Tetherd Cow Ahead

And since we’re on the subject I feel obliged to bring this to the attention of Cow Readers.

Don’t go there if you’re squeamish. You have been warned.

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Thanks (if that’s the right word) boingboing!

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☆April 12, 1948: Maverick culinary scientist Leopold A. Moss finally perfects veal-style calamari.

It is a peculiarity of the modern age that chicken chips* taste nothing at all like chicken. Chicken chips really don’t have a taste like any other foodstuff, as far as my tastebuds can tell. In fact the flavour of chicken chips is best described as ‘chicken chip flavour’.

There are lots of artificial flavours like this – ‘banana’ is another one, as is ‘smoked ham’.

This got me to wondering – how do flavour chemists decide what something tastes like? I think the process goes something like this:

Flavour Chemist #1: Hey, Sam – what do you think this tastes like?

Flavour Chemist #2: Hmm. I dunno…

Flavour Chemist #1: Chicken? Ham? Banana?

Flavour Chemist #2: Maybe ham? No, hang on… chicken. Yeah, chicken.

Flavour Chemist #1: Should I write ‘chicken’ on the flask?

Flavour Chemist #2: Yeah. Write ‘chicken’. Maybe write ‘smoked chicken’. It’s got a kind of smoky flavour…

Flavour Chemist #1: Er. I think maybe that’s ’cause I dropped my cigarette in it…

It can’t be long before flavour chemists cotton on to the same trick that the people who make paint charts use; you know – colours are now not named by their actual colour, but by some kind of aspirational descriptor like ‘Topiary Tint’ or ‘Treasures’ or ‘Powdery Mist’†

So instead of supermarket shelves of faux raspberry, sour cream & chives and eggnog flavoured products we’d see – Moroccan Sunset flavoured chips, Velvet Cloud flavoured yoghurt and Monet flavoured soda.

See, ultimately this makes really good commercial sense. Our taste professors will no longer have to emulate, but are instead freed up to innovate. With no obligation to try and stick with analogies to existing foodstuffs, whole new avenues of possibility would be opened up.

The decision process might then go something like this:

Flavour Chemist #1: Hey, Sam – what do you think this tastes like?

Flavour Chemist #2: Hmm. I dunno… It’s sort of like a cheap toothpaste I once used on holidays in Greece…

Flavour Chemist #1: Excellent. I’ll label the flask ‘Grecian Morning’. Want to come for a spin in my new Porsche?

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*Or ‘crisps’ if that makes more sense in your part of the world…

†I kid you not. These are all real paint chart colours. I defy you to have any idea what colours they actually are.

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Well Acowlytes, now that the champagne bottles are all empty and the smoky scent of perchlorate is fading from the night air, let me stagger from my darkened cloister to wish you all the Very Best Things for 2007.

I fear that some of you may still be suffering from the effects of overindulgence, so as a Tetherd Cow Ahead Public Service allow me to offer up some hangover remedies from the esteemed The Daily Lush.

But just in case your constitution is even more fragile than usual, a quick precis:

•The Mexicans think menudo is a good idea: a soup concocted from cow’s stomachs, including (if you’re lucky) the animal’s last meal.

•In Ancient Rome, a fried canary was the go. Or if not, raw owl’s eggs. Feeling better?

•Mongolians like to clear their heads with sheep’s eyeballs in tomato juice.

•Chimney sweeps in Olde London Town swept out the cobwebs in their heads with soot milkshakes. Mmmmmm.

So onward and upward into 2007! Happy New Year one and all!

A Practical Guide to Obscure Culture for the Discerning Geek

Lesson 1: How To Properly Prepare Absinthe

You will need:

• Genuine Parisian Absinthe
• Sugar cubes
• An absinthe spoon, or flechette
• Filtered water

Here are two kinds of absinthe:

The first bottle is real absinthe. The second bottle is not. What’s the difference? I’m glad you asked. Proper absinthe, or Parisian Absinthe as it is sometimes called, contains a bitter herb called wormwood. It also louches, or turns milky, when water is added. Most importantly it tastes a whole lot better than the second kind (also sometimes called ‘Bohemian’ Absinth and usually made in the Czech Republic), which Phil Baker, in his book The Daedalus Book of Absinthe, likens to windscreen wiper fluid. I don’t know how knowledgeably he makes this comparison, not being a big consumer of automotive cleaning products myself, but I do believe him – it’s fairly unpalatable.

Parisian Absinthe is also a lot more expensive. Of course.

This is a flechette:

This one is a modern copy, but you see antique ones in secondhand shops sometimes. They also appear on eBay (although not nearly as frequently as they used to). If you do find a nice old one, my birthday is coming up soon.

