminded me of that balance I first enjoyed so long ago, an Italian company called "Sambonet". It took me years to get enough light and focus to read the convoluted logo on the "top" side of the forks. Then I noticed the knives stamped clearly with the name. I ordered a set as soon as I could find them online. They certainly weren't cheap, but they'll be with me for a very long time. And so will that first fork.

The Tasting Menu

Dining experiences come in many forms, from the unexpected "taco truck" at the right hour of the morning (usually well past midnight and often dangerously close to dawn) to 3 or 4-star (depending on the measurement) restaurants with name-brand everything, including the staff. Taco trucks tend to exceed our expectations because, frankly, one's expectations of quality are tempered in the wee hours. But those other places? They come with certain metrics.

I spend what others could easily call an "inordinate" amount of money on food in a year. However, it's been a while since I'd spent what I would consider an "inordinate" amount of money on a meal.

The number one slot belongs to a meal in Monte Carlo at an Alain Ducasse outpost (Louis XV) which rocked my credit card like a speed junkie on a pinball machine. It was an unexpected opportunity and seized knowing it would be unique. Below that, plenty of meals in New York caused me to wince one the bill was tallied along with Hong Kong, Tokyo, and London.

Tonight's meal took the #2 position.

Until one dines at a restaurant daring enough to serve 12 courses (or so), it's an experience which is tough to explain. You really do get swept away by it all, the attentiveness of the servers, all of whom know not just what is on the menu, but why it's there, what it's made of, and why it all works together. Pricey decor, the diversity of the menu; it's hypnotizing. You need to do it at least once. Maybe twice. Three times at most.

And then stop.

Benu comes from grand breeding, an offspring of The French Laundry. Unlike "The Laundry", you don't need to book centuries in advance and you have more than 14 seconds on the first full moon on a Tuesday to PHONE them when a tide is 1/4 high to beg for a table; like phoning a radio station to win concert tickets when you were 16. (The über-rich will always want to out-reserve each other and that is why The French Laundry and its ilk will always exist.) The rest of us riff-raff are forced to go elsewhere, if not the galactic center of dining experiences, then to one of its orbiting moons. We get tempted by the prodigy of Keller starting something new and amazing, in an easier location and with slightly better odds of getting a reservation.

Before I go much further, if you've never been to a place like Benu, then stop reading and go. You owe it to yourself to experience such a meal unwearied by what follows. It'll cost you an arm, leg, and kidney, but you'll learn something and more importantly, you'll be surprised.

If you have been, don't go.

There is a bell curve (in my mind) which plots the likelihood of enjoying a meal. The vertical axis is enjoyment (from inedible to nirvana), the horizontal is the price (from fast-food to the stratosphere). If you can picture all of that, you'll see enjoyment peaks near the middle, or maybe more toward the 3/5ths mark).

Let me make this even easier.

Write down the number of pleasurable, memorable meals for which you spent more than, say, $200 per person. You looked forward to the meal, enjoyed every moment of it, left feeling both full and satisfied with food, wine, and service. Do not write it down if you left the restaurant feeling like bloated whale which has beached itself.

Now write down the number of memorable meals for which you spent between $75 and $120 per person.

In my case, I'm struggling to put down any of the first variety. In Monte Carlo, I was feeling sick part-way through the meal. Course after course kept hitting me, wave after wave of food. At Coi in San Francisco, the food was interesting but hardly earth-shattering; unlike the bill. At WD-50 (hardly stratospheric but 8 courses was a challenge), the food was novel but in stark contrast to the other meals, I left... not "hungry" but "unsatisfied". I wanted another meal, not due to hunger, but the satisfaction receptors in my brain seemed independent of my stomach. Something similar happens when eating in an airport; you eat because you have to and rarely brag about it later. The food at WD-50 is innovative for sure, but the mental challenge of each dish gets a bit tiring. Maybe it's a mood thing, which I liken to sushi. If you're not in the mood for sushi, it's a little difficult to eat.

