Most striking was the gusto the cinnamon buns engendered. Every child consumed every crumb and icing drizzle.Three children, seemingly swept into near unconsciousness by the sugar buzz, finished their pastries, inverted the cellophane packaging with one hand inside, and methodically, carefully, systematically licked every molecule of sucrose off the inside of the plastic as if they were zombies consuming icing popsicles.

The chocolate milk was also greatly appreciated. Every carton was opened. Three-quarters of the kids finished every drop.

Only a few children even bothered to unkink the twist-tie and get to the sugary fruit and hard boiled egg. Of those, only two children ate an egg.

The garbage can was full of food. And plenty of plastic packaging.

Final consumption:

100% Cinnamon bun
75%  Chocolate milk
15%  Sweetened applesauce
5%  Hard-boiled egg

Childhood obesity. Diabetes. Waste.

We’re sowing. And we will reap.

©2012 Steve Cotler's Irrepressibly True Tales. All Rights Reserved.

Over the years, her disappearing shades routine, unpredictable, yet certain as California earthquakes, has clashed spectacularly with a strong preference for fashion and quality. But the former dominated the latter, and she purchased inexpensive dark glasses, one after another after another.

Until last week.

For months she had been badgering her style-oblivious husband to venture mallward on a clothes shopping expedition. He employed every excuse (“There’s a documentary on kiwi pruning I can’t miss”), but finally he entered the emporia on her arm. Three stores, five shirts, two sweaters, a package of underwear, and 31 minutes later, he was finished. On their way out, recalling the evaporation of her last pair, she paused, then entered a store devoted to protecting every eye.

“Go next door and look at hats,” she suggested, and her husband, prejudicially bored by sunglasses (he never wears them), went next door to look at hats. After one quick walk around the chapeau shop (99% baseball caps) and a scientific examination of embroidering machine technology, he strolled back to find her at a register, paying for her purchase.

“I bought a this,” she said, holding up a decorative string with little rubber loops at each end. “Hook it on my sunglasses, and I’ll never lose them again.”

Edwin Land

Noting his horror-struck mien, she said, “I was hoping for you to stay longer in the hat store.”

There was nothing more to say, and they spoke no more about it.

Until today.

They went out to dinner at a local restaurant not yet tried, ordered the day’s special to share, and were pleasantly surprised by the presentation, quality, and quantity of the meal. The owner/manager was courteous, almost charming, and attentive, and the atmosphere was just right. But the Monday night service was repetitively lacking.

Their ragout arrived bubbling hot, but there was no spoon with which to serve it. The husband lifted his head, raised an arm, and finally had to leave their table to locate a waitress and make a request.

The couple soon exhausted their bread and wished more, and when no employee passed by, it was she who rose to summon a refill. Even with these service gaffes, when the gracious host appeared tableside to ask if he could do anything else for them, the two carped at nothing, rather they expressed delight with the flavors. The proprietor nodded and smiled. They asked for waters. He never returned.

Finally, watered by yet another summoned waitress, they requested the check…and chuckled to each other (“We’re in no hurry.”) when it didn’t come.

At last, the tab paid, they exited the restaurant holding hands, pleasantly full and agreeing that the food warranted a repeat visit.

“But,” he began as they reached their car, “the service was…”

He was interrupted by a waitress calling out to them as she ran across the parking lot, carrying the wife’s new sunglasses aloft.

Husband and wife stood for an instant.

Then she laughed.

And he laughed harder. “…the service was terrific.”

©2012 Steve Cotler's Irrepressibly True Tales. All Rights Reserved.

“We sample more than 200 olive oils a year and conduct rigorous chemical analysis through independent labs,” NAOOA president Bob Bauer explained. “We’re finding that less than 10 percent of the oils tested have any problems and they, in total, typically represent less than 1 percent of the market.”

The UC Davis report was summarized in an Associated Press story that was reprinted in dozens of newspapers and copied onto hundreds of blogs without, in almost all cases, any amplification or investigation. The blogs (I checked 30) did not list the brands tested (see below) or link to the UC Davis paper, thus making them sensational rather than informational.

UC Davis is a prestigious university with exemplary credentials in agricultural sciences. But as with many such research projects, the study was underwritten by parties with vested interests in the outcome (Corto Olive, California Olive Ranch, and the California Olive Oil Council). In a telephone interview, Dan Flynn, executive director of the UC Davis Olive Center, explained that the funders “had no involvement in selecting the samples, how they were tested, or how the results were reported. UC Davis has a century-long record of integrity.” Had the results been reversed, he stated, “We would have issued the paper just the same.”