You also need cube sugar:

And no, don’t get too excited. We’re not going to set anything on fire. The fancy spectacle they like to enact in some cocktail bars is hokum. No true absintheur would ever burn off any alcohol. We’re going to do something much better because it’s infinitely more subtle (the kind of absinthe to which people set fire is Bohemian Absinth – there is probably a good reason for that).

Pour about a thumb’s width of absinthe into a small tumbler:

Put the flechette on top of the glass (there is a little ‘resting notch’ in the handle so it won’t slide off), and put the sugar cube on the spoon:

Now, slowly drip filtered water through the sugar cube and into the absinthe (I use a small glass jug to do this). The absinthe will begin to louche as the water hits it. This is a big part of the ritual, and writers and artists have had many poetic things to say about the effect it has. This is what it will look like as it begins to happen, but I’m afraid you’ll have to do it yourself to get any idea of the real magic:

Add water to the absinthe at a ratio of roughly 6:1. This is a matter of taste; some people like it stronger, some people like it milder.

There you have it. That’s the hard bit done, now go and write a Significant Novel, or paint a Masterpiece.

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Some questions about absinthe answered:

-What does it taste like?

It is sweet and tastes of licorice or anise. It is very similar to Pernod or pastis, to which it is historically related, but with a slight bitterness that offsets the sweetness.

-Isn’t absinthe illegal?

Not in most countries any longer. For various antiquated reasons, it was banned for quite some years.

-Wasn’t that because it had weird hallucinogenic properties and turned everyone into raving lunatics?

No, not really. It’s a long story, but it was essentially banned because of serious problems with alcoholism in Europe in the mid 1800s, and as is often the case with ‘illicit’ substances, much misinformation was bandied about. Some of it stuck for a very long time.

-Hey, but you’re not telling us about thujone, which is a psychoactive ingredient that comes from wormwood…

You’re a bit of a smartypants aren’t you? Yes, absinthe does contain thujone, but in relatively small amounts. To get a pharmacologically meaningful dose you’d have to swill so much absinthe that you’d probably die of liver failure from the alcohol before you started seeing Green Fairies. It is thought that some of the absinthe available in the 19th century contained much greater amounts of wormwood than any brand does now.

-Where can I get some?

It depends where you live. It is available throughout Europe, and now in Australia, but is still illegal in some countries including North-America. Sucks guys. You can order it via numerous vendors online, but a warning: if it is illegal in your country, it will get confiscated by customs if it is declared as absinthe.

-If I visit The Reverend, would he make me a glass?

Always.

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(Remember to vote for me in the Philosophy Blog War!)

Last night one of the Quang Ngai orphanage volunteers threw a party for her English students at the volunteer household. It was a Western style party with beer & nibbles and an almost unbelievable spread of Vietnamese food. It was also a theme party and the theme was ‘Everyone Speaks English’. I felt sure I’d be able to handle that, even after the inevitable copious imbibation (! Did I say English?) of the ubiquitous ‘333’ beer.

At the party I met the delightful Mr Viet, Director of The Fund for Children of Quang Ngai Province, and his wife Khanh, who generously invited a few of us to tour his two rehabilitation centres just west of Quang Ngai city and see the work they were doing there for underprivileged and disabled children. I won’t dwell on the harrowing aspect of this trip – it is sufficient to say that Mr Viet and his volunteers are doing amazing things for their community and the people of Vietnam are very lucky to have such committed, hardworking and canny people.

After our tour, Mr & Mrs Viet took us to lunch at My Khe beach, a stretch of white sand and warm blue water that rivals the best Pacific Resorts for beauty, and which sports a bunch of funky shaded restaurants that surpass pretty much anywhere for food.

After the enormous meal (how the hell do these people stay so thin?) of clams, monstrous prawns (Americans: there is NO way these things can qualify as shrimp), banh xeo and fish soup, the talk naturally turned to the eating of dog. Mr Viet asked if I had ever tried dog meat, and I confessed I had not. Mr Viet is a very big fan of dog meat. He assured me it is the best food one could find in Vietnam, and invited me to dine with him the next time I was here, on the most superior dog cuisine I would ever eat. I said I would be honoured to join him. We talked further of eating dog, then snake (very popular dishes in Vietnam), horse (which would possibly be popular if there were more horses) and cat (which is also eaten, but not so much).

On the way back in the car I said to Nurse Myra, “Y’know, I have no in principle problem with eating dog. I mean, I feel I can’t object really, without being hypocritical – I eat pretty much anything else”.

We drove on for a few minutes.

“What about cat?” she asked, with her typically evil insight.

We drove on for a further few minutes.

I wondered idly if Glitch would taste better with rice or noodles.