No cheese, please
August 16, 2004 | 12:00am
The prospect of foreign travel is something that usually gets us all giddy with anticipated pleasure shopping! shows! food! and Im no exception in this respect. I cant tell you where Im going yet until the formal invitation comes through, and it wont happen for at least another month, but my minds already winging halfway around the world to this place Ive never really been except for a brief stopover, once, at an airport laced with cigarette fumes hovering above a hint of sausage.
The travel preliminaries included an interview with a friendly consular official who (for a welcome change, considering that most consular officers weve met seem to want to do everything they can to keep you away from their country) wanted to know what my interests were and where I wanted to go. That, needless to say, was enormous fun, a dream coming true; again Ill tell you what I asked for when I get there and when I get it.
But inevitably, The Question came up, the one that always provokes a puzzled stare when answered: "Any dietary preferences or restrictions?" I hesitated for a second, thinking that it might be some trick question my benefactor was obliged to ask, in case my response provided them with good reason to revoke their generosity. But one has to be scrupulously honest in these matters, lest the sky fall or, worse, lest you fall out of the sky on your way to Shangri-La and so I swallowed the lump in my throat and admitted: "Cheese. I hate cheese."
"Cheese!" cried my fair-haired interrogator, who probably grew up on cheese and bratwurst the way I did on guava jelly and galunggong. But he dutifully noted my answer down, relieved when I hastened to explain that it wasnt total lactose intolerance they were dealing with, just queso-phobia, or whatever this maladys called.
Im not the only one I know who hates cheese. I had a friend named Oca who not only eschewed cheese but also adored Ma Mon Luk the way I did, leading me to theorize that there must be some connection between one and the other, namely the fact that Chinese cuisine (I know, associating that noble phrase with Ma Mon Luk might be equivalent to some of you to calling my VW Beetle a limousine, but what the heck, Id kill for that ammoniac mami) seems to ignore milk and milk products altogether. Theres a dissertation out there just waiting to be written thatll prove me right.
But theory aside, my cheese intolerance stems from a form of psychological incapacity, a maiming-for-life that probably began with exposure in early childhood to a deep and traumatizing whiff of the vile stuff, one Christmastime or other. Ya ya ya, there are all kinds of cheeses, some less olfactorily offensive than others, but thats like saying that some tumors are benign you still wouldnt want one, would you?
As you can imagine, this quirk of mine has led to all manner of complications. At restaurants, whenever I order pasta, I have to remind the waiter as loudly and as often as I can, above all the cell phone ring tunes and the clink of cutlery and the birdlike chatter about last weeks golf game or clearance sale to keep my instructions firmly in mind: "No cheese, please!" It works about half the time leading, when it doesnt, to another round of remonstrations and reminders, and that inevitable stare of wonder and pity from the people nearby who must see me as some odd animal afflicted with some exotic ailment.
Everybody else in the house loves cheese; Demi was practically raised on daily doses of cheddar (but then she hates jackfruit, an aversion I find mighty strange). And again, I dont despise everything dairy; I devoured Star Margarine (no relation to this newspaper) by the spoonful, and actually learned to eat butter at around the age of 11, when I finally convinced myself that it wasnt some insidious variety of cheese masquerading as a kindly cousin. So its really just cheese or rather, its really just me (and maybe my friend Oca).
The supreme irony had to be when I became a resident of Milwaukee, Wisconsin for a few years. You know, Milwaukee? Its that town whose cars sport stickers saying "We Love Cows" and whose football fans proudly call themselves "cheeseheads" (and dress accordingly, mounting Styrofoam slices of "cheese" on their heads to proclaim their allegiance). At one state fair I visited, the marvel of choice was "The Worlds Largest Block of Cheese," displayed on the back of a huge truck for all to see and salivate over except yours truly, who felt like Superman being offered a years supply of kryptonite.
In graduate school in America, where wine and cheese parties were de rigueur for any self-respecting Updike wannabe, I learned to home in on the wine, and turned into a loquacious lush in no time. I took my nachos pure and dry, and, when I couldnt avoid pizza, scraped all the yellow goo off, leaving me with a perfect and perfectly vacant crust.