On the other hand, I can name probably 20 memorable, delicious, and truly satisfying meals for 1/3 those prices.

My first meal at Gotham Bar and Grill in New York comes to mind (and a meal or two thereafter, which is a long story), Chanterelle, also in NY, nearly every meal at Zuni in S.F., ditto for Water Grill in L.A., Blackbird in Chicago, Vong in London, and 2 dozen tiny, unexpected jewels along the way. In many cases, it would cost the same to travel to these places dine and return with positive memories than to eat at a "flagship" restaurant. Odds of getting a reservation increase as well.

As for Benu, seating was early; 5:45 to be exact. That table was targeted for turnover and the pace of the courses made it feel that way. There was barely time for consultation of either server or sommelier about what was being consumed before the "air traffic" behind them quickly piled up. As usual, the arrival of each course came with a presentation recited with the clarity and assertiveness of a potential "Miss America" citing her intended goals if crowned.

Most importantly, I experienced (once again) what I have come to fear in all "tasting menus" - dreading the next course. Not because it's likely to be bad, but because my hunger was satiated 4 courses ago. It's like grocery shopping when you're full or the smell of beer as you clean up from a party the night before. It's not fun. Regardless of how small the portions are, if there are 15 of them, you're going to over do it and you're going to hate yourself for it.

That night, sleep was restless, fitful, and dreams were bizarre and haunting. It was as if my body was reminding me of something which 1 out of every 20 fortune cookies will tell you: too much of a good thing can be bad.

Whining as a means to an end.

I've always written. In binders and notebooks, on typewriters, and on computers; the latter, for 28 years. And I've always loved food, though I fell in love long before I got to know it well enough. It was probably inevitable that I write about it.

My first blog entry about the "Death of the Martini", while a bit peripheral to the topic of food, encompasses why I started writing in the first place - I saw something I didn't like, I wrote that piece, and then began asking questions. Writing it all down gives me a point of reference, a reminder that something in food is broken in some small way.

At the end, I ask whether there might be a resurgence in cocktail making and, in the three years since I started FoodandWhining, I have discovered that there is indeed a resurgence, a revolution, a revival of "artisanal cocktails". Mind you, not to the point of being able to order a perfect Sazerac in any bar I enter, but I've been surprised by "secret stashes" of ingredients and skill sets.

FoodAndWhining is a tongue-in-cheek way of asking a fundamental question about food, one I've asked since I had to stand on a chair to watch my father "cook"; "This is great! BUT! Is this the best there is?"

It's also to encourage people to cook for themselves, and experiment, research, ask questions, and be bold. Food is the third-most essential ingredient in being alive and offers both an obligation and an opportunity to explore the incredible diversity of something you cannot do without. Apart from love and sex, what you consume should be considered thoroughly. Preumably your ideal sexual parner wouldn't be "ordered" through a drive-through window, so why should your food be?

Luxury without Impact

In an effort to follow the advice I post here, I purchased a book I referenced only in passing in my blatantly fluffy piece about making clear ice.

"The Frozen Water Trade" by Gavin Weightman is one of those books that opens up a hidden world behind something we take for granted. It's history, entrepreneurship, and struggles against adversity for ice. It covers its collection, distribution, and sale before there were handy machines which would make it in abundance automatically.

I think most people under the age of, say, 50 know that ice was sold in blocks but know very little about beyond that. My grandparents referred to their refrigerator as an "ice box" which I assumed to be a holdover from their modest upbringing and scant education. My assumption was that companies manufactured ice in large quantities and distributed blocks regularly to homes with a box in which to hold it. It turns out, the history of gathering and storing ice goes back much further than that. Thousands of years, in fact.

In some parts of the world, mother nature makes great quantities of it like clockwork; sometimes to the point of hindering the activities of human beings. In short, ice comes along with great regularity requiring no help from us. A valuable commodity which makes itself.