Whom should you trust? Which EVOO do you buy?

Super Mammoth Olives... judge their size by noting that this is a one liter jar

But since Extra Virgin is the term the industry uses, it better be above reproach.

Nineteen brands (14 imported, 5 California) were assayed at UC Davis and the Australian Oils Research Laboratory, a government research center and testing laboratory in New South Wales certified by the International Olive Council.

Only one of the imported brands, Costco’s Kirkland Organic, had all samples meet the IOC/USDA Extra Virgin Olive Oil sensory standards (olfactory, gustatory, tactile/kinaesthetic) compared with four out of five California oils. The brands, with the fraction that passed, are listed below:

Imported
0/3 Bertolli
0/3 Carapelli
1/3 Colavita
1/3 Filippo Berio
2/3 Great Value 100%
3/3 Kirkland Organic
0/3 Mazola
0/3 Mezzetta
1/3 Newman’s Own Organics
0/3 Pompeian
1/3 Rachael Ray
1/3 Safeway Select
2/3 Star
1/3 Whole Food 365 100% Italian

California
1/2 Bariani
2/2 California Olive Ranch (study funder)
2/2 Corto Olive (study funder)
2/2 Lucero Ascolano
2/2 McEvoy Ranch Organic

In a blog post announcing that its products passed the UC Davis tests, California Olive Ranch wrote:

Part of the reason bogus EVOO can be sold in this country is because there are no federal standards governing quality. The USDA recently adopted standards meant to ensure the bottle of extra virgin olive oil you buy at the store is genuine and not some fake EVOO. The new federal standards, however, are voluntary.

According to the NAOOA, 99% of all olive oil purchased in the U.S. is imported. If California olive oil is actually higher in quality overall, there is much to be gained by pushing for tougher regulation. Until voluntary becomes mandatory, however, the claims and counterclaims will be momentary news…and the products, high-quality and bogus, will stay on the shelves.

*     *     *     *     *

Note: I was puzzled by the olive oil tasting term fusty. I know what a fusty old codger is, but taste…? The best definition I could find was an off flavor due to olives fermenting in piles while in storage, awaiting pressing. Another site opined: hard to describe … somewhat like Justice Potter Stewart’s definition of pornography: “I know it when I see it.”

Suggestion: Whatever olive oil you buy, choose a colored bottle. Light can cause oxidation.

©2012 Steve Cotler's Irrepressibly True Tales. All Rights Reserved.

In minutes the winding pockmarks became new macadam, but our progress remained slow until we passed the yellow-flagged, plant-eating crew manning machines that chewed shoulder grass, weeds, and three-inch thick branches like Skoal. For the next several miles the expansive views and expensive houses explained why the road was the best we had yet found on the island.

At a junction not shown on our see-visit-buy map, the Scenic Route, which was indicated to be dirt throughout, finally found its nature and became dirt. Rising, twisting, and no longer mowed, it collapsed to a narrow, rutted lane, and began climbing steeply. Never ones to do the common touristic quadrille, we laughed at the mountain and commented on the beautiful flora, the soft breeze, and the thrill of exploration.

(Artist's conception...some objects have been enlarged to improve narrative clarity)

A furlong more, and my love for the rut-rock road became an oil pan anxiety. I stopped, got out, and hiked uphill, looking for an expanded waist where I might perform a three-, four-, or eight-point turn and live to drive another road. I measured each possible location with my eyes, discarding all that seemed likely to drop a wheel down and hang up the undercarriage. Finally, five car lengths into litho-purgatory, I resolved to make my play.

My confidence was not buoyed when, upon my resitting the driver’s seat, my wife, fearing sinkholes, surprising abysses, or my unexpected desire to breach the cliff edge, announced that she would watch from land. I laughed with a Legionnaire’s sangfroid, mounted my camel, and proceeded alone across dip and prominence, listening with three ears for the rasp of destruction below.

Credit fair driving and fine surveying. I made the forth-and-back without incident and returned to St. Croix’s pleasant roads accompanied by my wife and her many compliments.

After a delicious and authentic Frederiksted lunch of salt fish with dumpling and stewed goat served by the West End Grill‘s no-nonsense wait staff, we spent the rest of the day at the St. George Botanical Gardens, a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon.

