Futuristic Food

Where is food going?  Does anyone know the answer?  Has anyone thought about the question?

So many minds and mediums are being dedicated to studying past, present, and future food systems (I would know, I made a major around it. It's fancy), but what about "cuisine".  Every time I open a cook book there are the top three--French, Italian, Asian.  And now with the power of the internet (truly made so you can read my brillance) there are lists, forums, blogs, menus, recipes, and kitchen ware for every diet fad, allergy, and religious affiliated food ideal.  Food is slipping out of the "Lifestyle" sections in newspapers and making the front page. Food is!  Food has been and will be forever the source of life.  Without it we cannot exist.  Also, something that is not new is the way food and food writing is being attacked.  I love my M.F.K. Fisher and cookbooks from long ago when they were handwritten and filled with home remedies.  But Cookn'Scribble had a very good article here that made me start to re-evaluate the actual stance people have taken on food.

I have never been the biggest proponent of the Food Network--although I love Alton Brown--, and am even less in favor of "Top Tens" (restaurants, cocktails, chefs, way to cook it raw, napkin folding, etc).  To me food is about the discovery, not the testimony.  I love visiting new places because of the relevance that they have to my "usual" life.  I have visited a butcher in Italy.  I have visited a butcher in New Orleans.  They spontaneously are similar and separate and coexistent.  And in this global, modern world when I would like a nice Chianti or Sangiovesse with my nice filet (insert expense ad for Rare Cuts Here) from New Orleans I can make that happen.

So here is my question: where IS food going?  When will I open up cook books and see not just French, Italian, and Asian sections, but the new globally-inspired cuisines that span over palates?  When, where, who, and how will the advent of food get here?  Because in my opinion it could come no sooner.

Bacchanal

I try to stay away from restaurant reviews and critiques on food, places, and people (I said, "I try"), but after finally getting a chance to visit Bacchanal on the corner of Poland Ave in the Bywater I realized that I must, at times, delve into these depths.

I had just left an Italian dinner and was on the wine kick when Kate and I decided to finally wobble our way by bike down to the wine bar that is well hidden by location and notoriety.  The location I can understand, but why I have not visited before is beyond me.  It has an expanse courtyard in the back that is accesible once you walk through the very tiny yet sterile wine and cheese shop.  The selection is not vast in quantity but the quality and variety of what you can find in there is excellent and fun.

I am not a big proponent of Bacchanal because I think I will be eaten alive by mosquitos once the air turns just 5 degrees warmer, but I am a supporter because they a) use paper plates, b) you order from a window like the ones you see at little league baseball games, c) you can grab a bottle of wine and no servers, managers, or bussers will disturb you as you sip away and take in your surroundings.  There is usually a jazz band in the corner (I sometimes feel that the magic of jazz is lost on me, sorry New Orleans) and the large round tables are filled with families, couples, friends, and daters.  And I will admit that people watching is one of my favorite past times.  Almost as much as grabbing a bottle of wine with friends, so when someone decides to combine the two? Bliss.

Just one touch on the food:  It was our dessert so we had a Sauterne (when will people start supporting vin santo?) and I ordered the chocolate bark ($6).  It was incredible. Tempered dark chocolate  with olive oil drizzle and topped with sel gris.  Next, Kate wanted some cheese so I picked out a husky bleu and what I was told would be a nougat-y, caramel-like sheep cheese from Norway.  And this is my one complaint: I should have known better than to trust an employee.  I mean think about it.  How many people do you know personally or have met that work in an environment where they might know about the topic they are talking about but do not necessarily know the topic?  Because I feel that I am meeting more of these people everyday.

The "nougat-y" cheese was more like Playdo.  But it didn't even taste like Playdo--didn't taste like anything actually.  The best way to describe it was if you had a clay square on your plate that you could stencil into.  Bam.

One more bright point: when you pick out your cheese it is wrapped and priced, but they take it to their kitchen and put it on a (paper) plate with a mound of bread--adding cornichons and olives is an extra $5--and provide utensils.  Just thought you should know--I didn't.

The Coconut

Beware: pack provisions for Highway 1

It still astonishes me that some people don't like coconuts.  Nay, that most people don't appreciate coconuts. For me, the sweet, nutty, milky flavor of coconut goes beyond suntan lotion and ambrosia (which I believe to be astonishing awful).

I love coconuts anyway I can get them and for every birthday until I was about 16 I requested that my dad cut open a coconut so that I could devour the entirety of it; water, flesh, and all.  Mind you: my dad would have to search for a coconut in December in Alabama--every year.

But when I visited Key West this past week I went against my moral code of avoiding sugary alcoholic drinks and ordered the sweet and spicy concoction: the Pina Colada.

They're. Too. Freakin'. Good.

Like every other food or drink, Pina Coladas can vary depending on whatever makeshift coconut/sugar/pineapple mix the bar tends to order and keep on hand.  But there was one place: the place of all other places.

The bartender took my order all too lazily (not matching my over excitement of my first glucose/rum pint) and began adding pure coconut cream, pineapple chunks, and spiced rum (original recipes dictate that white rum should be used, but a girl can have preferences).  Pina Colada is so called because of the Spanish origin in Puerto Rico (pina=pineapple, colada=strained).  I don't know where the "strained" fell out of fashion (impatient people such as myself?) but as the blender buzzed underneath the counter the rest of the restaurant fell out of focus because I had just one thing on my mind:

"Put that blended miracle into a glass and don't you dare put a maraschino cherry on top."  (Again, my own preference against the standard recipe).

And he did.

Here's a picture of me unimpressively leaning and drinking

It was so wonderful. Strolling down the road passed Ernest Hemmingway's home--built before the pina colada was invented sadly--and into the state park where I just sat against the backdrop of the turqouise water and vanilla beach.   The trade winds were fast so I got to sit and enjoy my delicious drink without breaking a sweat.  I was a "classy" castaway.  I had found my home.

Then a group of 14-yr old girls squatted down in front of me, all with earphones attached and iphones securely grasped in tiny fingers.

....Maybe I should just buy my own coconut island.

And this is what I would do on my island. Plus a Pina Colada.