While there isn't much of a market for ice in January for the people who live in and around it, when the weather shifts and the temperature (and humidity) rises, they change their tune. Someone along the way thought to cut large slabs of ice during winter, and store them which is no simple task given than fiberglass insulation was another 80-100 years away, and mechanical/chemical refrigeration was only in its infancy. It would be some time before a machine could freeze anywhere near as much water as mother nature. So, to protect ice from the inevitable approach of summer, they built insulated warehouses called "ice houses" to store ice for the summer.

Frederic Tudor thought bigger than that. Much bigger. What about places where it was hot all the time? Havana, Calcutta, Martinique? How many people of means travel to those destinations, and how much would they be willing to pay to have ice in their drinks, or ice cream on a sweltering day? Getting it there was the tricky bit. He needed an ice house that would float.

There were hopeful signs; someone noticed that wooden crates in ships from Norway would still have ice on them months later in the Caribbean. Wood, it seemed, was at least a decent insulator. Saw dust became the most flexible and plentiful (thanks to the saw mills nearby) means of insulating ice for what would be very long voyages.

Not to give away the ending of the book, but it was a colossal success. (Why write a book about a crazy ice guy if he failed?)

What Frederic Tudor achieved was astounding in its scale, if subtle in its longer-term effect on mankind. It was how he did it and - more importantly - WHEN he did it that fascinates me.

At first, his story reminded me of the insane waste of resources we use to transport bottled water from every continent on earth (even if it's frozen and we need to thaw it.) But if you think about when all of this took place, you'll see it as an amazingly "green" enterprise.

First, to freeze water, we now use electricity rather than forethought. They, on the other hand, simply stepped back and waited for a lake which had frozen for hundreds of thousands of years to freeze once again. To keep water frozen, we continue to use electricity; often in the same device used to make it in the first place. In their case, they hauled large blocks of ice (via horses) to ice houses which, for the next several months, would be the same temperature as the ice itself. Once the weather changed, insulation would help keep the ice cold.

When it was time to move the ice, horses were once again employed to move them around town or to the ships. (Internal combustion-powered vehicles weren't ready to carry anything heavier than the rich people who could afford them.) The ships, in turn, used a source of energy we're only now returning to - wind. Yes, it took a long time to get to where you were going, but other than cooking fires (if such things were permitted on a wooden boat; I'd think not), the ships generated little to no carbon emissions.

From the ship, it was back to horses again or, if the distance on land was greater, then steam locomotives were used; presumably coal-fired. Here's where the "green" breaks down a bit, coal being a notorious pollutant. But if you think about it, steel wheels on steel rails makes for very little friction. Trains can't climb steep mountains so you would either go around them or through them. Hence, no hills to climb burning more fuel.

Once it reached its final destination (sometimes 10,000+ miles from where it started), back into an insulated box it went until it was chipped and used in the finest treatment for Malaria ever invented - the Gin and Tonic.

Considering the effort involved (mostly human and animal), the distance covered (across ice, over land, stored in an ice house, hauled on a ship, placed on a train, hauled over land again, then held), this whole endeavor required amazingly little in the way of fossil fuels.

Ice, too, is an immense luxury, especially at a time when it wasn't possible to just make it anywhere you wanted. Fredric Tudor did the world no giant favor by providing ice to it, but he did make people happier. While a minimal carbon footprint wasn't something anyone pondered in those days, it's remarkable how something so fleeting and frivolous could happen with such minimal impact on the planet.

Ironic but perhaps inevitable that the ice trade migrated to refrigeration units out of convenience, but also because the water sources were becoming polluted.

