Alex's Kitchen Nightmares- Thu 2/19/09

Dear All,

My hosts opened a new restaurant on Valentine's evening, It is billed as homestyle Thai food geared up a few notches to appeal to a more discerning crowd. It is an amazing mix of highbrow and lowbrow and physically the place is phenomenally beautiful. The food is fantastic too and not at all like what you would get at a standard Thai restaurant. There is the most delicious roasted duck in a red curry, crispy fritters with mussels and egg, pomelo salad with prawns, the list goes on and on.

Opening night was quite a rush. I had planned on observing and helping out in small ways but this was not to be. Most of the guests came at the same time and before we knew it the kitchen was 30 orders deep and sinking fast. The staff was still unfamiliar with the dishes and just couldn't get them out fast enough. I'm not saying I had to jump in and save the day because that wasn't the situation at all. Rather, they needed all the help they could get and so instead of being sidelined I worked solidly without taking a breather for 4 hectic hours. Now my host is telling me that I channeled my inner Gordon Ramsay. She's right. I may have gotten a bit passionate but hey, kitchens are passionate places. It was awesome, but more importantly, we got through the service and everyone got their food despite the long wait.

A few days before the opening we had the ceremony to bless the new building. By now I figure that you all are familiar with the way typical ceremonies work here in Bali. Large amounts of offerings are brought in. A priest rings a bell and splashes everyone and everything with holy water. We all get raw rice ground into our foreheads. Animals die.

Cock-fights and prayers, blood and flowers. That's pretty much how it goes.

I've discovered something unexpected during my repeated forays into the world of cockfighting. I'm really good at it. It must be all those years I spent upstate on the farm. I can now spot an strong, ornery and aggressive rooster more accurately than a boatload of Balinese.

That being said, when the chef asked me for money, I gave him some. When he told me to pick which cock was going to win the fight, I chose. I almost didn't realize that I had just bet on the death of an animal. Needless to say, my cock triumphed and I was left with the guilt of having been a part of the whole spectacle. I was handed my winnings and I brought them right over to my host and asked if she knew of any local charities I could donate to to assuage my guilt. I figured there must be something like a "Save The Cocks" Foundation that could benefit from my poor judgment.



I haven't said enough about the interplay of religion and life here in Bali. In every other place I have been in the world, religion occupies a place. It is usually limited to some special edifice where people go to pray. Of course that happens in Bali as well, but here worship is not limited to the temple. You don't go someplace to worship, you worship everywhere. There is a temple in every house. Offerings are laid at your doorstep to keep out the evil spirits. Your job site is a place that must be transformed through ritual. These things, and hundreds more, need to happen every single day, multiple times a day. The religion is everywhere you look, an integral part of everything you see.

So why is it that every time I go to a ceremony, I am struck by strong feelings of the mundane. Everything but the cockfight feels routine, habitual, non-intentional. It is so ingrained in everyday life that it ceases to seem special and without this familiar otherness, it ceases to seem holy.

At one end of the compound the Priest sat on his podium conducting the ritual. The womenfolk sat nearby in a huddled mass. At the other end of the building, the cockfights were eagerly held by the men. The cockfights are like an ecstatic ritual unto themselves. When one bird buries its blade into the other one, a cry of elation rises up. Half the men instantly adopt the grimaces of defeat. The other half can barely contain their glee. I saw one of the restaurant managers giggling like a madman. They cut the birds up while they are still in the throes of death.

It can be jarring, the intensity of such contradictions. Most of the time I truly enjoy the contrast and contradictions but sometimes it gets to be just a little too much. Sometimes I lose my calm, cool exterior and just feel unsettled. This, also, is how it goes.

I guess it bothers me because I think religion should be a certain way. It bothers me because it has been that way in all other places. And of course, I catch myself because this way of thinking is nothing but trouble. It avoids the issue and distracts from the real thing that is bothering me. The fact is, I have expectations about some aspects of life here without meaning to. It is not that anything "should be" a particular way, but rather that it "is". The only way to deal with crazy, perplexing crap is to just accept it and learn what you can from it but not to come to conclusions about it. In the most arrogant fashion, that approach just cuts you off from the flood of depth and possibility available in these experiences. When that happens, it is a sure sign that it is time to recenter.

Love,
Alex

Part of the opening ceremony

Oy.

The Chicken I didn't pick.

"Sit Ubu sit...mmm, good dog."- Tue 2/03/09

Dear Foodies,

(Disclaimer: As with select e-mails in the past, this one is not for the faint of heart...or for softies who think that cruelty to dogs should somehow be off limits. That being said, this one really might make a few of you throw up a little in your mouths.)

