1Dish4TheRoad

"1 Dish 4 The Road".. Fusing food writing with whatever else I find on the road – fiction, history, poetry, humour, diversity, family stories & London.

‘Herschel and His Goats; Loving Thy Neighbour’ – A Ukrainian Jewish folktale in support of #CookForUkraine

A flower bouquet of yellow daffodils against a blue sky in support of the people of Ukraine

Many centuries ago, in the western stretches of Ukraine, lived the great Kabbalistic mystic and healer, the Baal Shem Tov. One day, as he was walking by the marketplace, he caught sight of an elderly man, unkempt and dishevelled.

To the amazement of the Baal Shem Tov, surrounding the man was the shimmering glow of heavenly light. The man however seemed quite oblivious, busy as he was perusing vegetables at one of the stalls, taking great care to pick out the choicest and freshest greens.

Intrigued, the Baal Shem Tov followed the man all the way back to his home, a dilapidated shack on the outskirts of town. Even more astonishment followed, for when the man walked through the gate, he was suddenly accosted by a throng of goats, whose ears he affectionately tousled, and whose bleating was warm and joyous. The man proceeded to get out the greens, and fed them to the appreciative beasts.

‘My dear friend!’ called out the Baal Shem Tov, and he approached the gate. ‘I’m sorry to intrude, but I couldn’t help being curious – goats like to eat shrubs and weeds, so why are you feeding them your finest produce?’

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A Warm Embrace at HALWA POORI HOUSE

Halwa poori plate of three dishes: halwa, poori, and aloo ki tarakari

I peer up at the news. I don’t understand what’s being said, but I find myself transfixed anyway.

Urdu flows along the bottom of the screen, the white script drifting over a ribbon of azure, like passing clouds on a sunny day. I wish I could read it, then I’d know what the item is about.

At the centre of the screen, a man talks intently to the camera; he looks very serious. For some reason, they have projected his image onto each corner of the picture: a multi-headed hydra in beard, suit and glasses. My eyes struggle to settle, flitting incessantly from head to head.

A waiter beside me is also gazing up at the five-headed man. He occasionally nods, sometimes strokes his chin, and every so often frowns. Either way he is resting on every word.

My curiosity eventually gets the better of me. I reach for my phone, and search up Pakistani ARY News. A series of English headlines flash over my screen:

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Nutmeg Custard Tart at FENN – A Journey into Dairy-based Nostalgia

Nutmeg custard tart with slices of rhubarb served at Fenn restaurant in Fulham

“And could I interest you in some dessert?…” asks the waiter.

“Erm.. okay, go on then” I reply, feigning a momentary hesitation as though dessert hasn’t even crossed my mind when, to be honest, it’s the main reason I’m even here.

Of course, the waiter probably sees through my little charade, my phony tango of will-I-won’t-I; he’s seen it all before. In fact, of the two of us, it is I who ends up being deceived – for what I’m yet to realise is that I’m not really here for the pudding, but for the past…

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“Picnic As…”

Even now I’m in two minds: is “picnic” really the right word here? Do I really wish to conjure up bucolic images of gallivanting about the countryside, all wicker baskets and gingham blankets, pink-stained fingers pinching the wet tops of strawberries, a knocked-over glass of bubbly fizzing over a clump of summer daisies?

The traditional British picnic has its roots in French pre-Revolution aristocracy. But when the posh pique-nique-ers feared for their heads, rather than lose a requisite piece of anatomy for a spot of outdoor munching, off they sailed for Blighty instead. And before you could say ‘rillettes de lapin à l’ancienne’, the craze was sweeping Georgian high society.

Picnics were then social affairs, events to see and be seen in. Their settings of countryside meadow or urban pleasure garden immersed the wealthy and privileged in a rural idyll, an escape from the bustle and grime of the city, bestowing them with an air of salubrity and restoration.

Nowadays, picnics are more democratic, but the word itself – if not the act of taking food outdoors – still seems entrenched in a genteel world of supermarket dips, served with a dash of whimsy and a sprinkling of kitsch.

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TOWPATH – Past, Present, Future

Towpath Cafe in Haggerston, London, with people eating breakfast on tables close to the canal

 

May 1820, Navvies’ camp, Haggerstone village

Danny looks disconsolately down at his breakfast: six rashers of leathery bacon – more fat than flesh – a small crusty loaf of day-old bread, and a tankard of insipid beer.

‘Stare at it any longer, Danny, and the crows will make off with it,’ remarks the woman serving the food.

‘Crows widnae dare go near this shit,’ replies Danny, taking a last couple of swift drags on a clay pipe, which he then duly lets fall to the ground.

‘You might be right, there,’ she mutters, stealing a glance towards the kitchen. ‘Best be on your way anyhow – you’re holding up the line.’

Danny shrugs, and slinks off to the table nearest the stall. At the far end, the Irish crew are in fine voice despite the early hour, singing like it’s a veritable feast day. On the other side, the English are already on their second pints. No Scots as yet though: he has the table to himself.

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