Today my Fear Factor nightmares consist of being buried alive in an avalanche of shredded Parmesan, or being entombed in a pyramid of Edam. To avoid embarrassing myself, not to mention my hosts, I take pains to decline invitations to social events and commitments that could lead to a deadly encounter with cheese, especially the kind of situation you cant run away from, like a formal dinner with a fancy French menu printed on a card as thick as your plate. (Did I say that I also hate artichokes and broccoli? I do love adobong kangkong, but they never seem to serve it with ambassadors around. And did I say that I love airplane food and hospital food? But thats another story.)
Meanwhile, Im brushing up on the language of this place Im headed for if only to be able to say, with a suitably clipped accent, "No cheese, please!"
Speaking of language, I had a brief but interesting e-mail exchange last week with a reader well call MC, who asked me to forward a message to my fellow columnist Juaniyo Arcellana, who in turn had written earlier about the centenary of the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda, widely acclaimed to have been the greatest poet of the 20th century in any language.
MCs message was accompanied by an article he had downloaded from the online version of a magazine called The Weekly Standard, written by a critic named Stephen Schwartz, and titled "Bad Poet, Bad Man." According to Schwartz, " The truth does need to be said: Pablo Neruda was a bad writer and a bad man. His main public is located not in the Spanish-speaking nations but in the Anglo-European countries, and his reputation derives almost entirely from the iconic place he once occupied in politics which is to say, hes the greatest poet of the twentieth century because he was a Stalinist at exactly the right moment, and not because of his poetry, which is doggerel . The admirers of Neruda are tourists in their approach to Hispanic literature, like people who attend a flamenco dance performance and think they have seen Spain but with a politically correct edge."
MC wanted to know if I agreed with this contrary assessment of Neruda and, in effect, with the judging of writers by their personal character. MC was disturbed by Nerudas Stalinism, reputedly deplored by Federico Garcia Lorca as being "closer to blood than to ink."
I told MC that while there was no easy answer to his question, I was inclined to take Neruda for the fabulous poet that I thought he was, and never mind that I dont know Spanish poetry as well as Mr. Schwartz claims to. Neruda had once written that "poetry should get its hands dirty" and thats my kind of art rooted and robust.
As for his ideology, well, perhaps we should ask: what has survived, the poetry or the politics? Do you know, or care to know, how Shakespeare felt about the Elizabethan state? (Its there, in the work, if you look really hard but do you want to?) Should we read the book, or the person behind the book? Myself, I read the book more than the man; God will probably read both the person more than the poetry, but I dont have that capacity. If I cant lead a good life, try as I might, I can at least attempt a good book, which might prove my salvation.
A reader named Esmeraldo Roque Jr. also wrote in to remind me and my readers that referring to last weeks piece on promoting and popularizing science in this country a great start had already been made by the late physicist Dr. Celso Roque, who wrote a column in the Philippine STAR titled De Rerum Natura, which is being continued by his widow Maribel Garcia. I stand reminded; I certainly didnt mean to imply that we discovered the wheel, but was only suggesting that the more wheels of this kind, the better. Both De Rerum Natura and STAR Science appear in this newspaper on Thursdays.
Im always glad when good people do well for themselves, and this week I take my hat off to two such fine persons and artists.
The first of them is Sylvia Mendez Ventura, retired professor of English and my tutor in Shakespeare and, hands-down, the most stylish profesora who ever walked the corridors of UPs Faculty Center. Earlier this month, she unveiled a marvelous other talent as a watercolorist in an exhibit titled Floral Medley, Floral Paintings in Watercolor, at Gallery Y at the Megamall Art Walk.
The second is brilliant young painter Mark Salvatus, whom we met on our visit to Lucbans Pahiyas last May, and who won the 2004 Grand PBBY Alcala Prize. He received his award last July 20 at the CCP, coinciding with the launching of his first book as an illustrator.
