Can Androids Make the Gluten-Free Leap?

I am not, as a rule, a gadget maven although my two favorite objets techniques of all time - you know, the ones I will grab before fleeing from a burning building - are my Smartyphone and my Kindle. And my iPad.

Three objets techniques.

I love my Smartyphone because of all the cool stuff it allows me to do. I can save myself a fruitless trip all the way upstairs by texting the Kid Squid from the kitchen to find out whether he wants to join me in a cup of tea or go for a walk. I can keep track of the gluten-free shopping and take pictures of all the exotic ingredients I require so others can reconnoitre the supermarket without me. I can play Angry Birds and Scrabble to my heart's content - much-needed relaxation after an afternoon wrestling with a g/f baking experiment. I am able, now that I have given in and paid the introductory fee of 99 cents, to follow all the latest happenings (and recipes!) as revealed by the New York Times. I can even obtain directions to that fabulous new boite that's been the subject of so much local buzz lately.

I'm just kidding about that last one: the Valley is scandalously short on boites and their ilk, but a girl can dream.

My iPad is necessary for streaming Netflix videos and downloading volumes with pretty pictures or diagrams - such as cookbooks and On Food and Cooking - which don't transfer well to Amazon's 'reads like a book' device. It is also useful for downloading photos when I am travelling, so I can free up valuable space on my camera's wee memory chip.

As for my Kindle, well, you know that I refuse to buy dead tree anything anymore and that's that.

But none of these devices, tragically, does it all. I don't really like reading novels on my iPad (there's too much glare and I don't like the tricky swiping maneuver required to turn the pages - also the battery doesn't last that long) while the Kindle is useless for movies and web browsing. The Blogger interface is compatible with exactly none of them, so when I think the mood will strike I have to ensure access to a computer: when we travel, that means I need to carry my little HP netbook or borrow the Squid's laptop when he isn't looking.

True story: when DMR and I presented ourselves at security at JFK in May before our flight to Johannesburg, I was taken aside and questioned at length by the TSA for having my iPhone, my Kindle, my iPad, and my netbook in my carry-on bag. 'You don't need all four,' the big scary guy exclaimed, while pulling them out of my bag and spreading them accusingly on the metal table. 'Why do you have all four?' I light-heartedly quipped that my husband had asked the same question while I was packing, ha ha ha, but the Uniformed One was having none of it. It was touch and go there for a bit, I kid you not, but I was eventually allowed to proceed despite the alarm-raising profile prompted by all my redundant technology.

Sometimes, though, one can't help oneself. From curiosity, or aggressive marketing, or the need to be au fait with the cultural currency (such as it is) of this modern age we live in, one finds oneself doing something outrageous. And that is why, despite the fact that I didn't really need it, I bought myself an early Christmas present this week: a shiny new Kindle Fire. It arrived fortuitously yesterday while I was lying on my Second Empire fainting couch, recovering from Sir's long-distance lecture about I-forget-what. I am pleased to report the improvement to my mental and physical well-being was instantaneous. I removed the device from its earnest-looking recycled cardboard box (it might have been constructed from the leavings of gluten-free bread manufacturing), charged it up, and stood back to see what would happen.

Joy of joys! My entire Kindle collection was already on its virtual library shelf in full and glorious technicolor. I discovered that I now have access to the New Yorker (an exclusive contract with Amazon, oh my), Saveur and yes, even Bon Appetit if I feel so inclined, without a single tree having to give up the ghost for the cause. My cookbooks look awesome and I can access the USDA nutritional database on the web if I need to do some sudden high-ratio baking. I can watch movies, hooray, and play Angry Birds to my heart's content.

But best of all, thanks to non-Apple technology I am now able to do this:

Huzzah for Androids: now I can blog on the go.

Top Chef Texas, Episode 2: Mussels and Brussels

This morning Che and I got up an hour early, skipped downstairs, and poured ourselves a cup of coffee with extra sugar before addressing our latest DVR'd installment of the ninth season of Top Chef. What awaited us were no less than the third qualification round and long-awaited Back-of-the-Pickup Cook-Off, which taken together would determine the occupants of the final places in the GE Monogram kitchen. My notebook and I settled into our favorite toile-upholstered armchair, got up again to search for the remote, and returned to our seat in anticipation of the spectacle to come.

