English Version | The ick in the dish

11 Oct 2022
By Nuno Miguel Dias

Icky things are about to be discussed.

Icky things are about to be discussed. 

Portuguese is a language almost as exciting as a chanfana made with some love and a lot of time by the most experienced moms from Beira [a region in Portugal]. Take, for mere example, the expression "I don't have the stomach for this." It could mean "I'm disgusted by what's on my plate here" or "I'm already full and I can't I can't eat anything else." It can also represent a more generalist "this whole situation is very unpleasant and I'm not about to take it." Susceptibility is not my strong suit. So, I cling tooth and nail to the term "It makes my insides churn", which is very representative of deep nausea and further disgust that we feel when faced with something that is supposed to be, and at least for some, edible. When it comes to Portuguese gastronomy, there are three clichés that we must all be prepared for, because aversion to them is endemic: broad beans, bait, and Brussels sprouts. Then there are the ordinary repulsions: some turn their noses up at the delicious cow tongue stewed in a wonderful mash where carrots are queen. Others frown at the pork rinds we greedily bite into before a soccer game in a trailer of dubious hygiene. And still, others are the "feijoada profaners," those people with whom we share a portion at a shrine of Transmontana cuisine and who, at the end of the evening, make us tweet "She was beautiful, but then she put the little fats on the side of the plate." There is also the gastronomic maturity factor, that phenomenon that dictates that as children we don't like sardines and peas and, once you get past the adolescence that shapes your temperament, you become a sucker for sardines and the one who celebrates all the less is more inherent in a few peas and poached eggs that crown a winter Sunday with everything you're entitled to: a nap (he says it's the red wine) and Netflix. That said, let's get down to business: the cultural differences that are reflected in gastronomy and, especially, in what is conventionally called "delicacies." We start with the bitoque [grilled steak with an egg on top], a popular dish, while a delicacy is the lamb's head that the Alentejans shave with a razor to accompany glasses of white. A tourist wandering the streets of Lisbon will always love a plate of bacalhau à Brás (codfish with a twist), but give him a couple of fried mackerel, which our fathers worshipped, and see if he'll touch them.

The disgust that we feel for some foods is something very deep. Immediate, because it happens at the first glimpse of something that, to our eyes, is exotic. Or because the aroma reminds us of something that we relate to a lack of hygiene (yes, the cheese and the feet and the bent and the bovine feces). But deep. It is the brain telling us not to eat a certain food while it tries to balance itself on that fine tightrope between what is pure instinct and all the information that has been acquired through acculturation, which is there, stored in the unconscious, but always lurking. It is the total opposite of what happens when we arrive home at the end of a day's work, starving, knowing that we only have a moldy peach and half a lemon in the fridge, and we can smell the roast chicken coming from the Mozambican grill. This is a beautiful example, in the sense that what has since become the fast food of the Portuguese, which tourists in the Algarve call chicken piri-piri, came about not so long ago by the hand of some settlers who brought from Mozambique not only the recipe for our roasted chicken but also the Zambezi chicken which, besides being too exotic for our tastes, had coconut milk as a difficult ingredient to obtain when globalization had not yet arrived. One gone, one left. And it stayed. And what else did the Portuguese, malnourished sailors afflicted with scurvy, see throughout the world that they didn't even have the courage to taste, despite their hunger, let alone bring back, as they did with spices, chili peppers, and rice? Let's see, with a brief world tour. And we will start with the closest stops, so that there is no excuse of exoticism. When we get to the Far East, we will see. In Sardinia, there is a cheese that may well be the first form of cheese created by man. It is thought to have occurred shortly after the domestication of animals. That is, at a time when the health departments would not have the same hygiene standards. Only produced in Ogliastra, in the East of the island, in Callu de Cabreddu the goat is killed immediately after the moment of lactation and the milk it has consumed is filtered into the abomasum, one of the four stomachs of ruminants, which contains a natural rennet of its own in the young, so that they can digest it. This is closed, rubbed with salt and hung out to dry for a few months. It is eaten by slicing it, stuffing and abomasum walls included, on bread or fried in lard. At first bite, its flavor resembles roquefort cheese. But then comes a vomitous taste, which can last for several days depending on the amount consumed. Even closer to home, and even though its "harvesting" has been banned by the European Union since 1999 (throughout the territory and not only in France), many of the most well-known and respected chefs of French haute cuisine are committed to reintroducing Ortolan to their menus. Known as Sombria (Emberiza hortulana) in Portugal, it is a wild songbird, weighing no more than 30gr and about 10cm, that is captured and kept in cages. It is blinded with pins to make it think it is at night, which causes it to overheat and grow fat. It is then drowned in Armagnac and fried. The consumption ritual includes covering the head with a napkin to "hide this act of God" and starting with the legs. The flavor is described as a mix between hazelnuts and game. It was François Mitterrand's last meal, and its value can be as much as $100 per bird. In northern latitudes but still in Europe, more specifically in Sweden, and as everywhere else they exist, beavers mark their territory with a mixture of urine and castoreum, the secretion of a gland located in the anus. The odor is highly complex and used for perfumery or as a natural vanilla substitute. Our Scandinavian friends prefer to use it to make Bävergäll (Cry of Beaver) by infusing it in alcohol for a few weeks. The resulting brandy is bitter but its woody flavor is highly appreciated. This tradition is so old that, in the 19th century, one of these glands could cost two months' wages, which caused Swedish beavers to be hunted almost to extinction, because it was thought that castoreum could cure mental illnesses, epilepsy, and even toothaches. Also in Sweden, the food that has won the much sought-after award of "most putrid in the world", Surströmming, which is nothing more than Baltic Sea herring fermented in brine for six months. It is then canned. Only it continues to ferment in the can. It is traditionally eaten with potatoes and onions and accompanied by lots of water. The smell is so excruciating that, according to legend, a German landlord evicted without warning a Swedish tenant who opened a can of Surströmming on the stairs of his building. When the case was taken to court, the judge agreed with the landlord when his lawyer opened a can of the same product in the courtroom.