Kudos to you both, who richly deserve all the praises that come your way.
There arent too many places in UP Diliman where you can find a good cup of coffee, a yummy slice of chocolate cake, a hearty plate of pasta, and good music. One of thems the Chocolate Kiss Café at Ang Bahay ng Alumni (there are two Chocolate Kiss cafés, actually one on the ground floor and one upstairs, both offering the same fare).
On Friday, Aug. 20, Chocolate Kiss has a special treat for its patrons and guests: a dinner-dance titled "A Kiss to Build a Dream On," featuring the music of the 40s and 50s, with Da Capo playing period classics. The show is being held for the benefit of the UP Health Service, which, Lord knows, could use all the help it can get. Tickets will go for P600, inclusive of dinner, cocktails and one drink. Please call CK for more details at 434-7430.
Send e-mail to Butch Dalisay at penmanila@yahoo.com.
The travel preliminaries included an interview with a friendly consular official who (for a welcome change, considering that most consular officers weve met seem to want to do everything they can to keep you away from their country) wanted to know what my interests were and where I wanted to go. That, needless to say, was enormous fun, a dream coming true; again Ill tell you what I asked for when I get there and when I get it.
But inevitably, The Question came up, the one that always provokes a puzzled stare when answered: "Any dietary preferences or restrictions?" I hesitated for a second, thinking that it might be some trick question my benefactor was obliged to ask, in case my response provided them with good reason to revoke their generosity. But one has to be scrupulously honest in these matters, lest the sky fall or, worse, lest you fall out of the sky on your way to Shangri-La and so I swallowed the lump in my throat and admitted: "Cheese. I hate cheese."
"Cheese!" cried my fair-haired interrogator, who probably grew up on cheese and bratwurst the way I did on guava jelly and galunggong. But he dutifully noted my answer down, relieved when I hastened to explain that it wasnt total lactose intolerance they were dealing with, just queso-phobia, or whatever this maladys called.
Im not the only one I know who hates cheese. I had a friend named Oca who not only eschewed cheese but also adored Ma Mon Luk the way I did, leading me to theorize that there must be some connection between one and the other, namely the fact that Chinese cuisine (I know, associating that noble phrase with Ma Mon Luk might be equivalent to some of you to calling my VW Beetle a limousine, but what the heck, Id kill for that ammoniac mami) seems to ignore milk and milk products altogether. Theres a dissertation out there just waiting to be written thatll prove me right.
But theory aside, my cheese intolerance stems from a form of psychological incapacity, a maiming-for-life that probably began with exposure in early childhood to a deep and traumatizing whiff of the vile stuff, one Christmastime or other. Ya ya ya, there are all kinds of cheeses, some less olfactorily offensive than others, but thats like saying that some tumors are benign you still wouldnt want one, would you?
As you can imagine, this quirk of mine has led to all manner of complications. At restaurants, whenever I order pasta, I have to remind the waiter as loudly and as often as I can, above all the cell phone ring tunes and the clink of cutlery and the birdlike chatter about last weeks golf game or clearance sale to keep my instructions firmly in mind: "No cheese, please!" It works about half the time leading, when it doesnt, to another round of remonstrations and reminders, and that inevitable stare of wonder and pity from the people nearby who must see me as some odd animal afflicted with some exotic ailment.
Everybody else in the house loves cheese; Demi was practically raised on daily doses of cheddar (but then she hates jackfruit, an aversion I find mighty strange). And again, I dont despise everything dairy; I devoured Star Margarine (no relation to this newspaper) by the spoonful, and actually learned to eat butter at around the age of 11, when I finally convinced myself that it wasnt some insidious variety of cheese masquerading as a kindly cousin. So its really just cheese or rather, its really just me (and maybe my friend Oca).
The supreme irony had to be when I became a resident of Milwaukee, Wisconsin for a few years. You know, Milwaukee? Its that town whose cars sport stickers saying "We Love Cows" and whose football fans proudly call themselves "cheeseheads" (and dress accordingly, mounting Styrofoam slices of "cheese" on their heads to proclaim their allegiance). At one state fair I visited, the marvel of choice was "The Worlds Largest Block of Cheese," displayed on the back of a huge truck for all to see and salivate over except yours truly, who felt like Superman being offered a years supply of kryptonite.
