Funny Foreign Food?
Count me in!
You had to feel sorry for them, a young American couple in a foreign
land, trying to make head or tail of the menu. Actually they were in
London in a South Bank fish restaurant. And they weren’t
trying to order anything all that complicated – just good old British
fish and chips.
It had all begun so well. Granted they might have got a more authentic
experience had they opted for the chip shop further down the street, but
here they were, doing their best to join in with Londoners and sample
the local delicacy.
That was until the waiter asked them whether they’d like some mushy
peas. They just stared at him as if he’d begun spouting Ancient Greek. I
suppose it doesn’t really sound very encouraging, does it? Mushy …
peas? Imagine if you’d never had them, never heard of them even, what
that name might conjure up. Sadly for the unfortunate pair, the waiter wasn’t a native Brit either,
and couldn’t really manage to impart the ambrosial delight that is mushy
peas. They politely agreed to try one portion between them. When their meal arrived they examined the bright green goo, poked at it
with a spoon before drizzling the tiniest amount on their chips, sampled
it gingerly with eyes closed, then decided against further
experimentation.
Apparently they weren’t the first visitors to these shores to have
similarly baulked. During Euro 96, dozens of Turkish football fans
billeted in Nottingham were reportedly flummoxed by the “strange green
sauce” that the chip shop had dolloped on their takeaways.
As it happened, Mum and me had the fish and chips too. We were off to
the theatre and in traditional mood. The problem was that, while the
meal was excellently cooked, plentiful and lovely to look at, those
mushy peas lacked a certain something. I think it was tradition. They
were elegant, and while I’m not morally opposed to elegant eating,
there’s something about mushy peas that is inherently unsophisticated.
These mushies had been expertly crafted from fresh peas and pureed with
mint. They were lovely. But just weren’t a patch on the ones they used
to serve at our local chippy on Stanton Street.
There are some things that are delicious and wonderful despite their
lack of refinement, perhaps because of it. I mean you really can’t beat cinema nachos. We all
know that real cheese has never been that texture, or that colour, and
yet with the promise of the latest blockbuster, there’s simply nothing
better.
At least with mushy peas the description is fairly explanatory. Some
foods are not at all what they seem, as I found out in a small town
neighbourhood restaurant in Colorado, where they were serving something
called Rocky Mountain Oysters. The waitress asked if I’d had them before. I assured her that I’d eaten
plenty of oysters and she seemed content. Perhaps her initial hesitation
should have stopped me in my tracks.
Anyway, the appetizer arrived. Everyone had a taste and agreed it was
really quite scrumptious. Sort of mushroomy actually. So there I am
three days later, still congratulating myself on my new discovery, when I
overhear a conversation between our tour guide and a fellow passenger,
and then I come over all nauseous.
Guess what? Rocky Mountain Oysters have nothing to do with oysters, or
even mushrooms. They’re buffalo meat. And they come from the part of a
buffalo that, how shall I put this, accommodated part of his manhood. I
won’t worry you with the method of acquisition, let’s just say it’s not
necessary to kill the buffalo and that further information would make
your eyes water.
Now I’m normally quite happy to live on the culinary edge, but although I
eat fish and seafood, it’s more than 20 years since I’ve willingly
eaten a piece of meat. At the time it wasn’t a moral choice, but now I
felt guilty that I’d consumed the most delicate part of a poor buffalo,
and, let’s be honest, enjoyed it.
The previous day I’d been introduced to some buffalo that had appeared
in the Kevin Costner film Dances With Wolves. Now I couldn’t help but
wonder whether they had known that I’d just eaten the crown jewels of
one their brethren.
Oddly, when I’ve recounted this cautionary tale, it’s been my more
carnivorous friends who’ve been the most appalled. But I’m not
surprised; I’ve heard a coach load of holidaymakers in Norway refuse
point blank to sample reindeer meat on the grounds that it would be
“like eating Rudolf”. Funny that, because the previous evening they’d happily munched away on a
leg of Larry the Lamb. We're talking Shaun the Sheep here, people!
But who am I to judge? And besides, if you can stomach it, I can recommend a very tasty, appetizer.