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TSF, or Starbucks Nation

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The Most Emblematic Beverage Stop for the Thirty-Something Generation

The Most Emblematic Beverage Stop for the Thirty-Something Generation

It’s finally beginning to happen: The next generation is beginning to make its mark on restaurants and supermarkets/ Today, at Albertson’s Supermarket, I saw a large display of cold beverages featuring Red Bull and Starbucks drinks at $3-4 a pop. I noted to Martine that I pay about $8-10 for a pound of loose Indian black tea that will last me for upwards of eight months, for both cold and hot beverages.

Before going to Albertson’s, we had lunch at Truxton’s American Bistro. Perhaps a more appropriate name would be TSF: “Thirty-Something Food.” The new foodies love to mess around with the menu and its ingredients. Their iced tea was flavored with some chemical extract meant to imitate passion fruit—whatever that tastes like! But you better believe it was called organic, as if that made it taste like tea, which it does not. In fact, it obliterates the taste of the tea, such that I wonder why they bother adding any tea at all. The pizza had fresh basil, but I guess the chef thought it needed salt, a lot more salt. I felt that they were trying just a little too hard to appear unique.

It takes many years of experience to learn how to cook, especially when it comes to herbs and spices. We’ve all seen little kids at self-service soda machines: they try to mix Coke with Seven-Up with Root Beer with Mr. Pibb, with maybe a dash of raspberry iced tea for good measure. The end result of this type of experimentation is usually deplorable. I’m not saying that young chefs are quite in the same category, but sometimes it seems that way.

As the generations change, it is inevitable that the type of foods on offer will change as well. There will be a lot of dishes I will never try because the ingredients fight with one another more than complement one another. On the other hand, there are some successes, such as California Pizza Kitchen. Their chopped salads are superb, and some of their pizzas are excellent (especially the Sicilian). Martine refuses to go there because the menu contains too many of what she considers “experimental” combinations.

I suppose that the ultimate thirty-something places are Starbucks and Jamba Juice and their imitators, neither of which I patronize. I don’t drink coffee; and juice is verboten for all diabetes sufferers (juices concentrate the sugars and carbs and throw out the fiber).

 

The Yuck Factor

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A Mixed Grill for a Couple in Colonia del Sacramento, Uruguay

A Mixed Grill for Two in Colonia del Sacramento, Uruguay

I shot the above in Colonia del Sacramento, Uruguay, in November 2011. It represents a mixed grill ordered by a young couple who graciously allowed me to photograph their lunch with a broad smile on their faces. It represents various cuts of beef, including sausages with a blood sausage in the middle accompanied by various organ meats.

The number of people who would find such a meal disgusting is growing by leaps and bounds, especially among the young. Let’s face it, meat can be gross—even if the animals are grass-fed the way South American beef and lamb typically are. American feedlots, if anything, result in even stranger meat, including such additives as “pink slime,” which was in the news recently, as well as various exotic antibiotics and hormones.

One of the best American growers with which I am familiar in the Harris Ranch located midway between Los Angeles and Sacramento on Interstate 5. Just north of the hotel and restaurant building is a huge feedlot whose odors have passersby on the freeway quickly pulling up their windows and recirculating their interior air for about two miles. And that is better than most beef you are likely to find at your neighborhood supermarket. I imagine that most Midwestern feedlots would be the mammalian equivalent of Dante’s Inferno.

Now Martine and I are both meat-eaters, but in a relatively small way. You might even say we’re part-time vegetarians. Would we ever become 100% vegetarians? Perhaps, if circumstances forced us, we would. In general, however, we shy away from vegetarian restaurants. It is not because we don’t like vegetarian dishes: It’s just that there is a certain vegetarian cuisine—particularly in the United States—which is almost offensively bland. If one is a vegetarian because one finds meat yucky, then one is likely to eat exclusively blah food.

One example of a vegetarian cuisine that I like is that of India. In fact, whenever I go to an Indian restaurant, I usually concentrate on the vegetarian dishes exclusively, unless some fish is on the menu. Indian food is almost never blah. (One exception: The Govinda’s Restaurants run by the Hare Krishnas, who have managed to banish all flavor from their menus.)

There are two vegetarian restaurants within walking distance of my office. I do not patronize either of them. As I am a diabetic, I have to avoid carbohydrates as much as possible; and American vegetarian food is usually fairly heavily laden with carbs.

As I write this, I am thinking of cooking a Chana Dhal next week (a curry with chick peas), if Martine is willing.

