50 Foods

Edward Behr is not a man with whom I’d like to go to the supermarket.  A strawberry comes to perfect ripeness for only a day. Anything that has been shipped is not to be considered.  You should buy lamb from a farmer you can trust. Chestnuts are best in the weeks after the harvest.  By Christmas they are already in decline.  So there, Nat King Cole! 

“Most commercial wine vinegar doesn’t taste like much, because it starts with cheap wine, which can give it a muddy taste and off flavors. And the industrial process doesn’t help,” he writes in 50 Foods, which I recently picked up at the Plymouth Library and have been reading with interest.  Don’t even get Behr started on supermarket balsamic vinegar.

 He writes, “Supermarket asparagus, so many days having passed, has muddy, unclean, nearly human flavors.”  “Nearly human!”  Has he been lunching with cannibals? Behr is a gourmet of the old school who combines his enthusiasm for the best with his scorn for anything less.  I have to agree that fresh asparagus is better, and if it has been shipped from Argentina, I’d just as soon leave it alone.  Like him, I prefer the green variety to the more expensive white.  He likes north Atlantic oysters, and so do I.  I think I could serve him freshly opened Island Creeks, without shaking in my shoes.

I don’t mean to imply I didn’t like the book. I enjoy fantasizing about butter churned from fresh unpasteurized cream, preferably in the spring. I agree that the old fashioned varieties of corn that had to be eaten very fresh were better than the modern genetically modified corn that retains a sweetness that tastes like corn syrup to me.

I agree with him that grass-fed beef can be terrible.  He says sometimes it’s great, but I haven’t found that kind yet.  Naturally he thinks supermarket beef is inedible.  With beef, as with nearly everything else, Behr wants to know the farmer.  He is extremely knowledgeable and provides a wealth of information about farming, storing, processing, and shipping.  I find reading him enjoyable despite the impression he gives me that I have seldom experienced the best of anything.  

He motivates me to frequent farmers’ markets, specialty cheese mongers, butchers, and fish markets.  Knowledge can’t do me any harm, and I can keep an eye out for something good.  With Behr’s guidance I will ask the right questions. That being said, I have to eat every day, and the supermarket is where the food is.  He has not made me dyspeptic over my buttered toast, my burger, or my vinaigrette.

The Gate

I was going to call this "The Autumn of Life," but nobody likes a morbid old man.  When I took it I had just heard a marvelous performance of Beethoven's 9th Symphony by The Boston Baroque Ensamble at the Strand Theater in Dorchester and was feeling great. 

Swedish Fish Martini

The effort it takes not to be curmudgeonly increases alarmingly with the passing years.  Not only is there a danger of general grouchiness, but there are pet peeves one compulsively harps upon.  With me the list is topped by the new “martinis.”  I’ve written about this before.

A couple evenings ago, Annette and I dined at Sushi Joy. Our waitress was 55 years my junior and of Chinese extraction. She was trained to converse fluently about the menu, but on topics ranging away from the printed word, the linguistic waters became deeper, and she floundered. 

I said, “I’ll have a Tanqueray martini straight up with an olive.”

“What kind of martini?” she asked.

“Those drinks listed on the menu are not martinis.” I explained. “A martini is made of gin and vermouth.  I want a classic martini.” 

She recognized my pedagogical tone as I instructed her about the true nature of a martini, and her attention skipped to the part where I was making an order. “A crassic martini,” she said and headed in the direction of the bar.  I reflected that I’d been redundant.  A martini is a classic.  The distinction had been unnecessary.

A few minutes later she returned, flustered and embarrassed. “What kind of martini?” she wanted to know.

I accompanied her to the bar and made my order directly to the bartender, who was skilled in her trade and made an excellent drink. 

I was reminded of the incident today when I looked at a cocktail list and saw I was able to request a Swedish fish martini.  After a puzzled interval I began to understand that the drink would not taste of herring or any other finny denizen of Scandinavian waters.  A Swedish fish is a candy.

I am a man of infinite tolerance. If a person wishes to enjoy a drink that tastes like a piscine confection, I may not agree with his choice, but I will defend to the death his right to make it.  Only let’s not call it a martini.  Couldn’t we please just call it a Swedish fish cocktail, no matter what the shape of the glass in which it served.  And might we not do the same for drinks flavored with apples, pomegranates, or in the newest abomination on the same list as the Swedish fish, pumpkin pie.   

Let the younger set not be so grievously confused. Someday they will achieve maturity and turn in moments of weariness and stress to that solace of mankind, the martini – provided they know what it is.