Unique among the many such collections we have visited, the St. George is on the grounds of an 18th century Danish sugar cane plantation, with the plants growing out of the ruins.

Where other facilities might have lawyers protecting visitors from the risk of slanted, uneven steps, St. George requires your activity and connection to them. “Beautiful,” we said repeatedly, always conscious of emotional cross–currents engendered by robust, spectacular, and rare plant life lifting out of tumbled rock walls erected by African slaves.

(More from the St. George Botanical Gardens to follow soon.)

©2012 Steve Cotler's Irrepressibly True Tales. All Rights Reserved.

The fort, a U.S. National Historic Landmark, houses a rather modest museum. There is little to see other than the cannon’s view of the harbor, a few pre-Columbian Taino and Carib artifacts (Columbus landed on St. Croix in 1493), and a room of Caribbean mahogany furniture, including several cradles, a bed, chamber pot cabinets, a bidet, and a gentleman’s liquor box (see below). Preservation of historical and cultural artifacts was not a priority until relatively recently, so much of St. Croix’s past is only now being recaptured.

As we exited the fort and passed by the territorial legislature building, we heard a paradiddle, turned a corner, and watched what was probably the entire student body of St. Patrick School drilling in preparation for this weekend’s patron saint parade.

Frederiksted is the site of the 1848 uprising that ended slavery on St. Croix. Accordingly, Saint Patrick is honored by Crucian Catholics because he, a Romano-Briton, was captured by Irish raiders in the 5th century and enslaved in Ireland for six years before escaping, taking holy orders, and returning to Ireland as a missionary.Lunch was charming. We ate at Polly’s at the Pier, an almost-year-old, organic, nearly vegetarian eatery run by partners Steven Schawl and Seth Wilcoxon, transplanted Midwesterners, now committed to St. Croix.

Gentleman's Liquor Box

They have a full bar, but I was most intrigued by their beer. They call it micro-brewed, but nano-, pico- or even femto- would be more accurate. They brew in five-gallon batches, exactly what I do at home. Their signature is Polly’s Pale Ale, but I sampled their Bock: excellent…brown-eyed, not over-hopped, with notes of cassis, piñon, and Abba-Zaba.

Steven and Seth. Polly is the beloved female pictured above the bar.

©2012 Steve Cotler's Irrepressibly True Tales. All Rights Reserved.

…the nearby hipster donut shop, Dynamo, whose most popular item is the Maple Glazed Bacon Apple donut…

…reserving sweet dishes for the end of a meal is thus a recent development. In the Middle Ages, a main course in England or France might include a dish like rabbits or beef tongue in gravy covered in sugar…

…as French cuisine develops from the 14th and to the 18th century, main courses become more and more savory rather than sweet, and sweet dishes slowly shift toward the end of the meal…

…Chinese dates with “snow frog”, 雪蛤. Snow frog is the poetic name given to frog fallopian tubes…

—flavor elements for sour tend to be rice vinegars in China, tamarind in south-east Asia, lemon juice or grain vinegar in the United States, sour orange or key lime in Central America, and wine vinegars in France (hence the name vin-aigre, ‘sour wine’). The Yiddish souring element is crystals of citric acid called “sour salt”.

I encourage you to consume Jurafsky’s entire meal.

©2012 Steve Cotler's Irrepressibly True Tales. All Rights Reserved.

“A friend whose car I am borrowing is warning me if the brakes fail, do not bother to fix them. Someone will get in your way, and you will soon stop. But if the horn should fail, you must get it fixed at once. Without a horn, you cannot warn the people in front of you, and you will be responsible for any accident.”

In less than a fortnight, Ram tells me, the horn does fail, probably because he, like everyone else in Delhi, uses it to excess. So he finds a repair shop on the Inner Circle, the perimeter road around the city’s central, British-built park. Hundreds of shops ring this two-mile diameter greensward. As Ram sits waiting for the horn to be repaired (as with all things in India, this takes time, because there are no spare parts, so whatever is broken must be mended, not replaced), he marvels at the teeming throng. Thousands pass by him in the hour he sits.

