Food and its Ensuing Philosophy

I make no attempt to hide one of the many pleasures of life for me (that is, amongst that of music and TCM-worthy movies) – that of food and eating. Yes, the sensual gains do play a part, but on a deeper level, there lies a philosophical affinity to the act of “eating.”

Being naturally retrospective, (and when I say “naturally,” I allude to the complacent attitude that I have been able to enjoy thus far) the pleasures of “taste” has less to do with its immediate sensual gratification than it does its lingering associations with that which I find important to remember. For instance, a taco salad is not so much $5.00 worth of meat and vegetables than it is a reminder of the many nights we decided on the comfort of a familiar setting for conversation; prosciutto and melon is not so much an Italian delicacy as it is a vivid image of the warmth of the kindred under the beam of the Roman sun. That is, my sense of taste has forever been inevitably tied to that of retrospective contemplation and it is perhaps for that reason that I find delight in what is, in the secular sense, “gastronomy.”

Of course, it would be naïve to place all emphasis on the retrospective – after all, living is a process of creating new experience. And in that sense, that’s where the desire to try “new foods” comes in. I want to feel the strange movements of San-nakji so that I can have a new platform from which “new” sensations can associate itself from. And it is undeniable that certain senses of the palate trigger certain senses in the memory. I remember my most respected figure – my father – standing in his fifties, yet in the very image of his childhood (as I have imagined that to be what is appeared as) with two soda crackers sandwiching a layer of molasses. His “favorite childhood food” as he described it – and I could not doubt the sincerity of the claim. In that very instance, I could feel him backtracking into the very blissful moments of his own childhood.

And why is it that in leaving my HOME, the very first thing I yearn for is the food of the place I come from? While simple things such as pork-filled dumplings and pineapple buns hold little value for me when I am back in the very location of my birth, they suddenly become the treasures of my existence in the place where I now reside. I admit, for example, that my love for Vietnamese food stems, not so much from a personal preference, than that of that fact that it is around dishes of soft shell crab and bun and pho that my family gathered around.

So there lies a comfort in food. I do not – and indeed, cannot – attribute my gastronomical preferences to my own merit. Rather, they are bred through the cultivation of one I have always aspired to be. The one who thinks it a necessity of life to experience the complex flavors of lobster and uni and the one who endeavors to taste scorpion on a stick. They are one and the same: the voice of life experience.

And why “SoHo” remains the deep-rooted preference of my heart. The unfading possibilities of a new lesson to be learned and then to be shared with the ones I esteem. Yes, my feeble mind cannot impart a strand of intellect worthy of those I love – the least I can do is to introduce them to a new and invigorating sensual pleasure.

(A day in Venice)