Once again, we were foiled by technology. Loyal readers are painfully aware that my DVR has become somewhat temperamental of late and sure enough, it had failed to record the latest adventures of Pads, the Heimlich Maneuver, the Unibrow, et al. Disconsolate, I retreated back upstairs with my latest read (Cruise Confidential by Brian David Bruns), while Che had harsh words with the mischievous device.

Several hours later, Sir figured out the reason for the malfunction. Having been programmed to record Top Chef, it had subsequently failed to recognize Bravo's use of the qualifier Texas when scanning the schedule and neglected to spring into action when my favorite show aired at 10:00 last night. I'm not blaming anyone, but I suspect that nefarious agents of certain candidates' presidential campaigns have infiltrated and sabotaged my cable box's search parameters. I shall be writing a sternly-worded letter to the Republican Party of the Lone Star State as soon as I can find the time. Fortunately for me, Bravo repeats every episode of every series like, a zillion times a day, so we were able to record the mayhem while I was at work today. Wasn't that lucky? I knew you would.

Off to the Top Chef kitchen, where our last group of culinary combatants was confronted by Pads wearing something that looked suspiciously like a circus tent. Unibrow, smirking beside her, was introduced as an ex-Master and responded with a lame comment about how good it was to be on the other side of the judging table for a change. This rather obvious statement was greeted with the sort of sycophantic giggles one might expect from ten chefs about to have a collective nervous breakdown.

As well they might! Each competitor was given an ingredient and a random amount of time in which to make from it something reasonably edible, if not truly fabulous. The challenges ranged from What's the Fuss? (trout in twenty minutes, Brussels sprouts in forty) to Full-Blown Panic Stations (forty-minute short ribs and sixty-minute oxtails). The customary frenzy ensued, during which we were introduced to Chaz who - despite having to cook risotto (the downfall of more would-be Top Chefs than any other single dish) - took the time to TH about his love of our bodacious host, 'the most beautiful woman in the world'. He confided to the camera (and however many hundreds of sad sacks like me who watch the show) that throughout his middle-school career, he hung in his locker a poster of Pads before which he bowed down and duly worshipped.

All I can say to that is if she knew, she'd probably feel really really old.

Fatally distracted by his memories and daydreams (a quick trawl of the internet reveals that his poster might have been quite salacious indeed!), Chaz was unable to plate his risotto in a timely fashion and got sent home for failing to feed anything to the judges. Although the editors made it look as though the HM was lobbying to try the dish anyway, Pads wasn't having any of it. I imagine the poster went straight onto the compost heap upon the would-be-arborio-artiste's ignominious return to wherever.

A lot of the not-quite Top Chefs were booted in this round. Kim, concerned by her fennel's failure to cook properly, was auf'ed instead for a greasy, over-cooked 20-minute lamb chop. Jonathan was sent home for 40-minute Brussels sprouts that were neither 'cooked nor seasoned'. Bernice's short ribs were so appalling they didn't merit a comment or an explanation, just an admonishing finger pointed towards the door. Ashley was dismissed for her failure to cook her oxtails sufficiently: I myself would have sent her packing for her incompetent handling of her pressure cooker. She claimed never to have used one before (that's almost as bad as a microwave phobia, in my opinion) and, watching her attempt to open it while it was still on the burner - angrily hissing and steaming - I could well believe it.

Two were sent to the Back of the Pickup: Andrew (who looked like he was suffering from apoplexy), for greasy spinach, gritty mushrooms, and a sloppy plate; and Laurent, a guy from France. 'Een Fraaahhhnz, you eyezair beecalm a kook, a preest, or an arhmy guy. Zee whairst beecalms a kook.' Whatever: he's the sort of French kook that in Paris probably couldn't get a job as a plongeur. Into the Back of the Pickup for a dish that left the judges, to put it politely, embrouillé.

This left six Bubblers to fight it out for the remaining two places. Janine, showing remarkable mathematical insight for one about to go into deadly combat, remarked that they each had a 33% chance of certain stardom - not bad for a gal lacking computational aids of any description. Tragically for one of such intellect, she failed to impress the judges with the 'raw-tasting' relish that accompanied her scallop. Molly overcooked her shrimp; Andrew produced a baffling panna cotta to accompany his otherwise praiseworthy mussels; and Laurent made a scallop tartare in a shade of unappetizing grey - just like they do at Le Grand Vefour, no doubt. Grayson emerged victorious with her bacon-wrapped shrimp and intriguing fig sauce, and Edward (despite very nearly amputating his finger and having to cook one-handed while the medic tried to sew the errant digit back on) squeaked through despite an overcooked duck breast.

