potrero view

January 2012

In Defense of Eating

Steven J. Moss

When I find myself at a roadside restaurant or Fisherman Wharf-type eatery, I practice “defense ordering.”   The strategy, which I acquired after years of bad meals, is simple:  never select a complex entree, or one that relies on sauces or multiple melted cheeses as a key ingredient.  Eggs benedict at Joe’s Snack Shop in Madera is a no-no, as is lasagna pretty much anywhere.  Complexity is the enemy of good, or even edible, food in the hands of ill-trained cooks.  Outside a few select communities, even “fresh made lemonade” still means a powdered-mix drink served with ice cubes, a lesson I learned the hard way.

In Africa – where, as a young man, I regularly ate street food, and, just as regularly, regretted it – I amend my defensive eating policy to include:  never eat chicken.  In West Africa, at least, chickens seem to be slowly tortured to death before their scrawny, stringy carcass is dished-up on a plastic plate.  Since meat is a luxury on this still mostly impoverished continent, not eating chicken once it’s served, even as a paying customer, is even less appetizing than choking it down.

Recently, I had the opportunity to stay at a rustic lodge nested in Rwanda’s intensely gorgeous green hills.  It was the kind of place where a hot water bottle – two, if you’re lucky – is provided to keep you warm in bed during the chilly nights.  The small staff consisted of the manager – a flirtatious twenty-something, who remarked with a smirk while handing over the nightly water bottle that a man needed something to keep him warm at night – a receptionist – a duty filled by an impeccably suited Rwandan who had the innocent, unintentionally funny air of Andy Kaufman’s “foreign man” character on the television show Taxi – and a cook, who was reminiscent of a certain type of young woman frequently found at University of California, Berkeley cooperatives, or Phish concerts.   Short, clothed in many western layers, with a shy smile and slightly bulging eyes.  I’d paid for room and board for three days, and, for the first two of these, was the establishment’s only guest.

 The cook operated from a menu that appeared to have been stolen from an Italian restaurant located in Brooklyn.  It listed many complex pasta dishes and pizzas, as well as “moked chicken” and a variety of salads.  I was immediately on the defensive.  For dinner I selected the cheese omelet, my go-to meal in such circumstances.  A burrito-like thing appeared, stuffed with what seemed to be every ingredient in the kitchen, except anything that might have been cheese:  onions, peppers, potatoes, things similar to twigs, chewy pebbles.  After serving the dish the cook stood a few feet away, in slouched attention, staring at me, a practice she might have thought replicated the headwaiter’s attention at a fine French restaurant.  There was no escape.  Slowly, with much chewing, I ate the concoction.  The cook had won the first round.

The next day, for lunch, I ordered the “moked fish,” which resembled bony fish and chips.  It was not terrible.  Unfortunately, after being told the “avocado vinaigrette” wasn’t available I’d also requested the “mixed picante” salad, which consisted of a mass of fibrous sticks over which an expired spice may have been waved.  As the cook stared I gamely picked through half of it, smiling idiotically as I got up and said I was full.

At that point, with a day and a half left, I should have just stuck with the moked fish, which had proven itself to meet minimum palatability.  But, with her sincere smile and eagerness to please, the cook had laid down her challenge.  I ordered the “pizza magharitte,” which turned-out to be an open-faced “cheese” omelet.  

At the next meal, in desperation, I violated my fundamental eating rule in Africa, and selected the “chicken soup.”  The cook placed a bowl on the table, and backed away to her post, never taking her eyes off of me.  The soup had the consistency of oatmeal, as if a whole chicken had been stuck, head first, into a grinder, with the results then boiled into a sticky mass.  The cook watched my spoon dip into the bowl and travel to my mouth.  Once.  Twice.  Her attention was distracted by the manager walking by.  I quickly stirred the mound around, like a child attempting to fool his parents into thinking he ate, and fled to my room.

The rest of the day I reflected on my tactics.  I determined that for dinner the only thing to do was to return to the moked fish, with no side salad.  There was a danger that the cook might change the recipe, and serve something entirely different than my previous experience, but it was a risk I’d have to take.  I entered the dining area cautiously, only to be confronted by a dozen westerners, seated around the handful of tables.  New guests had arrived.  They were being served a buffet, which included a passable array of green beans, potatoes, imported cheese, and moked fish.  I smiled at the cook as she seated me at my regular spot.  A look of triumph seemed to flash behind her eyes, before she stepped back to monitor her guests.  

          

    

 

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