Last Suppers?

As published at SubStack, 11/5/22:

[Palmyra, 8/14/13]

 

This appalling incident occurred in 2017, and there was at least one witness to vouch for my truth, and nothing but the truth.

When a young, apparently normal waiter in Florensac found out I was from Philadelphia, he immediately blurted, “I hope to go there some day, so I can try the cheesesteak!”

What are you, mentally ill? I thought. Here you have the best jambons, pâtés, saucissons, mousses, terrines, rilletes, brie, reblochons, camemberts, roqueforts and comtés, etc., none of which you would pair with anything but the most civilized bread, one with a real crust, yet you hanker for paper thin slices of frozen “steak,” slopped with American cheese, and I feel ashamed just typing that. Worse, it’s presented on a “hoagie roll” no French dog would piss on.

Best thing since sliced bread, it’s finger lickin’ good, think outside the bun, live mas, open happiness, I’m loving it.

With deft advertising, you can get dummies to swallow Wonder Bread, Miller Lite, 9/11 as staged by enraged Muslims, Bin Laden tossed into the ocean leaving no traces, Zelensky as Churchill reincarnated, Putin as Hitler, a man is a woman with a bulge in her pants, and Jewjabs as a vaccine that will lessen your chances of being hospitalized, which is true enough, actually, since you’ll be wheeled right into the morgue, to hobnob with millions of other blood clotted dupes.

Having been away from Philly for four years, I do miss my scrapple and Italian hoagies with mayo, raw onion and hot pepper. As for cheesesteaks, I had an excellent version at Beirut’s Roadster Diner, and the one at Cape Town’s Wanderlust, with its unkosher sweetish sauce, was tasty enough. Seeing a photo of it, a Philly friend said it looked like vomit, however.

When you say heritage or culture, many people will assume you’re talking about great writers and artists, perhaps some grand poet with an epic poem hardly anyone has read, but a nation’s heritage is most solidly, vividly, fragrantly and universally embodied by its food, even if some of its most iconic dishes may be recent inventions.

Nuttier than that French waiter, many Germans go to bed dreaming of their next self-reward of curry wurst, and many Brits won’t last a week without chicken tikka masala. It makes sense, though, for those dishes arose from unique places with distinctive histories, so they belong there. The Vietnamese phở and bánh mì were triggered by the presence of the French. Tex-Mex is the richest American cuisine. Beats baked beans and clam chowder. Zuo Zongtang never ate General Tso’s chicken.

Before Uncle Sam wrecked their economy, Ukrainians loved sushi. With a tweak here and there, it was becoming theirs. Now, they must suck on a nightmarish Zelensky roll.

Wouldn’t mind an honest cheeseburger right about now. Is it too much to ask, no, beg, for unadulterated ground beef, enough real cheese to clearly taste, ketchup that’s not runny, mustard with kick, bun without sugar or corn syrup and, of course, dill pickles? Onion, raw or fried, and a slice of tomato aren’t even necessary. Mayo wouldn’t hurt.

Just three years ago, burgers were still so rare in most of Vietnam, it could be sold in a plastic bag by Kinh Đô, an otherwise creditable company. Tearing this bag open, I found only a bun and small packet. This contained no ketchup, however, but an icky orange paste that’s supposed to be meat. Squeezed onto naked bun, it sure looked like some very pissed off small mammal had just dropped by, but since I’m not an expert on droppings, I can’t be more specific.

[Ea Kly, 1/24/19]

Now, burgers are everywhere, though sometimes spelled as hambugers or hambegers. Before starting school at 6:30AM, many Vietnamese kids have it for breakfast, when not feasting on a hot dog or sushi, two other new fads. Paying just 80-cents for a deluxe booger in a provincial Vietnamese city, you won’t even get a distant cousin of what you’d find at In-N-Out, Five Guys or your favorite diner.

Even at pricier Steak Viet, its “hamburger, American style” comes with a patty of pork mixed with beef and, to make matters worse, it’s breaded! On one wall is a large image of whites having a great time, though sitting on the floor at a low table, guzzling soju. With his steak sized tongue sticking out, one guy appears to be humping a stuffed panda.

When it’s not your culture, nearly everything is imperfectly understood, if at all. That’s why we have two hundred countries, each with a bewildering diversity of indigenous ways of life. Even neighborhoods within any city reveal astounding differences, for each has its own demographics and history.

Globalism, then, is an assault on the local, so must be resisted. Since each population has its own needs and inclinations, there can’t possibly be any international framework, norm or even style, without tremendous violence.

If you want to embrace wokism, transgenderism, Jewish thinking and Jewjabs, fine, but keep it outside my borders and away from my face.

Though sitting in an unpopular cafe on a dusty side street with no decent views and far away from tourists, I suddenly hear Italian, so say to its speaker, a young man with tattoos all over, that I lived there for two years, in Certaldo near Siena. Last thing he expects is to hear Italian here, so is quite pleased.

Here in Vung Tau, there are two fine Italian restaurants, with David serving excellent carpaccio and wood fired pizzas. Lucca is only slightly lesser. David stares straight at an ocean now tranquil and picturesque with fishing boats. Some no longer have eyes to scare away sea monsters, however. During the boat people era, corpses were routinely beached.

As a guest, the Italian will move on, and though native born, I too must leave, though I hope to return before too long.

I’m living up to my name, which sounds like lênh đênh, “adrift” in Vietnamese.

To get my papers straightened out, I may have to go back to the US, and the nearest American territory is Guam. As a child refugee in 1975, I spent a week there in an army tent. I ate powdered eggs and canned string beans in a huge tent. It would be poetic, perhaps, to drift back to say my final goodbye to the USA.

With the largest US airforce base in the western Pacific, Guam will be a prime target when war breaks out.

This morning, I found an Airbnb “villa” in Tamuning for just $907 a month, with the price slashed in half recently. Only fools are rushing to become the bullseye of Chinese nukes, obviously. The owner of the property is also called Sugar Mami Boy. Maybe Guam is not such a great idea.

Within weeks if not days, there might be no more Guam, or much of London, Berlin or Manhattan, for that matter, but let us be optimistic.

With six inches of snow on the ground, all 4.5 million inhabitants of greater Berlin are stuffed inside Russisches Haus on Friedrichstraße, for it’s the last building in the city with heat, thanks to Putin. With so many bodies intertwined, it actually feels like an oven, or messy orgy in some mythical gas chamber, but everyone is smiling, including Olaf Scholz, Ursula von de Leyen and Angela Merkel. Nine months from this date, millions of deformed babies will be born, but two heads are better than one, no? As for genitals, they’re only optional, we’ve found out.

Tonight’s feature is Tarkovsky’s Stalker. Despite its dystopian setting and theme, it cheers everyone, for there’s at least a future, and even its bleakest scenes are gayer than the world outside Russisches Haus. During the entirety of this 2 hour and 42 minute film, von de Leyen has to try her best to suppress maniacal peals of laughter.

[still from Andrei Tarkovsky’s Stalker, 1979]