Natural Selections and Food Chains

I remember watching "Mutual of Omaha's 'Wild Kingdom'" as a child and how it all seemed so cruel and unfair. A lion would stalk an hours-old, baby of some variation of "deer" and when the parent was even the slightest bit inattentive, the lion would storm in and kill the animal, often under the helpless gaze of the parent. The fact that the prey was cute didn't help the matter. (Cuteness seems biologically designed to amplify sympathy.) Why didn't the film crew step in and stop it? How could they just allow such a brutal death? The reality, which I couldn't understand at the time, was that while one cute baby animal died, a few other cute animals (cubs of the lion) would be fed, along with mom. As an ironic bonus, the parent of the sacrificed animal wouldn't be passing such inattentive genes on to the next generation. Lessons about "survival of the fittest" and "natural selection" and "food chain" wouldn't be clear to me for some time.

Restaurants, too, have eco-systems and life spans. Some spans are as short as a bait fish, 99% of which only serve to feed other animals, while other restaurants have the longevity of George Burns or redwood trees.

One of my favorite restaurants on earth, which happens to be based in New York, "Veritas" has very good "roots". It's a restaurant borne out of an abundance of wine (by a very serious collector) and that collector's passion for it. It features a menu created for the wine list (rather than the other way around), it's in a great location, and is a tiny, efficient space staffed by the most attentive and considerate professionals. They've always managed to offer familiarity and recognition without ever breaking character, armed with both knowledge of and passion for the contents of plates and stemware.

In September, Veritas closed "for minor renovations".

Granted, restaurant closings happen out of need (such as repairs to plumbing or ventilation), but they must choose wisely when and for how long they close. I've learned over the years, when a restaurant shuts, it never reopens quite the same way. There's always a tweak to the menu, a slight (or complete) change of staff. When an animal in the wild stumbles or falls, it alerts predators. When a restaurant stumbles, it alerts other restaurants willing, if not anxious, to feed the patrons of the failing one. News of "illness" in the business spreads quickly.

Granted I'm not a local, and can't tell you what (if any) subtle changes have occurred at Veritas in the 5 months since I last visited, but the feel is decidedly different. The mechanism seems a bit more sluggish, rattles a bit more, and sometimes backfires.

First, there was room on a Saturday evening. In September. At the bar. This is rare. There are - at most - 40 seats in the entire restaurant, and some people like to just stop by for an appetizer or dessert and the bar is the best place for it. (You also bypass the requisite prix-fixe menu at a table.)

The second sign of trouble came when I ordered the skate wing. When prompted for a glass of wine, the bartender asked if I wanted red or white. The sound of screeching tires in my head was combined with the sounds of an impact and breaking glass. My heart sank. Red? With skate?

Wait, I'm in Veritas. Surely I am the one who is missing something. I glanced at the menu again to check the preparation. No, red was wrong. Rosé may have been close, but red was wrong. When questioned, she (wisely) conferred with the sommelier. He looked at her for just a moment too long, presumably also in disbelief about the question, and whispered something back. She returned with two suggestions, ones I would have chosen on my own.

This was a seemingly-minor setback, but spoke volumes. Three years ago, this well-intentioned but clueless bartender wouldn't have made it past the second round of interviews. Now, she was "speaking for" the restaurant.

Having taken note of this incident, but not jumping to conclusions, I soldiered on with my first course. While I hate whining about portion sizes, the starter was insultingly tiny, like two soup spoons worth of food. Pasta is cheap to make. There could have been more of it. A pattern was emerging.

When I asked about the familiar staff, one person had left, the other was in Hong Kong. I sensed "job interview".

Still, natural selection works hand-in-hand with evolution; you can't have one without the other. I hope Veritas is simply evolving, adapting to the newly-stingy economy on which it depends. But I fear that its breathing is labored and pulse is slowing; they may be simply waiting out their lease.

Sympathy for a single animal seems pointless in a herd, all of whom are destined to become part of a bigger food chain. But when you get to know one very well, it's hard to say goodbye. I'll continue to visit and monitor progress, but I'm realistic. It had an amazing run, and if it has since gone to restaurant heaven by the time I go back, I know that it will have lived a happy life.

Veritas may not be alone. Others in the herd may be stumbling.