Thinking About Quebec

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17th Century-Style Buildings by the Harbor in Quebec City

17th Century-Style Buildings by the Harbor in Quebec City

Today, Martine and I had dinner at a French Canadian restaurant in Westwood: Le Soleil on Westwood Boulevard. While I am dreaming of going to Peru, Martine would like to revisit the Province of Quebec and perhaps drive around a bit. It’s possible that I may yield to her: There is something about Quebec that draws out the Frenchwoman in her, and where else in North America can one feel so much like being in Europe?

What most people don’t know is that there is a part of Metropolitan France right off the south coast of Newfoundland. The islands of St. Pierre and Miquelon, a short ferry ride away from the town of Fortune, Newfoundland. The islands are all that remain of the extensive lands of New France lost to Britain in the French and Indian War. It is a little known fact that, during Prohibition, Chicago gangster Al Capone used the islands as a base for illegally importing wine and liquor into the United States. I don’t know if it’s feasible to include St. Pierre and Miquelon on a trip to Quebec, as they are many hundreds of miles apart; but perhaps some day….

I’m glad that Martine liked the Boeuf Bourguignon and Crême Brulée at Le Soleil. She tends to think that most French restaurants in L.A. are not sufficiently authentic, but this Quebecois restaurant seemed to have some of the real stuff.

Politics and Food

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Sesame Green Onion Bread

Sesame Green Onion Bread

This last week, Martine watched a replay of an old Huell Howser visit to the China Islamic Restaurant in Rosemead. Now I used to go there some twenty years ago, but for some reason I thought the restaurant had gone out of business. A quick Internet check showed me that, no, it was still there.

Today, we drove out to Rosemead and I was able to indulge in what I used to eat there: sesame green onion bread (pictured above) and dough slice chow mein with lamb. I was in seventh heaven. I suspect, however, that my glucose reading this evening will be a tad on the high side, so I’ll have to compensate. Then again, I was waiting for twenty years to relive those flavors. So it goes.

Although I am not Muslim and do not find myself drawn to Islamic beliefs, I think that politics and religion have zero effect on my tastes in food. Even Martine, who is considerably to the right of me, loves hummus and chicken kebabs.

Afterwards, we drove to the 99 Ranch Market in San Gabriel for supplies to cook my own chow mein during the week. I was low on Kimlan Soy Sauce (my favorite), corn starch, bean sprouts, and Nanka Seimen chow mein noodles. The 99 Ranch Market is a huge Chinese supermarket with great prices for fruit and vegetables. The pork I bought there for the chow mein was also a good deal.

Martine was a bit put out by the crowds at the market, but I knew why the crowds were there.

 

Does It Pay To Take a Chance?

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KFC in Keflavik

KFC in Keflavik

During my recent visit to Iceland, I saw a number of American fast food chains represented, including KFC (see above photograph), Subway, Quizno’s, and several others—but, curiously, no hamburger chains. McDonald’s was there, but is gone now. I guess they couldn’t make a go of it.

As I would avoid most of these chains at home, I didn’t care to patronize them on my vacation either. Mostly, I looked for fish dishes, which were always fresh and delicious. Once I had a hamburger on the main drag in Isafjördur at Hamraborg and found it by no means inferior to  American burgers. In fact, I thought the béchamel sauce was a nice touch.

Not all of Hamraborg’s offerings looked quite so appetizing:

A Local Specialty I Decided Not to Try

A Local Specialty I Decided Not to Try

It looked as if it were loaded with sugar anyhow.

As in California, the type of restaurants I preferred were one-of-a-kind. At Háholt in Mossfellsbær, for example, I had a long wait; so I passed by the KFC and Subway and found a delightful little place near the local Bonus Supermarket:

I Was Probably the First American To Eat Here

I Was Probably the First American To Eat Here

Now the sign doesn’t really tell you very much, does it? (I know the last line refers to coffee and cakes, however.) But I talked to the owner as he moved some tables and chairs outside and I decided to eat there. I had some great soup and a delicious piece of codfish with fresh vegetables. The owner was a bit of a health nut, and that fit in perfectly with my dietary restrictions. That was probably my best lunch in Iceland. I told the owner I was delighted not to have to eat at Subway or KFC, which were the only other choices within walking range.

Sometimes it pays to take a chance.