At last his gaze fixes on one man, a peddler with a rough-hewn food cart that is parked on a street that spokes out from the Inner Circle. The peddler’s counter top is heaped with dozens of breads, a large bowl of cooked garbanzo beans, a pile of leaves stacked for use as plates, and various pots of condiments. His hands move like a dancer’s trained feet—in seconds he has loaded a leaf with garbanzos, slathered on the proper condiments, and dropped on a piece of bread. Then with a whisk of a wrist, the leaf is exchanged for a rupee. A ten-year-old boy, a son Ram assumes, cleans up and keeps the various piles properly stacked. In a span of 45 minutes, Ram estimates that he serves 100 people.

“I am thinking,” Ram tells me, “that McDonalds can learn from this man, but suddenly there is much yelling and scuffling of crowds. Police, or some manner of inspector constables, have descended upon the peddler, who has obviously been selling his wares without the necessary permit. His foodstuffs are swept to the ground, and the food cart is lifted onto the back of a truck. Several other peddlers’ carts are already on the truck. This peddler is yelling, pleading in the name of his wife and family, offering to move somewhere else, finally falling to his knees in front of the officer in charge, begging for a chance to do what must be done to set things right. He is howling, ‘This is my only work—please sir. My family will be starving.’ There is loud wailing, but all to no avail. The truck departs.”

As soon as the police truck drove off, Ram relates, the crowd resumed its relentless flow, and the peddler’s agony ceased abruptly. He reached into his pocket for money and sent the boy for a couple of glasses of tea.

“I was very surprised,” Ram explains. “Here was a man whose family was soon to be starving, and he is sitting and sipping tea.”

Ram pauses to answer the phone: a takeout order that he relays to the kitchen. When he is finished, he takes his time continuing the tale. I sip tea. Finally…

“I should not have been so concerned. This man, he was sipping tea only 15 minutes, waiting only for police to be far away. Then, from out of an alley, he is pulling another food cart, identical to the first. In a few more minutes he is back in business. I am impressed. This is Indian fast food in more ways than one!”

©2012 Steve Cotler's Irrepressibly True Tales. All Rights Reserved.

Mr. Mizutani sat next to me, serving as translator for the three men who did not speak English. These included Mr. Wada, the senior exec, a jovial, take-charge gentleman who ordered assorted appetizers for the table just after our drinks arrived. Wada made certain that I was the center of attention; through Mizutani he asked many questions. Although at 27 I was the youngest, all the men listened intently to my responses as if I were offering great wisdom.

When it was time to order, Wada spoke in Japanese to Mizutani, who turned to me and asked, “Kotora-san, what you like to eat?”

“I like everything,” I replied. This was generally true. I am an adventurous diner.

Mizutani translated, but Wada was unsatisfied. At his urging, Mizutani spoke to me again, “Mr. Wada ask, what you really like to eat?”

“Please, have Mr. Wada choose. I do like everything. You’d be hard-pressed to find something I don‘t like.”

Mr. Mizutani translated, and Mr. Wada looked at me with raised eyebrows, then smiled broadly. He jawed energetically with two of the other men, then motioned for the waiter. There was a rush of Japanese from Wada, interlarded with the waiter’s “hai” each time Wada paused for breath.

A few minutes later the waiter returned with one small dish which he ceremoniously placed in front of me. I looked around. All were smiling and nodding.

“Just for me?”

“More food coming,” Mizutani replied. “You eat.”

I looked down. A flaccid, orange-brown glob rested in what looked like an egg cup. It was shiny and seemed to be covered in a thin membrane. “What is it?” I asked.

“Not know how to say in English,” Mizutani answered quickly.

“Is it animal, vegetable, mineral? Where does it come from?” I persisted with a smile.

“Come from bottom of ocean.”

I looked for chopsticks or a spoon. “How do I eat it?”

Mizutani made a motion indicating that I should lift the cup and pour what looked like an egg yolk that was past its sell-date directly into my mouth.

I lifted the cup, and as it reached my chin, I saw six pairs of eyes watching me intently. Too late to reverse direction, I tipped the blob into my mouth and bit.

It had the consistency of Elmer’s glue and tasted like what chemical toilet disinfectant smelled like. At that instant, my brain ceased processing any sensations coming from beyond my mouth and nose. I saw, heard, and felt nothing. I was still aware, however, that I should not embarrass my hosts, so I swallowed quickly, and without obvious signs of distress. With dignity and careful pacing, I reached for my sake, swallowed a full cup, and the lights came back on again.

Everyone was looking at me.

Wada spoke. Mizutani translated. “You like that.”