So that's that. Two weeks of foodie fisticuffs and we've only just now decided who the final sixteen will be. The previews make it look as though we're going to be in for a pretty rough ride, Texas-style. I just hope my DVR is up to the task.

Yee haw.

Addendum: My money is on dear sweet Lindsay, who cooked a dish of sixty-minute veal chops that managed to stun the HM into an admiring 'Well done'. And somehow she still found the time to instruct Ashley on the use of her pressure cooker!

Just Desserts, Episode 2: Lost in the Ether

I friskily scampered downstairs at 4:30 this morning with Nelson, my latest Moleskine notebook, to partake of my favorite Thursday-morning diversion - a happy hour with a cup of Sumatra Mandheling (amazingly, my coffee maker is still going strong after, what, almost five months?); my DVR; and Just Desserts' screwball sweet-course samurai. What new escapades lay in store for me, I wondered, as I settled into my favorite toile-upholstered armchair, notebook and mug placed handily by, my remote-control gadget and new favorite pen of all time (a black 005 Prismacolor drafting implement fabrique au Japon) at the ready.

The DVR became worryingly confused when I jabbed impatiently at its power button. The device spluttered for a bit. A few lights flashed as the clock blinked on and off, followed by the announcement - delivered rather guiltily, in my opinion - that it was rebooting. A few seconds later (certainly no more than that - I don't want to be accused of exaggeration or inaccuracy by any of my thousands of loyal fans!) the awful truth became clear.

My cherished machine's recording schedule had been wiped.

This is a fairly major catastrophe, and that is no hyperbole, I assure you. We do a lot of recording a chez Fractured Amy, since we can't be bothered to organize our lives sufficiently to watch our favorite programs when they're actually on. Also, all the family's choices conflict with one another, requiring careful timing and negotiations of the most subtle complexity. I, of course, have a standing commitment with every iteration of Bravo's Top Chef franchise and Food Network's Chopped. Plus the Next Iron Chef whenever it happens to be on. The Kid Squid, true to his demographic, keeps up with current events and the state of the media circus by reviewing the Daily Show every morning before he trots off to school. And Sir - well, Sir is a devotee of those appalling crime procedurals where, every time I walk into the room anyway, a gruesome autopsy or post-mayhem briefing is generally underway, with trendy 'invesigators' exchanging culturally up-to-the-minute bon-mots while blood, entrails, and brain matter drip upon their heads from the ceiling above.

But I digress. Rendered peevish by my missed dose of frenzied foodie-fighting, I retired back upstairs with my java and latest read (William Golding's Close Quarters, for those of you keeping track), wondering in vain who had won the proverbial golden apple and who had suffered the ignoble raspberry of defeat.

As the day went on, I was able to glean from Others the gist of this cake-related episode and its gluten-filled highlights. Several of these I note below as a public service for those fans whose DVRs have also gone on the fritz:

• Rebecca (rice pudding isn't just for old people!) somehow broke her wrist and kept right on whisking. A truly impressive display of culinary chops, if not misguided masochism. The fracture happened mysteriously overnight rather than in the kitchen, more's the pity. What a boost for ratings that would have been! As an aside, I would like to reach out with a message of solidarity to the unfortunate victim. As one who regularly breaks bones for no good reason (a sad side-effect of my gluten-related condition), I urge her to stop eating wheat-flour cakes, tortes, and choux pastry without delay. She'd find it so much easier to juice lemons with all her limbs and digits in full working order!
• Orlando (I'm the villain of the piece!) revealed that he is allergic to lemons. She-Who-Isn't-Gail had never before heard of this condition. Really? I'm astonished! In fact, I'll wager a million dollars that's because it doesn't exist! Intolerance to lemons' acidity, perhaps, or a dislike of their mouth-puckering tartness, maybe, but an actual full-blown allergy? I can't believe lemons have anything in them that oranges, grapefruits, and other citrus fruits don't share. Orlando is officially now the Guy I Can't Stand, proving himself to be - unlike me - hysterically hyperbolic.
• Carlos (father of six) uses liquid nitrogen like it's going out of style. Ironically enough, it is!
• The winning cake by Matthew (leather mules) and his team caused the judges to revisit an apparently common debate in the food world: whether or not cardamom is a 'safe' flavor. Erratum. This would be a debate in the American food world. There are many other parts of the globe where cardamom is used, I believe, like ketchup.
• Vanerin (I have a crush on the Pompadour!) was aufed for his role in a very 'hideous' showpiece inspired by trombones, or Sousaphones, or something. I'm sorry he left before his inevitable on-screen implosion, which promised to be such an edifying spectacle - especially among the GE Monogram appliances. Oh well, that's the way the really ugly cake crumbles!