Ferran Adria broke the news that he plans to shut down El Bulli for two years while he re-evaluates what they're doing, and determine whether or not they'll continue to do it (at least in its current incarnation). For perspective, this is a bit like Bono declaring that U2 would stop making music at the peak of their career, or Steve Jobs declaring that he's going to go build canoes for a living.

Closure of the flagship restaurant only slightly decreases my chances of eating there; 2,000,000 requests for 8,000 seats per year, but it would still be a great loss. While there are rumors of health issues with either Ferran himself, or a member of his family, and others speculate that he is simply running out of ideas, or maybe all of those things. I suspect it's the food.

Yes, the cuisine he invented or simply refined invites speculation, criticism, emulation, displeasure, and - at times - disgust. (Deep-fried rabbit ears come to mind.) His food, his methods, his focus for 6 months of the year on developing the menu for the remaining 6 months, his kitchens (both test and restaurant), all provoke and invite envy of efficiency and resources. And herein lies the problem.

The food is not very satisfying.

Is it "good"? Yes. Is it well-cooked? Yes. Is it unique (at least for a while) in all the world? Yes; but it's lacking that pleasure you get from eating a pizza after you've moved furniture all day. It's the psychological equivalent of "umami"; deeply satisfying without a particular sensation. "Satiated" is perhaps another good word to explain what you don't feel after this kind of meal.

Take the restaurant "WD-50" in New York. Wiley Dufresne worked for Ferran but wanted to take the chemistry set to the next level. The first time I dined at WD-50, it was an amazing experience; having someone tinker with your preconceptions and perceptions about food leaves you giddy. The second time, it was fun, but not as earth-shattering. After the third time, I walked away barely full and not at all satisfied. Molecular gastronomy seems to cause you to spend so much time thinking about what you're eating that your senses never get a chance to simply enjoy.

What El Bulli has done will change food forever. While not every restaurant will suddenly specialize in foamed sea cucumber sperm, some will tinker with texture and flavor a bit more knowing that the world respects the source of inspiration. They became rock stars by showing the creative potential of food and never (visibly) letting their fame interfere with their mission. Going out on a "high note", and perhaps each doing something individually may lead to something bigger.

We can no more slow or halt the demise of a restaurant than a photographer can halt the food chain in the wild; nor should we. It's all part of a process.

Highland Christmas

Every now and then, we all find ourselves in uncomfortable situations, equivalent to someone afraid of water being forced to swim or someone afraid of heights forced onto the ledge of a building. Being cast from our comfort zone can only do us good in the long run even if it makes us a bit crazy in the short term. Sometimes, for reasons of adventure, curiosity or even self-punishment, we even launch ourselves into such situations by choice.

My own version is two-fold; on one hand, I've lived for nearly 43 years on earth without waking up to an actual, genuine "White Christmas" so raved about in songs and lore. I've been chilly at Christmas, but never truly cold. I've lived in a trailer park or suburban house, most without a chimney further stunting the believability of Santa Claus. This year, I've chosen to spend Christmas in a harsh, alien landscape – one laden with snow – testing my distaste for cold weather. That whiteness comes at the expense of travel convenience and the requirement of extra layers of clothing, but it is a thin, powdery layer of assurance that Christmas is actually happening. (Seasonal changes in California can be hard to detect.)

The second challenge I face is my blatant fear of "bad food" and my palate has become more and more difficult to please. Given mobility and a credit card, I can usually find something to "survive" on. The snow would make driving (and even walking) difficult and would restrict my culinary freedom. Stranded on a farm, I had to make the best of what I had at hand.

These two fears – cold weather and bad food – would be tested in a single, precarious destination for anyone particular about food - The United Kingdom; specifically, Scotland and England. While the cuisines of several other countries (Holland, Sweden, Denmark, among others) deserve a similar reputation, none are as notorious.