 

Iceland Is for Foodies

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Fish is Number One in Iceland

Fish is Number One in Iceland

Fishing exports account for some 40% of Iceland’s export income and employs some 7% of the workforce. I remember riding a bus from Háholt In Mossfellsbær to Borgarnes with the first mate of a fishing trawler, who explained that he would be off for several weeks because of the rigid quota system employed by the fisheries. As soon as it was possible to go to sea without the danger of exceeding the quota, they would set sail.

Needless to say, I ate a lot of fish in Iceland, sometimes as often as twice a day. In addition to Icelandic cod, my favorite, there was ling cod, sea wolf, salt-water catfish, langoustines, mussels, shrimp, halibut, haddock, monkfish, and probably half a dozen other varieties. Since the vast majority of the population lives within sight of the North Atlantic, I could look out the window while I was eating fish and see the trawlers and other fishing vessels (such as the one above) parked in the harbor waiting for their next outing.

Unlike the United States, where seafood is usually the priciest item on the menu, in Iceland, it is usually the cheapest.

Many people don’t know this, but some fifty years ago, Iceland fought a “cod war” with the United Kingdom. It was the first country to declare an extended territorial limit, mainly to protect its fisheries from British fishing boats. Nets were cut by the Icelandic Coast Guard, and a British frigate once threaten to ram the offending ship. Fortunately, the two NATO nations avoided a shooting war.

In the end, the Brits lost, and the British fishing industry is now but a shadow of what it once was. Now all countries, including the United States and Britain, have extended territorial limits. One interesting result is the possibility that Iceland could become an oil-producing country. There is an possible oil field within the territorial limits called the Dragon Zone which Iceland and Norway are thinking of sharing, much to the dismay of the Chinese and Russians, who would like to exploit the resources for themselves.

Street Grunting

One would not think that Iceland would be a good place for what A People’s Guide to Mexico called “street grunting.” Tucked away near the old port is an 80-year-old hot dog stand called Bæjarin’s Beztu (roughly translated as “the best in town”).

They Sell Only Two Things: Pylsur and Soda

They Sell Only Two Things: Pylsur and Soda

Icelandic hot dogs are called pylsur. They are made with a combination of meats, including lamb, and are served in hot dog buns with ketchup, sweet mustard, fried onions, and remoulade, which includes mayonnaise and relish.

Generations of Reykjavík residents have made their way to Bjarin’s Beztu for a quick and relative cheap snack.

If you are in the boonies, not to worry: You can get decent pylsur at gast station roadhouses throughout the island. Also available are pizza, burgers, and fish and franskum (chips).

Skyr

Finally, there is one Icelandic dairy product that is widely available to which I became addicted, and that is skyr. While similar to yogurt, it is much creamier and richer in texture. Made with pasteurized skim milk, it can be found virtually everywhere, either plain or in various fruit flavors.

Plain Skyr. Yum!

Plain Skyr. Yum!

The above picture was taken by me on my first day in Iceland. I went into a downtown market and purchased the above tub of the ambrosial treat. You can find out more by going to the manufacturer’s website.

I don’t think I lost any weight during my recent trip, but I did have a lot of tasty and, for the most part, healthy food.

Acres and Acres of Carbs

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Most Supermarkets Are—To Me Anyhow—Carb-filled Minefields

Most Supermarkets Are—To Me Anyhow—Carb-Filled Minefields

Under my new way of life, after I learned that my pancreas was in the process of giving up the ghost, mealtimes are fraught with danger. This morning was all right: I ate a can of smoked trout from Trader Joe’s and a few stoned wheat crackers. I made it through lunch all right, too: A tasty spicy calamari salad at a local Thai restaurant. Tonight, Martine and I will eat some of my ham and lima bean casserole, which has not proven too destructive, along with, perhaps, some cherries and a white peach. As for my beverages, it’s always unsweetened hot or iced tea.

But God, how I miss the carbohydrates! There are times I would sell my soul for some white rice, potatoes, noodles, bread, or candy. As for pizza, it is a thing of the past, a fond memory of times gone by.

I wish I had something to replace rice. My doctor says that barley has too many carbs (though it has an acceptable glycemic index). In tonight’s casserole, the lima beans are filling in for the carbs, though again my endocrinologist says they have too high a carb count, but an acceptable glycemic index. Perhaps I could serve Styrofoam pellets with meat and vegetables?

Going to the supermarket is like crossing a dangerous border. Whole aisles of the market are loaded with stuff I can’t eat. I never realized before that our whole culture is based on carbohydrates, that Americans eat vast amounts of the stuff. Some of them become grossly obese, some of them develop diabetes sooner than they normally would otherwise.