Next up: we attempt to get to the bottom of our DVR's mystifying malfunction.

Breakfast Reading

I am still without a morning newspaper, since I continue to be philosophically conflicted about the NYTimes' online subscription plan. My fervent hope is that the Powers That Be will see the error of their ways and give up the paywall as a failed experiment before election season gets into full swing, but in the meantime I am without my early-morning current-events fix. I therefore spend the happy twenty minutes (the time it takes me to enjoy my Breakfast of Gluten-Free Champions) checking e-mail, catching up on Facebook, and perusing dead tree magazines, chief among these being my cherished New Yorkers and mysterious gratis issues of Bon Appetit.

Two items of note caught my eye this morning as I spooned up my chia seeds, organic yogurt, and home-made banana and strawberry compote.

The first, which filled my heart with unutterable joy, was the notification from Amazon - sent to me personally! - that Neal Stephenson's next novel is due out on September 20. Those who know me - and are familiar with my slavish devotion to Stephenson's oeuvre - will immediately understand the significance of this news. I have been waiting ages and ages for him to produce his next herniating tome and getting quite impatient, frankly. I'd already re-read his previous four books, like, six zillion times (I find novels to be uncomplaining companions at the stove, particularly when one is stirring for the long periods required by custard, cheese curds, and risotto) and was beginning to despair there would ever be another one to brighten my life. The notification this morning was as manna from heaven and I hastily pre-ordered a copy.

Such was my delight that it took some effort and concentration to get annoyed and provoked by the second item of note, but I managed it nonetheless. Never let it be said that I allow a good mood to get in the way of self-righteous indignation!

The source of my consternation was, of course, the September issue of Bon Appetit, delivered to my door yesterday by Glenda, our otherwise valuable and doughty mail ma'am. What did I see as I perused the contents of the so-called Restaurant Issue? My spine was chilled by an item appearing on page 62 under the heading Good Health:

Gluten-Free for All: We get to the bottom

of the diet du jour

Ye gods.

I have observed before that everybody is going gluten-free these days - often for dubious reasons, in my opinion. I'm afraid I am not one of the faithful who believes that the eschewal of cereal proteins will cure autism, left-handedness, debt in the Euro-zone; or atmospheric perturbations such as the hurricane currently bearing down on all of us (the less said about earthquakes, these days, the better).

I'm not even sure a gluten-free diet will help one overcome 'fatigue and brain fog (in just three days!)' as the medical experts quoted in the article assert. Quite apart from my previous ignorance that 'brain fog' was a scientific term and the laughable claim that 'now it's easier than ever to find decent baked goods,' I found the piece objectionable in many, many different ways.

My views on the gluten-free bandwagon are firm and well-documented elsewhere. I would, however, like to add to my not-inconsiderable list of grievances the fact that I'm pretty sure the last time I went into a restaurant and made mention of my dietary restriction (the staff did ask, after all) there followed a certain amount of discreet eye-rolling in response. I can only suppose this is because every third person is presenting herself with a 'gluten intolerance' these days and chef is getting fairly fed up with diners turning up their noses at his glorious home-made bread, delicate spaetzle, and perfect tart crust.

The last thing we bona fide gluten guerillas need is a bunch of newly-converted enthusiasts creating extra work and bad mojo in our favorite kitchens - especially since said campaigners will soon have moved on to some other fear, leaving us to deal with the fallout. I speak as an old gluten freedom-fighter of almost an entire year's standing (I mark my twelve-month anniversary on September 12), with no end in sight - and none of my quacks' promised health improvements, either.