The Food Network, Travel Network, and recurring articles in food magazines and on the web lead us to believe that a culinary revolution has already taken place throughout the U.K. Thanks to Marco Pierre White, Gordon Ramsay, Fergus Henderson and the like, the U.K. is waking up to their own abilities and roots in food. In Marco's case, he reminded the English what the French have known for centuries, Fergus reminded them of how they once cooked, and Gordon taught them the discipline to seek more from their cuisine. Hester Blumenthal – well, he headed in a completely different direction.

The "crown jewels" of British restaurants can indeed dazzle provided the chef doesn’t strictly adhere to traditional ingredients and preparations. Among the many things British food lacks apart from flavor is balance, and prudent additions from other cultures can transform this humble cuisine into something more.

Even as I type this, at 35,000 feet somewhere over Greenland, I am hurtling myself into the belly of the culinary beast - Scotland - where there's plenty to be afraid of. The primary sticking point for most people is a single dish mimicked in a dozen cuisines around the world, but singularly feared from the Scottish - haggis. It's all the things we (as Americans and largely the English as well) consider outside the realm of actual food. To us, haggis contains what are normally remnants with the notable exception of fur and hooves.

Upon arrival, I wasn't sure where to begin. I could hardly start at haggis and work backward; instead, I would do a bottom-up approach - get to know the basics, understand the overall flavors, and then head for the peak of the mountain.



Fish and Chips.

I stumbled, quite by accident, upon the best fish and chip shop ("chippy") in Scotland, which was fortunate; I was after the absolute pinnacle of what this dish can be. However, the differences between vendors are subtle, and a look at the ingredients explains why. Take fish, (and not a potent fish either - cod - "tofu of the sea"), batter (flour, water, and maybe beer), an inert oil heated to 400 degrees, and combine. Then, take par-boiled potatoes, cut into sticks, add them to the same oil, and drain. Serve them in a cardboard tray, voila.

Frankly? You get something not unlike every other version of fish and chips you've ever had. Nobody adds herbs, no detectable spices other than salt, no marinade, no innovative dipping sauce, nothing. It’s the same thing. At its very best, fish and chips is still a dish of mute flavors which demand bolder ones to make it interesting, a blank canvas seemingly designed to be painted with malt vinegar or tartar sauce. Even at this award-winning venue, the tartar sauce was in tear-and-squeeze packets manufactured by Heinz.

Turf

The second on my to-do list was frightening in name, ingredients, and appearance; black (or blood) pudding. While not actually black, it's nearer to black than any other color and "pudding" doesn't seem to suit either the American or common British use of this word (I took it to mean their generic term for "dessert", but pudding seems to describe anything ground/minced, and edible with a spoon. Then again, the Scottish refer to dinner as "tea", so there you go.)

I'm not terribly squeamish about eating something made primarily of dried blood. In fact, it was intriguing. As Fergus Henderson (whom I hope to meet on this journey) says, "it’s the essence of the beast". We carnivores eat all manner of animal, nose to tail in some rare instances, but this most vital of fluids is usually lost to industrial purposes (glue) or to dog food. It's a pure form of protein and a shame to waste.

I generally like my first taste of any “challenging” dish to be from the best source possible, and prepared by knowing hands. However, my first taste of black pudding would be prepared in a home from a freezer by me. I cut slices, glistening with ice crystals and wrapped in plastic, thawed them in hot water, then fried them (minus the plastic) in a pan with a most orthogonal ingredient (olive oil) and dived in.

As I started eating, I pondered what most people struggle with in food. Probably the biggest is any blatant-reminder that you are eating an animal of some sort; the connection between "dead corpse" and "main course" being too much for people to handle. The smell of tripe can instantly remind us of what it did for a living, as can kidneys. Tongue, brains, nose, tail, ears; all-too-recognizable and enigmatic challenges to what we think of as food.

