a big thanks to all you yahoos who came out to the Food & Trembling book launch last thursday and made it an unqualified, drunken success! we managed to sell out Drawn + Quarterly of all their copies of the book (however many that was, i am assuming, for the sake of vanity, millions), and plough through a quite admirable quantity of snacks and drinks. on which note, thanks to Julia and Fiona at D+Q, my buddy Brennan for driving my ass around all day, St-Ambroise for hooking us up with a sweet beer sponsorship, and a deep and abiding thank you to Camilla and The Preservation Society for the wealth of totally rad and inspired snacks.

i can’t emphasize this enough – i can imagine no more despicable betrayal to the spirit of the book and this blog than had i welched on edible fare for this, and while i was careful to ensure that chips were aplenty (both regular and another kind of regular), it would have been a shell of a ghost of an affair without Camilla’s involvement.

 the menu: 

  • gougères
  • 2 kinds pickled sausage (something peppery and something else)
  • mexican pickled carrots
  • caesar-infused celery stucks (wtf yeah)
  • pickled eggs
  • lapsang souchong tea eggs
  • handmade marshmallows 2 ways:
    ~ ‘smitzons’ (bourbon glazed marshmallow with chocolate on a ritz cracker)
    ~ Midnight Sun Espresso Stout-flavoured marshmallows, dipped in chocolate, rolled in chips. like a boss.

seriously, right?

this latter of these two eggs was a nice surprise for me, as i remember the precise moment that i first tried lapsang souchong tea (well, the circumstances, if not the actual date). shortly after finishing university, years ago, i went to my favourite professor’s house for a drink. i don’t think i took more than two courses from her, she being the chair of the women’s studies department, and i desultorily a sociology major, but she was as close to an intellectual mentor as i think i can claim to have had. we were intending to go out somewhere, but ended up just sitting in her backyard talking shit, and drink two pitchers of sangria and a bottle of red wine (spoiler alert: i did not sleep with her).

i slept on the couch, and in the morning we had tea. she was from Montréal originally, and told me she had never been able to find lapsang souchong in Prince Edward Island, so made a point of picking it up whenever she was back home. lapsang souchong tastes and smells like a campfire, and i was instantly enchanted, but when i think about it i don’t know if i’ve had it since, before this egg. it may be the evocation of what i imagine was the heady air of freedom and possibility surrounding the completion of my degree, but the tea has retained for me a special aura, like the just-too-bright light of the sun, waking hung over into an unfamiliar room after a night of poorly recollected but doubtless engaging conversation. i have a hazy memory of her saying i was the most painfully self-reflexive person she had ever met, and possibly that she was afraid of the vastness of space, but i may be making that up. i think i definitely talked about heavy metal for a while though.


anyway, books are now available by mailorder from Invisible Publishing, and Drawn + Quarterly should have more copies in tout de suite. it’s also available in big monstrous bookstores, but i strongly recommend you support your local bookstore, or request it at your local library (do it! it’ll make me famous!), or get it from the source at Expozine at the end of the month, where it and probably i will be.


Poverties of Spirit, or, “They’re Not Poor, They Just Don’t Have Any Money.”

a big thanks to all the all the Invisible folks, nic, chloe, and kelvin; joey and emily for reading; and everyone who showed up for the TO Food & Trembling launch this weekend, and likewise to CanZine and the Broken Pencil peoples for having me as part of their Radical Reading Series. the former went awesomely, the latter pretty well, although suffering somewhat from the consequences of the previous night’s awesomeness.*

during the question period at CanZine i was asked about my disinclination to identify as a ‘foodie’ (that i touch upon here, but get into in a little more detail in the book itself), to which i gave a garbled but passable response about the rarefaction** of something so basic and central as food into a precious lifestyle category; my failure to participate in the book, blog (besides writing one, i mean), and television culture that i would argue makes up a big part of the modern foodie identity; and the annoyingness of the word itself. some hours and beers later it dawned on me that a much more pointed reply sat very close at hand, and i regret that i did not seize on it at the time:

food-wise, CanZine was boothed by the Toronto Underground Market; there was a Beau’s stand, some southeast asian street food, a chocolatier, and this bbq place, the name of which i fail to recall.  which is fine, because i don’t want it to appear as if i have a gripe with them in particular. from them i got what was effectively a little brisket sandwich, that was advertised as a “pulled beef po’ boy,” and it is precisely this sort of thing that i find obnoxious about foodie culture, the sort of acceleration of meaningless food faddishness.