Tonight I will go to the market, mostly for tomatoes (they’re OK) and sweet peppers and other stuff I can munch upon without sending my sugar levels into the red zone.

It used to be that my doctor told me that if I lost weight, I might overcome my diabetes. But how does one lose weight when one has to take Prednisone, a known appetite-enhancer, just in order to survive? Oh, I can lose weight all right; but I would have to be in a concentration camp.

But I have free will to choose anything I want at the market. Perhaps some tasty noodles, some sugar-laden breakfast cereal (like 99% of them) or a fruit smoothie. But no, I will try to be good. I lost both of my parents to Type II Diabetes. I want to survive, even at the cost of jettisoning virtually everything I like to eat and concentrating on salads, fish, fruits, vegetables, and tea.

If you see a sad guy in the supermarket line with a pile of stuff that’s good for you, it may well be me.

 

Opson and Situs

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Seafood Mosaic from Pompeii

Seafood Mosaic from Pompeii

In 1997 classical scholar James Davidson published a fascinating little book about the ancient Greeks entitled Courtesans and Fishcakes. Discussing the eating habits of the ancient Athenians, Davidson makes a distinction between opson (ὄψον) and situs (σίτος).

Opson refers to what we would call meat entrées, particularly when they bare seafood. Beef and lamb were more associated with religious sacrifices, during which the meat was shared with participants and attendants at the sacrifice. But fish was the meat of choice at symposia such as the ones described so vividly by Plato and Xenophon.

Certain guests at a Greek symposium were known for what is called opsophagi, or “opson eaters.” It was considered rude for guests to ignore the situs, usually consisting of what we would call the side dish. (In our culture, it would include potatoes, rice, and bread; for the Greeks, wheat or barley was the usual side dish.)

One interest side to diabetes is that it is affected primarily by the dishes the Greeks would consider to be a part of situs (though barley is a special exception). People with Type II Diabetes, such as myself, have to concentrate on the opson, supplementing it with vegetables and fruit.

You can now consider me an opsophagos, though I wouldn’t call it to my face.

 

A Nice Surprise

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I Kept It a Surprise Until the Last Minute

I Kept It a Surprise Until the Last Minute

Martine has had a rough time of it ever since the New Year. It seems more and more likely that she is suffering from fibromyalgia, which is not only painful but exhausting, inasmuch as it robs her of a full night’s sleep. This coming week, she has an appointment with a local rheumatologist to prescribe a course of treatment for her pain and sleeplessness.

Because she has not only felt bad, but felt guilty because she felt she “was a burden to me” in her present condition, I planned to surprise her. There is nothing that Martine likes more than chicken. So I discussed the options with my friends at work, and they recommended Mrs. Knotts Chicken Dinner Restaurant in Buena Park, which has been serving fried chicken dinners since 1934, and doing it the old-fashioned way with all the traditional trimmings.

It was not until we were a mile away from our destination that Martine remembered my recommending Mrs. Knotts to her a couple of months ago. Now that tax season is over, I had to time to drive 68 miles round trip for lunch.

I, myself, am not a chickenholic like my little girl, but I had a great spicy chicken salad in which the meat was clearly superior. So even with my diabetes regiment, I felt that I did well. Uh, I did, however, eat a couple of biscuits. (So kill me!)

The Knotts Berry Farm Amusement Park is adjacent to the restaurant, but neither of us felt like being shaken and jarred into insensibility. That was for the mobs of teenagers waiting in line to get in.

It was a long drive, but the surprise was worth it; and we both had a good time.

 

I Go on the Gulag Diet

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Thanks, But No Thanks!

Thanks, But No Thanks!

Today, the doctor threw the book at me. My pancreas has become less able to process carbohydrates. The result: I will have to take even more insulin—two different types, even! And more seriously, I must root out and avoid carbohydrates to the maximum extent possible. I’ll be the person you see with a sour expression on his face discontentedly picking at a salad, moving the lettuce from side to side until I can stomach raising the fork to my mouth.

Effective today, I must reject all offers of food from friends. I may reach into my pocket and eat two or three peanuts when nobody’s looking my way.

What can I eat on the new Gulag Diet? Boots and belts are generally okay, but I must avoid all the carbs that lurk in the bootlaces and stitching.

Eventually, I will make some accommodation to what my doctor assures me is a dire need; but in the meantime, don’t expect me to jump for joy.