Even for me, black/blood pudding exhibits only two daunting pretenses; its appearance (which resembles a random piece of a burn victim) and its named contents. It tastes nor smells like anything else I can think of and nothing I'm likely to crave in the future. I'm not sure if my displeasure stems from the main ingredient, or one of the others mixed with it. Maybe this is just what dried, fried blood tastes like. I’d taste it one more time during the trip, and come to the same conclusion. I’d be curious what the cuisines of other countries do with this same “challenging” ingredient.



Taming of the Wild Haggis

For all of the disappointments in Scottish cuisine, the one we’re trained to fear most was actually the least threatening and even interesting. Like black pudding, the “haggai” (my invented plural for haggis as there were three of differing spice levels) we had were cooked in a home by experienced, if not trained, hands, along with the traditional "neeps and tatties"; mashed turnips and mashed potatoes.

Despite the variety of offal in it, it smells nothing like the ingredients it contains nor the bladder containing it. Salt is an abundant ingredient (the Scottish tend to either omit it when it's needed or use far too much.) White pepper plays a big role, and what you're left with is a slightly gluey meatloaf owed to the suet mixed in with the other animal goodness.

Is it good? That is very much in the palate of the beholder, but I will say that haggis is nowhere near as daunting as its reputation. I would say it’s worth trying if you get the chance, but wouldn't say that the flavor is worth seeking out. Much like turkey at Thanksgiving, it's suitable for a once-a-year meal on "Rabbie Burns" night, a celebration of Scottish poet Robert Burns where haggis is served with whiskey (or even poured over the it).

A second version I had in a restaurant (shown above) modified little about the basic dish. Apart from serving it formed into a circle with a whiskey and mustard cream sauce which was a marked improvement in the balance of flavors, the essence of the dish intact.

Scotland is a country steeped in tradition, but tradition has another name; momentum. Tendencies, both good and bad, have little chance of changing without motive and there doesn't seem to be a motive or desire to change much about food in Scotland. Do they have good food? Yes, though much of it isn't traditional or even Scottish for that matter. In the more expensive restaurants, the flavors and textures are still tempered to the Scottish palate. You can taste the restraint; if not in main courses, then in the side dishes. Vegetables are often boiled beyond recognition, and mashed if they resemble anything at the end. Beef is generally cooked to cremation, and greens make rare appearances on a plate.

For whatever reason, the bulk of Scottish people just aren't focused on nor passionate about food. Dinner (“tea”) is simply to combat hunger, one "tick" on the to-do list of the day and activities resume once it is finished. To discuss, question, or form a strong opinion about food can be perceived as being "up one's self" (snobbish); a no-no in a classist system. Best that I’m a visitor here.

Stars

I am unaware of any process in nature more volatile than that of rating a restaurant. The wildly-diverse experiences that wildly-diverse people can have even at the same establishment mimics the sporadic nature of earthquake predictions, snowflake patterns, or the formation of galaxies. To truly gauge a restaurant, all potential reviewers would need to dine on the same night with the same crowd, be cooked for by the same staff, served by the same server, at the same table, have the same tastes, having had the same prior dining experiences; already a staggering number of variables.

Another factor, as any professional restaurant reviewer can tell you and most people discover on their own, is that one's impression of a restaurant can change radically even between visits. Chefs make mistakes, servers have “off nights”, moods of diners vary wildly, and what someone is craving should be aligned (ore or less) with the cuisine of the restaurant chosen. If you're in the mood for a steak, dinner at "Salad Salad Salad!" probably isn't going to do much for you.

And herein lies the volatility and inaccuracy of Yelp...

There is a great article about how nearly every restaurant scores 4 out of 5 stars, whether flagship or "dive", whether the food is far better than the atmosphere, or the other way around. A review must be tempered with expectations; if you’re in a tiny taqueria, then expect amazing tacos rather than stellar service or Le Cirque-like ambiance. If you’re at Le Cirque, don’t complain that they made you wear a jacket and wouldn’t serve you ketchup with your duck fat fries.