i am not naive enough to blame this sort of thing entirely on “foodies,” these sorts of trends, in cooking, serving, marketing, have been a part of food culture(s) for ages, but this is very much an example of the present moment, and they are difficult to disentangle (one can make the parallel argument that it is just this kind of quibbling i am about to engage in that makes me a foodie, and in my defence all i can say is that i do not claim not to be a foodie, i merely am not interested in identifying as such, and i think self-identification is relevant here).

my problem is this: why is this a po’ boy? what makes this a po’ boy, as opposed to any other kind of sandwich? now it is difficult to get into this without opening up the whole can of worms of the question of authenticity, which especially where regional food is concerned is an irresolvable quagmire, that i happen to think should remain that way (who needs to clean up or sort out a swamp? swamps are thriving idiosyncratic ecosystems that are better explored than organized). what makes a po’ boy? seafood or no seafood? gravy? assorted meat ends, whatever happens to be at hand? the unique combination of crustiness and airiness of French bread baked in balmy, bawdy New Orleans?*** does it simply have to be from Louisiana? how much agency are we willing to grant the sandwich itself, as it moves northward and westward, popping up in different permutations on menus so removed from its ancestral home?

what is the difference that makes a difference, so to speak? how different from what origin or what collection of qualities must a sandwich before it ceases to qualify as a po’ boy?

rather than implicitly or explicitly evoking the “authentic po’ boy,” however, i think we can come at this another way. namely, what makes this sandwich a po’ boy? there seems to be nothing, really. mini bun, slaw, biscuit, pickle, pulled beef? is it only a po’ boy because the slider is played out? i really cannot discern any clear grounds for the identification, which seems to leave only an attempt to exploit the current modishness of the po’ boy, and this is annoying to me on two levels – 1) it strips the po’ boy of its context, its history, its specificity (specificities?), however fraught and varied that may be, and reduces it to a sort of empty signifier. one might ask “well, what has really been done to the po’ boy as a dish? does this make any difference to the po’ boys served across the south?” no. not really. but what it does is effectively say “what is special about the po’ boy? nothing! who cares!” and 2) it does a disservice to the sandwich actually on offer. why does this perfectly charming little brisket sandwich (and it was indeed a decent sandwich) need to be thusly (mis)represented? further, i think it is unfortunate that they felt compelled to ‘pull’ their brisket, seemingly because Pulled Pork Is The New Chipotle, when probably the most attractive feature of good brisket is its willingness to come apart in one’s mouth, to begin as an identifiable piece of meat that so readily cedes its integrity and gives way to a fatty, melty compromise, which transformation is lost when you get it pre-deconstituted.

so one is left asking why, why? and is met with either the mute senselessness of a world without order (postmodernism wins! i never thought i’d be so dismayed!) or the cynical retort that this is what sells, and that strikes me as dismal.

but then, is the argument i’m making all that different from the tiresome cynical naïf of a gourmande who demands authenticity in each of his/her exotic culinary encounters? i like to think so, but am willing to be called on it, if someone’s willing to put in the time.

which i happen to know you are not.

* ie: at 4am drinking Kronenberg Blanc (which tastes like peaches and is weird) out of a bottle you have accidentally broken the neck off of by trying to open it on a parking meter, then warming up a slice of pizza of indeterminate age on someone’s space heater. i woke up at noon to my friend ed playing, rather appropriately, “Still Crazy After All These Years” on an old electric organ.

** being unsure that “rarefy” was really the word i wanted to use here, i looked it up and apparently it technically refers to the process of making a gas less dense, which itself derives from the original meaning of “rare” which has to do with the constituent particles of a substance being few and far between, hence we have “rare” as the opposite of “dense,” but can see where the meaning of not often found comes from. the question, then, is whether either this meaning, or that of “pure or refined” really apply to what i’m talking about, with regards to foodie culture – on the one hand, yes, there is a certain elitism to it, but on the other we witness a great proliferation of …. stuff. the cultural substance of foodieism becomes cluttered and dense with discourses, products, publications, etc. but then most specializations, rare in their own way, tend to involve this sort of proliferation of microrelevancies. hm.

*** this, as it happens, is my favourite of the arguments i’ve heard thus far for the singularity of the New Orleans po’ boy – that the baking styles of the French, adapted for use in the swampy subtropical climate of Louisiana produce a baguette of incomparable crispness of crust with lightness of interior. arguably as specious as any other claim to the authentic po’ boy, this at least has the attraction of accounting for local specificity in a believable-sounding way, by installing a sort of barometric terroir.