Food for Thought

All my life, I have been a picky eater. This, in part, is due to the tragically weak stomach my family seems to carry in it's gene pool. Too much flavor, and I suffer through a night of what my Dad gracefully called "The Trots," because one needed to trot to the bathroom, not walk.

However, here in Wales I decided that it was time for a new Keegan, a less picky Keegan that would eat whatever was out there, drink what other people were having, and experience the culinary excellence of the Welsh countryside. That, and I sometimes have a hard time understanding what people say. This is how I had a chick-pea curry.

After Will and I went to my dorm room, he took me to eat at the Arts Center here on Campus. Incidentally, until last night, I had eaten all my meals there. It's a nice place with a decent view and what I considered to be cheap food. I was in line before a series of dishes that all featured unrecognizable food parts. Huge heaping red and yellow casseroles. Was that a pepper? Carrot? Maybe a hunk of sausage? I stood dazed, and decided to start simple: with the white rice. I reached for the spoon, and started to root around the bowl when a nice woman asked me what we would like.

Will was there, looking sort of embarrassed for me, and order what I thought was chicken curry. I ordered the same, hoping to get away from the suspicious stare of the server. At the table, I noticed there was no chicken, but instead a heap of tiny white balls, some red peppers and a few other unrecognizable vegetables. Thanks to my obsession with The Food Network and Alton Brown's show Good eats, I knew that chickpeas, which usually are ground up into hummus, are also known as garbanzo beans; beans, for those with weak digestive systems, are usually blacklisted for their gas inducing effects. At this point, I didn't know my house mates, and I did not feel like introducing myself by way of the horrible noises coming from the bathroom (and, I wasn't really sure where said bathroom was). After all, you can only make one first impression.

I sat staring at it for a moment, and maybe because of my sleep deprived state (I had, after all, not slept since the previous afternoon), I just started eating. Honestly, it was not bad. Not particularly good, either, but not bad. It had a gritty, earthy taste not unlike eating spicy dirt. But nothing to sneeze at.

That night, there were no adverse affects, or at least none that woke me up, and the next morning, I made the decision to just eat whatever other people suggested. I have since had, and mind you, all at the Arts Center cafe, a Welsh beef with mint sauce and salad sandwich, a turkey with cranberry sauce and salad sandwich, chicken (this time, actually chicken) casserole, and my first experience with British tea.

Again, because of my weak stomach, I don't often tend to drink hot drinks. When I was working three jobs the summer between Freshman and Sophomore year, I developed acid reflux, which is both painful and disgusting. My doctor blacklisted most teas and coffees. But that was years ago, and really, when else would I get to drink tea with real British people.

I was having tea with my Second Supervisor, Pete Barry. He is an older academic, but despite his old-school attitudes towards studies, he was surprisingly well-versed in the contemporary fields of literary criticism. His recent work included a lecture tour on his think-piece about visual poetry. Suffice it to say, we hit it off well.

He took me, again, to the Arts Center, and asked what I wanted, noting the cold beverages, the coffees, and what not. I almost reached for an old standby, Coke-a-Cola, but decided that my new found attitude towards food was nagging me to try the tea. Peter ordered two and I mimicked everything he did. I added milk, a few sugars, stirred the thing, pulled out the tea-bag (which is a phrase that still, elicits a sophomoric giggle) and followed him upstairs.

English tea is sort of bitter and tasteless really. The milk and sugar did little to change that, but all in all, it was a delightful experience, and for one I really felt that I belonged to this subculture I was part of. There I was, taking afternoon tea, discussing books and travel; I had, I felt, arrived.

With that experience safely tucked under my belt, I decided to go into town and eat dinner. Most of this stuff I do by myself because I don't really know anyone yet. I met a few graduate students, and I now know of my housemates, but I don't really feel comfortable asking strangers to go eat with me. So, at about six-thirty, I gathered my things, and wandered down the hill into town.

Here's something I learned on my walk: the Welsh close up at 6:00 PM. The entire town was dark, though, oddly, there were people walking around with purpose. I followed a long train of students and locals down the hill from the University into the town center where people seemed to just mill about. All the stores were closed. Most of the restaurants were closing. I was worried that I might have to scrounge a meal out of the nearby vending machine when I noticed Grill's Fish and Chips Take Away and Restaurant at the end of the main road.

Situated on the beach, Grill's (or it might have been called The Blue Dolphin...it was hard to tell) had a nautical theme. I walked in, and was instantly confused. For one, there was no one there. Secondly, the two people working behind the counter seemed not to notice that I had come in. I found the menu mounted to the wall, and the woman behind the counter asked me if I was okay. I'm sure she meant something along the lines of, "Are you ready to order," but she might have noticed my stunned look, and actually wondered if I were okay.

Usually, when I am just standing there, I don't get too many odd looks. I am white, a little taller than the average Welshman, but really, little separates our appearances. However, the moment I open my mouth, people begin to treat me differently. This has made me extremely self-conscious about my speech patterns and vocal mannerisms.

"Yes," I started, trying to scramble and buy more time. I realized, no matter how much time I had, I was still going to be confused, so I sucked up my pride, turned to the nice woman behind the counter, and said, "Actually, no. How does this work?"
"Excuse me?"
"What do I do? I've never been to a place like this."
She picked up my accent, smiled broadly and said, "Okay, then. Have a look. See anything ya' fancy?"
I looked at a list of what I considered to be ingredients (meat, fish, potatoes) and was again confused. Time was running short, and I was worried a line might form behind me, so I asked what was good. The woman behind the counter reacted as if she had never been asked this question before. After some consultation with the line cook, they suggested the cod and chips, traditional British fish-and-chips. Again, my initial reaction was to reject the offer for fish. If you brought a fish dish to a family party with my relatives, you would be forced to walk home, carrying your shame in the ceramic dish you brought with you. But, again, I figured why not. The woman instructed me down the line, gave me my Coke, and a tray and told me to sit where I like. She even offered me reading material, seeing I was alone.

I took a booth in a back corner where I could observe the rest of the crowd, which was just me for most of the time. Eventually, a family came in, and also struggled with the ordering process (despite being nationalized). When my meal came out, there was a long filet, heavily breaded and deep-fried served with some huge, square French Fries (which I will now have to call chips). I cut into the filet and saw the flaky white contents spill out onto the plate. I took a deep breath, and before I could realize what was going on, I took a bite.

It was really good. It did not taste like fish that I was used to, though fish in Illinois has always been suspect to me. That is a landlocked state, and the fish that are caught in Lake Michigan are hardly edible. I was surprised by this light, slightly lemony flavor. The chips were good, too. I cleared my plate, wiped my mouth, and was thoroughly satisfied.