I smiled. “Yes. Very good.”

Mizutani relayed. Wada was quick with his response. Mizutani turned back to me. “Mr. Wada ask, you really like that?”

“It was okay.”

This time Mizutani’s words initiated a vigorous discussion among everyone at the table. I couldn’t understand their words, but disagreement was obvious. Finally Mizutani, clearly uncomfortable, looked back at me and said, “Mr. Wada want me to ask again. You really like that?”

“Well,” I said, “since you’ve asked me three times, I’ll tell you…no, I didn’t.”

Mizutani’s translation immediately occasioned an animated discussion. The not-so-carefully-hidden delight troubled me, but I merely asked, “I would really like to know what it was I ate.”

Mizutani motioned for the maitre d’ and asked. The maitre d’ bowed to me and said, “I not know how to say in English, but we have boy in kitchen who went to college at UCLA. Maybe he know.”

A minute or so later the maitre d’ returned, bowed again and said, “Is called …sea cucumber guts.” He smiled broadly and retreated.

After a pause during which I inventoried my knowledge of the life and habitat of this unattractive invertebrate, I asked Mizutani to summon the waiter.

“What you want, Kotora-san?”

“I so greatly appreciate the excellent hospitality Mr. Wada has shown me. I would like order one of these…” I pointed to my empty egg cup. “…for each of you.”

Mizutani looked stricken. He started to respond, but spoke first to Wada. Wada shook his head hard and issued an anxious, but unequivocal order.

“Mr. Wada say, ‘Not necessary.’”

“I insist.”

“Very expensive. Not necessary.”

“Please call the waiter.” I looked over my shoulder. Wada’s obvious agitation was amplified by Mizutani’s words to him, so I altered my plan. “Please ask Mr. Wada if he likes sea cucumber guts.”

Wada shook his head. I looked at each of the others in turn. All answered with emphatic negatives.

“I’m confused,” I said to Mizutani. “If all of you dislike this so much, why did you order it for me?”

I soon learned the perils of translation. I had said, “You’d be hard-pressed to find something I don‘t like.” Somehow, “to press hard” had translated as “to dare,” and Mr. Wada had accepted the challenge of finding something that I definitely would not like.

He succeeded.

Ginza image: www.dreamholidayjapan.com/tokyo/Must-Do/

©2012 Steve Cotler's Irrepressibly True Tales. All Rights Reserved.

This was no burgers-and-breakfast boxcar on cinder blocks; the Merrick Diner was huge, but at this hour, far less than half-full. My brothers sat down; I went to the men’s room. When I returned, they had already ordered bowls of Long Island Clam Chowder (a red kind for those who know only New England white). A couple of minutes later, the waiter returned with their soups, and I dittoed, “The same for me.”

I began to rue my slavish conformity when Doug, several swallows in, asked, “What’s the clam situation in yours?”

“Mostly bits, and not too many of those,” Lanny replied over a lifted, carefully eyeballed spoon.

There must have been some clam jam in the kitchen because my brothers were down to bowl bottoms when my order finally arrived.

Challenged by their less-than-clamful experiences, I consumed my chowder with close attention to molluscan quantity, sieving the broth through my teeth and carefully consuming the potatoes and tomatoes without injuring a single ocean dweller. By the time I finished, I had sequestered one clam fragment, which now rested, pearl-like, on the shiny concavity of my spoon.

“This is just wrong,” I bleated.

“You should complain to the boss,” Lanny suggested, tilting his head toward the man who stood next to the cashier, looking managerial.

In any sibling grouping, there is an instigator (Lanny) and one or more stooges (Steve and Doug).

“Hey, Stevie. Taste this.”

“Hey, Dougie. Jump off the roof, and I’ll catch you.”

Spoon held unobtrusively at my side, I advanced to the cashier’s station. After determining that the gentleman was indeed the manager, I began.

“This is not a big complaint, but my brothers and I just finished three bowls of your rather tasty Long Island Clam Chowder, and we noticed that there seemed to be a significant lack of clams. In fact, this…” I held the spoon and its clam crumb aloft. “…was the only clam in my bowl.”

The manager responded without hesitation, “Makes sense. You notice we don’t call it Long Island Clams Chowder.”

Our laughter didn’t stop until we paid the bill, left a big tip, and went to Doug’s show.

©2012 Steve Cotler's Irrepressibly True Tales. All Rights Reserved.