In graduate school in America, where wine and cheese parties were de rigueur for any self-respecting Updike wannabe, I learned to home in on the wine, and turned into a loquacious lush in no time. I took my nachos pure and dry, and, when I couldnt avoid pizza, scraped all the yellow goo off, leaving me with a perfect and perfectly vacant crust.
Today my Fear Factor nightmares consist of being buried alive in an avalanche of shredded Parmesan, or being entombed in a pyramid of Edam. To avoid embarrassing myself, not to mention my hosts, I take pains to decline invitations to social events and commitments that could lead to a deadly encounter with cheese, especially the kind of situation you cant run away from, like a formal dinner with a fancy French menu printed on a card as thick as your plate. (Did I say that I also hate artichokes and broccoli? I do love adobong kangkong, but they never seem to serve it with ambassadors around. And did I say that I love airplane food and hospital food? But thats another story.)
Meanwhile, Im brushing up on the language of this place Im headed for if only to be able to say, with a suitably clipped accent, "No cheese, please!"
MCs message was accompanied by an article he had downloaded from the online version of a magazine called The Weekly Standard, written by a critic named Stephen Schwartz, and titled "Bad Poet, Bad Man." According to Schwartz, " The truth does need to be said: Pablo Neruda was a bad writer and a bad man. His main public is located not in the Spanish-speaking nations but in the Anglo-European countries, and his reputation derives almost entirely from the iconic place he once occupied in politics which is to say, hes the greatest poet of the twentieth century because he was a Stalinist at exactly the right moment, and not because of his poetry, which is doggerel . The admirers of Neruda are tourists in their approach to Hispanic literature, like people who attend a flamenco dance performance and think they have seen Spain but with a politically correct edge."
MC wanted to know if I agreed with this contrary assessment of Neruda and, in effect, with the judging of writers by their personal character. MC was disturbed by Nerudas Stalinism, reputedly deplored by Federico Garcia Lorca as being "closer to blood than to ink."
I told MC that while there was no easy answer to his question, I was inclined to take Neruda for the fabulous poet that I thought he was, and never mind that I dont know Spanish poetry as well as Mr. Schwartz claims to. Neruda had once written that "poetry should get its hands dirty" and thats my kind of art rooted and robust.
As for his ideology, well, perhaps we should ask: what has survived, the poetry or the politics? Do you know, or care to know, how Shakespeare felt about the Elizabethan state? (Its there, in the work, if you look really hard but do you want to?) Should we read the book, or the person behind the book? Myself, I read the book more than the man; God will probably read both the person more than the poetry, but I dont have that capacity. If I cant lead a good life, try as I might, I can at least attempt a good book, which might prove my salvation.
The first of them is Sylvia Mendez Ventura, retired professor of English and my tutor in Shakespeare and, hands-down, the most stylish profesora who ever walked the corridors of UPs Faculty Center. Earlier this month, she unveiled a marvelous other talent as a watercolorist in an exhibit titled Floral Medley, Floral Paintings in Watercolor, at Gallery Y at the Megamall Art Walk.
The second is brilliant young painter Mark Salvatus, whom we met on our visit to Lucbans Pahiyas last May, and who won the 2004 Grand PBBY Alcala Prize. He received his award last July 20 at the CCP, coinciding with the launching of his first book as an illustrator.
Kudos to you both, who richly deserve all the praises that come your way.
On Friday, Aug. 20, Chocolate Kiss has a special treat for its patrons and guests: a dinner-dance titled "A Kiss to Build a Dream On," featuring the music of the 40s and 50s, with Da Capo playing period classics. The show is being held for the benefit of the UP Health Service, which, Lord knows, could use all the help it can get. Tickets will go for P600, inclusive of dinner, cocktails and one drink. Please call CK for more details at 434-7430.
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