Resentful? Maybe.

Sceptical? Definitely.

I think I need to stop reading Bon Appetit.

But that's OK.

I'll have Neal Stephenson for consolation.

Sweetness and Light

It has come to my attention that at least one loyal reader, in perusing my recipe for gluten-free Banana Pudding with Butterscotch Sauce, came across an heretofore unknown ingredient: Lyle's Golden Syrup.  I am happy to provide more details about this British delicacy and sing its praises. It's awesome stuff.

I will start with what it is not, which is corn syrup - although it shares many characteristics with this all-American ingredient. Golden Syrup is indeed sweet-sweet and sticky, but as its name would imply, it is a rich honey color; tawny, thick and clear in the morning sunlight. Strictly speaking, it is an invert sugar syrup, produced as a by-product of sugar-cane refining. It can be found in shops and kitchens all over the former Empire: South Africa, Australia, Singapore and India each have their own thriving markets for the elixir, together with anthropologically appropriate uses and recipes. You can't make treacle tart, Anzac cookies, parkin, wildebeeskastaiings, or nian gao without it.

It used to be very difficult to find in my corner of Pennsylvania and I often resorted to smuggling tins of it home, just like biltong, unpasteurized cheese, and macarons from Dalloyau. That is not to say it isn't a common ingredient in other parts of the continent, however: Wikipedia reliably informs me that it is widely used in Cajun cooking, for example, and a quick bit of internet research confirms that the syrup is often employed as a sweet glaze for protein in that part of the world. Fortunately, my local supermarket now carries jars (not the groovy green tins, sadly) next to the corn syrup and molasses, and for that I am deeply thankful.

Lyle's famous label has not changed, I believe, in over a hundred years. Note the rather unusual logo of a lion's carcass covered with swarming bees and the slogan, 'Out of the strong, came forth sweetness.' This is an allusion, as all Biblical scholars are well aware, to the story of Samson in the Book of Judges. I am unable at the moment to call to mind any similarly historical reference related to syrups or sugar products on this side of the Pond.

Sir (or was it Alan Rickman in Die Hard?) often points to such an unexpected occurrence of cultural literacy as 'one of the many benefits of a classical education'. I just know it's fantastic syrup.

Don't Squash my Enthusiasm

A butternut squash is a funny thing.

Prior to last weekend's purchase for my Down-with-the-Tyrant melange with chickpeas, I don't suppose I had ever examined a butternut squash up close, preferring to buy each one already peeled and diced by Wegmans' master food prep artistes. However, in my new gluten-free spirit of economy and thrift I bravely entered 'Butternut Squash: one [1] each' on my Smartyphone app and waited expectantly for Sir to return from his scrounging expedition to the shops.

Twenty minutes after leaving the house, he phoned from the produce department, asking me to clarify how much of the vegetable I needed for my recipe. This rather defeated the intended purpose of our cloud-residing electronic list of convenience, but I tried to be helpful. Truthfully, I told my personal shopper that I needed about two pounds. There was incredulous silence on the other end of the line, followed by a wounded sigh.

I waited on tenterhooks to see what might I find in my recycled grocery bag after Sir had completed his rounds.

The answer was a five-pound behemoth that looked like an orange apatosaurus. It was shocking, quite frankly - the Kid Squid made an extremely rude observation before fleeing back up the stairs to his room, cackling delightedly at his own wit.  Sir explained (rather defensively, I thought) that he'd bought the smallest specimen he could find and it wasn't his fault they were all the size of wombats, if wombats had long necks like apatosaurs, which they don't.

I made him a soothing cup of tea and addressed the monster.

Not only did it look like an apatosaurus, it had the skin of an apatosaurus. Even with my sturdiest, sharpest knife I had difficulty making headway. I didn't peel the thing so much as excise its entire outer and inner epidermis. Its flesh was so tough I had to hack at it with some energy in order to cleave its midsection (cutting my left thumb rather dramatically in the process) - but after it was divided into manageable one-pound hunks, slicing and chopping became easier.

When I was finished, I had a mountain of butternut squash cubes eighteen inches high.

I roasted the pieces as per the recipe's destructions (tripling the number of garlic cloves), and half an hour after they went into the oven they emerged soft, caramelized and delicious. Sir and I could not believe how good the aroma was and how complex the flavor of the squash had become.