The single greatest danger facing the scooter rider in Bali are the hordes of mangy, feral dogs that litter the roadways like organic land mines. The concrete is warmed by the sunlight during the day, so day and night it is like a heat blanket for them. They lay comfortably in front of oncoming traffic and only move if death is imminent or if you honk at them a lot.

"Do the Balinese eat dogs?" is a common question among travelers. The uninformed answer is "no, that would be ridiculous." The idea of eating these flea-infested, disease ridden canines is just out of the realm of good sense. The true answer of course is, "Yes, and they are delicious."

Apparently, dog meat is not just a delicacy in Korea. The Balinese seem to enjoy a spot of dog on occasion. Daging anjing (dog meat) is everywhere, but behind the scenes, where most of the really good stuff is happening. The Balinese must understand that to the majority of foreigners, there is something repulsive and just plain wrong about eating Fido. Because of that, most tourists here are completely unaware that their suspicions are true.

Some time ago I was eating a sandwich (smoked marlin I believe) at my host's restaurant in Kuta. The manager came by to chat and to say goodbye because he was leaving the following day to join the staff of a big cruise liner. That was a shame because he was a friendly face. It is great for him too. He will make $1000 a month with few expenses. This is an exorbitant amount of money for a Balinese person. All he has to do is leave his family for two years.

To celebrate his departure, his friends killed a dog and made some sate from the meat. He swore it was really, really good. When I asked him where the dog came from, he said they just "take one that they don't need" and convert it from a household pet into nutrition.

A week before this, I was hanging at the beach with my Javanese surfer friend. He asked if I had ever tried dog. When I made a face and said no, he told me that he and some friends eat dog all the time. I asked him where he buys his dog and he laughed. "No bro, we just take the dog if there is too many." Then he continued. "You got to keep the blood inside or the meat taste bad."

"How can you possibly keep the blood inside if you have to kill it?" I asked.

"Sometimes we just beat it with a stick. Sometimes we put it in a bag and drown it. Sometimes we just put it in the bag and boil it."

"Alive?" I asked incredulously.

"Ya bro!" he answered, just a little too enthusiastically. "After it dead, then you don't worry about the blood leaving and you can cut it up and cook it."

I pictured a drowned, burnt, beaten, boiled dog with its intestines still inside of it and instantly lost any interest in food. I always thought it was a big no-no to cook an animal with the guts still inside.

The manager at a different restaurant told me that he loves to go to Gianyar (a nearby village) for dog sate.

With all these people around me indulging, of course I went to try it myself. I asked around the restaurant but nobody wanted to join me. The chef was disgusted with me. "No eat dog!!! Ugh!! No do that!!"

That was when I learned the words "Wibawa" (wise) and "Terhormat" (respectable). As in 'UNwise' and 'NOT respectable'. Apparently, there is a bit of stigma attached even for the locals. They don't even call it "daging anjing". They call it "RW", which is pronounced 'eirway' (Make sure to roll the R). Sounds nice huh?

My trusty friend Beni gave me the low-down on where to find a nearby dog meat shop. As he gave me directions, the chef walked by and shook his head in disgust. "You will be curse. The dog on the street will bark at you." Beni shook his head. "No, only if you prepare the dog yourself. Then they smell it. 'oh, you kill my friend. Bark, bark.' Ha ha."

The next afternoon, feeling a mite peckish, I drove to the nearby village of Mas and found the tiny 'Warung RW' sign on an even tinier shop. With great interest, the man and his wife plopped a steaming bowl of dog soup in front of me and stared at me intently as I dug in.

It tasted a bit like goat...no wait, lamb...hmmm, maybe just beef. It's kind of hard to say because it was so heavily seasoned. Beni said they do this because dog meat has a rather pungent odor that they have to mask. Maybe I just liked the seasoning or maybe my meat standards are deteriorating from eating so much spicy fried crap, but I rather enjoyed myself. The meat was tender. The taste was inoffensive.

I hope that it was a clean dog I ate. There is no telling what the food in this country is doing to my insides. Now that I think of it, I should probably consult with a tropical disease specialist when I get back.

"Where do you buy your dog?" I asked the proprietor, instantly regretting my decision.

"In the village." He responded. I found that answer neither comforting nor informative.

I thanked him, paid him the dollar he charged me, and left, expecting to get mauled by some angry dogs on the ride back to Ubud. They didn't budge from their places along the road so I guess Beni was right.

The next day, my body roundly rejected the soup. I've decided that dog is the Balinese equivalent of White Castle. It's really cheap, it is usually avoided by discerning diners, and upon ingestion it passes right through you.

When I got back to the restaurant everyone wanted to know what I thought of my "RW". A few of them have decided that it is now funny to make barking sounds at me whenever I walk by. Oy vey.

Cheers,
Alex