Let us now move on to where exoticism is king and master and, therefore, where we may find something unthinkable at the table. Asia, in all its splendor and spiciness. These few words already stir up prejudice, but we have achieved the unthinkable: China does not figure in this choice of strange foods. India, on the other hand, will be the first chosen. And not with a mouth-burning Vindaloo or a Tikka Masala that causes intestinal disorders. It's really with the purest and most natural cow urine. Preferably from a pregnant cow. Or, as it is called in the subcontinent, Gomutra. Its consumption goes back thousands of years in Ayurvedic medicine as a therapy for psoriasis, leprosy, fevers, liver ailments, and cancer. But it also serves to clean floors, and the Indian government itself requires that it be the product used in the washing of ministries. In South Korea, the peculiar way of serving octopus is called Sannakji. The cephalopod is killed at the very moment before it is served, raw and cut into pieces. Since the nerves are still active, the tentacles describe rapid movements on the plate. That is the purpose. If not prepared precisely, the suckers can stick to the throat and the average annual death from asphyxiation is six. Koreans say that eating this dish balances sugar levels and gives energy. In Vietnam, Snake Wine cures rheumatism, low back pain, and chronic pain. The rice wine is mixed with honey and herbs. The snake is chilled until it loses its senses, gutted, boiled again, and poured into the bottle. In the few seconds between awakening and dying for good, the snake assumes an aggressive attacking pose. In Japan the demanding winter months are ideal for consuming Shirako, that is, the seminal sac of the fish - full of sperm. It is eaten raw or lightly steamed. The same product, but made from herring, is also very popular in Russia, where it is called Moloka. A little further north, in Mongolia, the most popular delicacy is Sheep's Eye Soup, which is pickled before being added to a tomato dish. It is said to cure hangovers (I've had more sophisticated Bloody Maries) and the further pleasure lies in biting into the eye, which crumbles into a sort of jelly that fills the mouth with a taste of.... nothing! Continuing our tour eastward, and because the world is a globe and not a planisphere, we will cross the Pacific Ocean to reach Peru, where we will crown this nauseating excursion with the Jugo de Rana. A kind of smoothie made on the spot where frogs (killed by banging their heads on the counter and skinned), quail eggs, honey, spices, and some local - and secret - plants are introduced. Of course, this is filtered before serving, so that you don't taste the bones of the Titicaca frog, a highly endangered species. How classic, to extinguish an animal from eating it so much. The last time I heard about this was the Portuguese wiping out the Dodo, a bird endemic to Mauritius, which they mistook for a giant turkey. Or not. Because in general, when it comes to the human species, the rule is usually "if it moves we should eat it."

Translated from the original on The Butterfly Effect issue from Vogue Portugal, published October 2022.Full story and credits on the print issue. 

Nuno Miguel Dias By Nuno Miguel Dias

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