But I only had enough chickpeas to adorn about one-third of my savory Toubkal, so I was left to ponder what to do with the remaining veg.

I made Butternut Squash and Sage Advice Risotto. I ate some of it all by myself, since Sir was out entertaining The Swedes and the Kid Squid has decided winter squashes are not amongst those ingredients he counts as his favorites. In the course of my studies, therefore, I discovered that the dish has the potential to be served over several meals, keeping in the fridge and microwaving beautifully.

Here follows my method. I filled my largest saucepan with about 20 fl oz of vegetable stock (chicken stock would be good too, I bet, but I used all my chicken carcasses to make rich brown stock in January) and brought it to a simmer. Meanwhile, I chopped up several shallots and sauteed them in butter (using my favorite round-bottomed copper pan, of course) until they were soft. I plucked out some of the roasted garlic cloves from the squash pan and squeezed them onto the shallots. I added 5 ounces of arborio rice and sauteed it for a while, then hit the whole thing was a big splash of dry white vermouth. I let it bubble away contentedly for a bit, then started adding the stock in ladlefuls until the risotto was almost ready, about half an hour later (for those of you who are wondering about this week's stirring companion, I can reveal that I am currently re-reading Anathem by Neal Stephenson). Mindful of The Heimlich Maneuver's stern stipulation that risotto should wave rather than pile, I made sure my rice was nice and soupy.

At the end, I added roasted squash cubes until I judged my mixture to be sufficiently rich, toothsome, and ochreous. I threw in a small handful of chopped dried sage from the garden, added a blob of butter together with a quick squirt of freshly-squeezed Meyer lemon, then clapped the lid on the pan so that the rice could become desirably mantecato.

I checked for the dish for seasoning, then doled it out and hit it with some coarsely-grated parmesan and a drizzle of pompelmo-infused balsamico bianco for brightness. The result was sheer bliss.

I still have one final container of roasted (but otherwise unmodified) squash left in the fridge and believe me - nobody's laughing now.

Top Chef All-Stars, Episode 7: Pop Culture

C'est la guerre!

Restaurant Wars, that most anticipated of Top Chef episodes, did not this week disappoint prurient viewers eager for the traditional bloodlettings, recriminations, throwings-under-the-bus, inedible experimental dishes, and general brouhaha that we have all come to know and love so well. It was a fabulous implosion that had Moleskine II and me hooting with joy.

While I'm thinking of it, may I just point out that Marcel's self-styled reverse amuse, which he defined as a 'sweet treat at the end of the meal' is usually called a petit four in polite company? Just sayin'.

After Blais demonstrated the correct way to eat a banana for breakfast (smeared with Nutella, unless my eyes deceived me) it was off to Le Bernardin for some fish butchering lessons with the great Justo Thomas, slicer and dicer to the stars. I'd read about this guy in Bourdain's Medium Raw (the chapter devoted to his awesome talent is my favorite in the book, as it happens) and it was extremely gratifying to see our usually pompous cheftestants gobsmacked into respectful silence (except for Fabio who, overcome by emotion at the beauty of the skills on display, started sniffling softly). Unsurprisingly, none of our competitors was able to match Justo's prowess, although I was displeased to see that the women were even more inept than the men. Ladies - you disappointed me!

Once it was determined that Marcel would be captain of one of the pop-up restaurant teams, the conclusion was foregone, I'm afraid. Was there any disastrous decision or choice that he failed to make? Moleskine II and I watched from the security of our armchair as he belittled his staff; squirted foams on anything that wasn't moving; ignored the needs and wishes of his patrons; and panicked unedifyingly in the face of danger. The Heimlich Maneuver himself was moved to comment on Marcel's 'weird energy' (an unusual editorial comment on personality rather than food) and I myself was prompted to speak sternly to the TV after Astro-Boy interjected 'like' into an otherwise blameless sentence for, like, the four millionth time.

His lack of eloquence alone justified his auf'ing, in my opinion. But then, I have a pet peeve about weasel words.

As the catastrophe unfolded and disgruntled diners started sending their food back to the kitchen, however, I began to ponder the bravery of doing so. I have only refused food in a restaurant once in my entire life: a stone-cold gratin of some kind (seafood, maybe?) that had clearly never made it into the oven and whose consumption could well have spelt death or worse. But that was years and years ago and I have not behaved so boldly since.

