|Hot dog. Photo by cyclonebill from Copenhagen, Denmark. Licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.0 Generic license.|
|The flesh in the hollow beneath a fish's eye is tasty and sweet.|
Hubert Ludwig. School of Naural History, 1891. Public domain.
|Menudo. Photo by Arnold Gatilao from Oakland, CA, USA,|
1 January 2015. Licensed under the Creative
Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license.
Here's a YouTube video of two American guys eating a pig's head. The head is properly cooked and garnished with salad, but this serious eating isn't for the faint of heart. They're in what I suspect is a California Asian restaurant. One of them approaches this meal with gusto—perhaps because of his Asian heritage—and the other reacts more like I once would have. Then here's another group of people in what appears to be a tapas (Spanish) restaurant, and they have ordered a pig's head and with pluck and maturity go about eating it. The two videos demonstrate that aversion comes from a narrow cultural range. And my favorite Smarter Every Day video features a goat's head that's getting prepped for spaghetti sauce.
Primeval culture begins with food: it defines what must be cooked, what can be eaten raw, and what must not be eaten at all. Culture naturally and rapidly grows to include other things, but it begins with food. French psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan equates culture and language, so you can repeat that statement about language: Primeval language begins with food: it defines what must be cooked, what can be eaten raw, and what must not be eaten at all. Language naturally and rapidly grows to include other things, but it begins with food.
The problem with hot dogs isn't what goes into them. At this point in life I'm eager to eat anything. It's really the chemicals, preservatives, and the fat content that are the problem. I watch Mark Wiens, a YouTuber who travels all over Southeast Asia making food videos. He's a less famous, YouTube version of Anthony Bourdain. He eats all sorts of dishes with many of the same ingredients that go in hot dogs, and they're not ground and hidden inside a sausage but floating there for all to see in a soup or a curry.
Speaking of Jacques Lacan, the French are famous omnivores. At the opening of The French Connection, As I've noted elsewhere, among the world's better known omnivores, both Anthony Bourdain and Mark Wiens spent parts of their childhood in France. And as if providence backs me up on this, I just stumbled into a book called French Kids Eat Everything: How Our Family Moved to France, Cured Picky Eating, Banned Snacking, and Discovered 10 Simple Rules for Raising Happy, Healthy Eaters.
In the opening scene of The French Connection we see Alain Charnier (Fernando Rey) in Marseilles, apparently waiting for his ship to come in. While he waits, he bends over, picks a mollusk out of a tidal pool, opens it with his pocket knife, and eats it. There's something wonderfully French about being able to pluck a snack out of a tidal pool. I've plucked pears, plums, and oranges out of their trees, but not out of ponds. Charnier, by the way, is the man that Popeye Doyle (Gene Hackman) spends much of the movie chasing, including the best chase scene in cinema (set in New York, not France, but watch out for Eisenstein's baby carriage!).
In its narrowest sense, American culture seems to be that of a picky eater: there are all sorts of things defined by my picky eater culture as inedible but that have crept back into the diet through the efficiency of the meat processors. And yes, when I look at the ingredients of wieners and franks, I'm often appalled! But after traveling, after years afoot in Korea, Colombia, Ecuador, and Chile, and years sustained by their foods, my cultural, linguistic, and culinary horizons have broadened substantially.
My openness to food started in the 1980s when sushi arrived as a fad but soon became a permanent landmark in the topography of American eating. Before that fish fell firmly in the cooked category and not the raw class of foods. I've always loved grilled fish, and much of that also makes good sushi. But I still wouldn't eat a catfish raw because, as a bottom-feeder, the catfish is the pig of the fish world. But beyond that, I see a sushi master as physician of my cuisine and shaman of my eating, and I love to sit down at a sushi bar and say, "keep them coming," and they seem to like that too because it gives them license to practice their art freely. The sushi master smiles and places a plate in front of me of which he is obviously proud because it tastes great and makes a beautiful presentation—sushi is a graphic as well as a culinary art.
I love to travel and have come to the conclusion that one travels as much by eating as by walking, as much by tongue as by foot, so I'm game to try about anything myself. If I closed myself off to food, then I may as well stay home. Last summer, landlocked and starved for a voyage, I made good on this idea of culinary open-mindedness. I walked a mile to Lucy's Fried Chicken and tried the "calf fries" also known as "Rocky Mountain Oysters" also known as deep-fried bull testicles. They aren't bad at all, especially with a few beers to wash them down.
The strangest variation on a dog that I saw was in Korea. They started with a corn dog, and stuffed it into a Twinkie. It's one of the many mysteries of the infamous Twinkie—to say nothing of the bizarre behavioral anomalies that have been attributed to it—that it was able to receive the corn dog into its cream-filled space without bursting or being wrapped in duct tape. Then the Corn Dog in a Twinkie was dipped into a gloppy batter and finally rolled in shredded coconut before being dipped into the boiling oil of a deep-fryer. This was not the type of creation that I travel to try, but I did ask them for a plain corn dog, and they happily obliged me.
Hot dogs—along with hamburgers and barbecue—are one of the few foods that are ethnically American. Most everything else Americans like to eat comes from somewhere else. I've always liked hot dogs, and I've developed my determination to be open to food even as the air abounds with new nasty rumors about their ingredients. I really should give them up because their preservatives are carcinogenic and now there are rumors of hot dogs with traces of human DNA, but in this one case my openness works against me. Really, writing all this has put me in the mood for one of those Colombian hot dogs on which they pile everything: chili, cheese, cole slaw, chopped onions, chopped tomatoes, crumbled potato chips. So good, and I have an eerie feeling about Colombian meat packing plants.