The average of 4 makes sense when you think about it. Flaws can be found in nearly every dining experience. Maybe there was a draft at your table, or lighting fixtures were aimed at the floor rather than on your table. A dirty fork, a chipped wine glass, or a poorly-timed cooking duration can leave just enough of a mark to cause someone to withhold that extra star.

On the other hand, most people instinctively avoid a restaurant to which they would likely award only a single star. Factors of such restaurants are visible even before the menus are.

And what about those little stars? What do they actually mean? Half the reviewers go into lengthy detail about “what the stars mean to them.” I'd rather listen to people discuss horoscopes.

The daily creation of a high-end restaurant menu depends on a thousand variables; availability and timely-delivery of ingredients, capable and thorough preparation of those ingredients, timely and accurate cooking and combining of them on a plate, timely and orchestrated delivery of that plate to the correct table. It mimics the complexity of a mobile phone call in and is miraculous in its very existence; a complexity which only becomes visible when it fails.

Unfortunately, Yelp's greatest flaw is that inaccurate or unfounded reviews cannot be "voted off the island". The only thing you can do with an errant review is not say anything positive about it. That's right. If a vegetarian gives an otherwise 5-star steakhouse a single star, the other Yelpites can't then vote that attention-seeking jackass off the review list. If you're not into meat, why were you at a steakhouse and, more pressingly, why would you choose to write about it? I don't negatively review Tom Waits concerts nor the new Dodge Charger, and I'm pretty sure that people interested in either don't care about my opinion of them either.

Let me put this in another scenario. Let's say you invite 100 people to a party, and one of them takes a dump on your piano. In Yelp land, the only thing you can do is NOT say anything NICE about that person. You can't kick them out, you can't blacklist them from other parties, and you can't really tell them off. Despite the fact that everyone can smell the obvious deed in the room, they are similarly powerless against cleaning it up or preventing it from happening again.

All those budding restaurant reviewers (the verbal equivalents of "producers" of YouTube videos) treat reviews the way eighth-graders treat a book report. “Chez Blah is located on the corner of…” Stop. We know where the restaurant is, that information is given even before the reviews start. Then they go into long, tedious dissertations about how they were meeting someone for their birthday after having just won the world record in backward roller skating, etc. On and on we read, looking for useful content to make or break the decision. Through stories of newborn puppies, Frisbee championship wins, parking lot fender-benders, and “too many coktails(sic) before dinner”, are tiny nuggets of information. In short, a star rating really doesn't mean a whole lot. To truly consider a restaurant, you need to read through the reviews, which puts us back to square one.

The presumed goal of Yelp was to have a large cross-section of people share their opinion of a given restaurant (which makes sense), but reading through the reviews is a bit like reading a newspaper review where every paragraph was written by a different person and they repeat the obvious over and over again.

The actual goal of Yelp is to be a successful and profitable website and, to do that, you need "traffic". And what gets traffic? Vanity. Seeing one's own words, having them read by others, commented upon, and easily referenced. (In my case, the vanity more than the traffic.) Quantity of Yelpites is better than quality of them.

I need to explore Yelp further to know how (or if) it can actually be useful. The fact remains that determining whether a restaurant is worthy of your money is still reliant on a number of pieces of information; word of mouth (which carries much farther and more reliably than electrons), web research, “pedigree”, and perhaps most tellingly, how busy are they? I instituted a policy some time ago called “I don’t dine in empty restaurants”. It has been the most reliable indicator of quality to date - with only one gaping flaw; the Cheesecake Factory is always full. So is The Olive Garden (I think). Likewise for Chili’s, Chevy’s (which I like as a guilty pleasure), McDonald’s, etc. Being full - by itself - is not an indication of quality, it is simply an indicator of popularity. Again, trust (at least partly) your instincts. If you see three seemingly desirable restaurants in a row, two are full, and one is empty at 8:30 on a Saturday, you at least know which one to avoid. And you don't even need to Yelp.