This is not because I have never been served a bad meal in a restaurant, pop-up or otherwise. Sadly, restaurant food that isn't quite up to snuff is not infrequently to be found my neck of the woods. Two plates stick firmly in my mind because they were relatively recent occurrences in very expensive, well-regarded local establishments: in one case, sauteed scallops with beurre blanc had been sitting under the heat lamp [shudder] for so long that the sauce had started to separate and form an undeniable skin on top. In the second instance, lobster risotto was served with half a tail as garnish: the poor lobster who had donated said appendage was clearly dead long before his tail was harvested and dumped unceremonously into the restaurant warehouse freezer from whence it was retrieved some months (if not years) later by Chef. It had, to put it mildly, a bit of a pong.

Why didn't I send these dishes back? Because in both cases, I honestly wondered if there was any point. At least three different people must have touched those plates between line and table and not one individual noticed how godawful they were, the only possible explanation being that they didn't know how to do their jobs. Frankly, I didn't feel like I was the one to educate them. To the risotto restaurant's credit, the manager did ask why I had left my dinner uneaten - but I had to wonder what olfactory malfuction or culinary obtuseness made the question necessary. At any rate, frozen lobster tails ('off' or not) in a so-called fine dining establishment are inexcusable in the first place. If the chef didn't know that, there was no hope for him.

And that is why, even if Marcel sent me a plate covered in three different kinds of foam spelling out the word like in ridiculous calligraphy, I wouldn't send it back. It just wouldn't be worth it.

Living in the Stone Age

During the past several weeks I have often wondered how gluten - indispensable to so many of my favorite foods - could be so unthinking and callous as to make my life a misery. To put it another way, why would my auto-immune system take it upon itself to persecute a substance capable of producing such happiness and conviviality? Either way, it seemed most unfair and I took it upon myself to find some answers.

I read all about celiac disease and how it is often said to be more prevalent in Ireland than anywhere else in the world, due to the relatively late adoption there of grains as dietary staples. I investigated the heroic Dutch pediatrician Willem Karel Dicke, who noticed that children who had been relatively healthy during the German occupation suddenly fell ill and ceased to thrive when American planes started dropping bread bombs all over the place. I learned far more about leukocytes, lymphocytes, and prolamins than could ever be considered desirable or, indeed, decent.

But I couldn't get a handle on the complete picture, until I discovered an explanation (quite by accident, as often happens) in Bill Bryson's admirable new book At Home: A Short History of Private Life, which I downloaded onto my Kindle just a few short days ago. Whilst holding forth on the Neolithic move from hunter-gatherer nomadism to sedentism (which is what experts in the biz call it when people live in settled, immovable communities), Bryson detours to a potted history of the development of early agriculture. Fascinatingly enough, it appears that sedentism came before cereal domestication, not the other way around, which is the sort of finding ethnographers and their ilk dub 'counterintuitive'. The point is, once humans started to farm crops rather than search for nuts and berries, as it were, they [the humans] became almost immediately shorter, more malnourished, and exceedingly disease-prone.

How anthropologists can possibly know this is a bit of a mystery to me, but I guess that's why they're authorities and I'm not. One thing they do know is why. With sedentism, early humans become reliant on a much smaller range of foods - 'the three great domesticated crops of prehistory'  - all of which have serious deficiencies as dietary staples. Rice inhibits the activity of Vitamin A; corn (maize) is sadly lacking in essential amino acids; and wheat (I sat up sharply in my chair at this point) has a 'chemical' (I assume this is a reference to gluten) that stunts growth and impedes the action of zinc. 

And here's the thing. All the nutritional disasters that plagued our Neolithic ancestors as a result of their settling down are still with us today. There are an estimated thirty thousand types of edible plants on the planet, and just eleven of them (many of them nutritionally wanting or problematic in some way or another) account for 93% of all the food we eat. Bryson concludes, 'We may sprinkle our dishes with bay leaves and chopped fennel, but underneath it is all Stone Age food. And when we get sick, it is Stone Age diseases we suffer.'

So really, it's not me, but the Cavewoman in me that can't eat gluten. And I find that immensely comforting - not least because she didn't have bay leaves and chopped fennel and I do.