Excerpt: ‘The Year of Eating Dangerously’

Lunch was equally depraved, usually mince, grey, gloomy and gristle-filled. A few despondent boiled potatoes, complete with mouldy black eye, stared up, begging the horror to end. Sometimes, these wretched specimens would be given a very cursory mashing (i.e. broken up with a fork) and put on top of the mince. This was dubbed Cottage Pie. Sometimes they added a tinned tomato and a handful of musty oregano and named it Bolognese (if I hailed from Bologna, I’d sue the bastards for libel). Or slip in a few uncooked sheets of lasagne and christen it — yup, you’ve guessed it — lasagne. When it came to mince, my school’s kitchen creativity knew no bounds. Liver was particularly horrific, tough, pungent and riddled with chewy veins. Of course, the plate had to be cleaned before you could move from the hard wooden bench. You had to swallow vast lumps with a torrent of water, or stash it in your pocket to throw away later. Even the birds turned up their nose at this organ. I can go on and on: fish pie that was all uncooked flour and sharp bones, salt-lick gammon steaks with a cloyingly sweet pineapple ring perched daintily on top. And a chicken casserole that resembled the contents of a vomitorium. Sunday lunch was decidedly the worst, in that this fine symbol of the pleasures of British life was reduced to gutter level, the holy made profane. There was no way you could tell the paltry, processed and limp slices of beef from the pork and lamb in flavour. Everything was just a slight variation on beige. For a young boy raised with a true love of food, Sunday lunch at school was torture. All I remember is hunger, a gaping emptiness that followed me about like Banquo’s ghost. Of course, I knew nothing of true hunger, but those 5 years laid the base for a greed and obsession with good food that would shape the rest of my life (as well as the ever-increasing curve of my belly).

One of my favourite places to escape was the library, with its sombre air of enforced tranquillity. I’d find a distant corner and drool over Time-Life guides to America. Filled with picture-perfect American families, all bright eyes and white grin, I’d stare transfixed at their impossibly juicy hamburgers, devoured in gleaming white, pristine kitchens. There were tables groaning with scarlet crayfish, as alien to me as the tyrannosaurus rex. I knew how to eat a crawdaddy way before I actually got around to trying one. A detailed diagram made every last detail clear. The next page would have bare-chested Rhode Islanders digging into a clam bake, right down to sucking the empty [shells]. I sat for hours devouring these images, mouth agape, living vicariously through the musty photos of an old Time-Life tome. This was gastro-porn in its purest form, with me the desperate, but oh-so-willing, voyeur.

By the age of 11, I was backward in most things, but entirely conversant on the matter of Coke’s fiasco with New Coke. I could hardly add, yet I knew that M&Ms had royally screwed up in not getting their product into ET (the role went to Reese’s Pieces instead). I probably knew more about American fast food, candy and soft drink that I did about the kings and queens of England. In fact, I know I did. But my first experience of real America — rather than my long-held fantasy — came aged 12, when we spent a summer in the Bahamas. As we touched down in Miami and climbed onto the monorail to change terminals, my heart threatened to rip through my chest with heady excitement. I was actually here, two feet placed in the Cinnabon-scented Promised Land. So while the Bahamas had suitably limpid seas and powdery beaches, it was the artificial chill of the supermarket that held the most appeal. Here, at last, was American consumerism in full flow (although we weren’t strictly in the country), my movies’ visions made real. This was a place were the grocery store aisles were crammed with Cap’n Crunch and Fruit Loops and Pop Tarts. Then Oscar Mayer bacon and Squeezy Cheeses, Clamato, Beefmato, Cherry Seven Up, root beer and Frito Lay’s. How could anyone be unhappy in a country with such choice, so many “free gifts” and “special offers” screaming out from every pack? My father, no slouch when it came to shopping himself, had to drag me out and onto the beaches. “We’re surrounded by sea and all you want to do is wander those freezing aisles.” He couldn’t have been more right.

It was 6 years before I got back to The States, and this time I was ready for third base and beyond. After that first, sub-zero kiss of the Bahamian hypermarket, I was ready for full consummation. Aged 18, this was my first taste of real freedom. It was 1993, school was out forever and two old friends and I aimed to drive and Greyhound our way through the West and Southwest. At first, the endless small towns and strip malls provided an education in real fast food. Hot dogs at Dairy Queen, sliders at White Castle and all you can eat pizza at Domino’s. But even a trio of ravenous junk addicts began to struggle after the fifteenth Jack in the Box of the week, and began to crave real food. As much as we revelled in those burgers, I wanted a taste of Time-Life America, all those clams and crawfish. The one advantage of bussing through the likes of Barstow and Indian Springs, Rockspring and Rawlins was a view of the real America, not just of the stoning vistas and ever-changing views, but the endless uniformity of super edible brands. In parts of the country, one town was near identical to the next, only a road sign to tell them apart. In Wyoming, we found margaritas made in old petrol cans and buffalo wings in the Silver Dollar (they didn’t card us there). Santa Fe was my first taste of a burrito, then Albuquerque for mountains of crispy bacon and eggs over easy. The waitress called us ‘honey’ and had a pencil stuck behind her ear. There were freshly boiled crabs in San Francisco and dinner at The Ivy in L.A. We flew back, seeing ourselves as real men now. Our parents, pleased as they were to see us, quietly disagreed.

But it was my first visit to New York that sealed the relationship. A few rocky moments in the West (sleeping outdoors in bear country, for one) did nothing to quell my love but New York blew my mind and belly too; all I ever do in that city is eat, or think about where to eat next. A cheeky dog on the way to breakfast, usually eggs and bacon. Then dim sum in Chinatown or a brace of lobster rolls at Mary’s Fish Camp. If there’s room, perhaps a bite of pure burger perfection at The Corner Bistro (if I’m uptown, JG Melon is just as good). Maybe a sleep before a quick run to Gray’s Papaya for hot dog and juice (for health reasons, of course) then a kip. Then dinner, maybe a steak and salad frisee at Les Halles, or buttery o-toro at Blue Ribbon sushi. No evening is complete without a late night stop off to Union Square’s Coffee Shop and some chili cheese fries. For me, New York is the greatest eating city of them all. By this time, I was writing a food column for Tatler magazine, being paid to eat. More excuse, then, to slope over the bridge for a charred Peter Luger Porterhouse or back to Ray’s on Prince for thin crust pizzas so fine that I’d run off, join a cult and drink gallons of Kool-Aid for just one more bite. New York is my sort of city, a place where the glutton is seen as gourmand, the troughing pig as discerning auteur. The moment I’m in under that tunnel or cross over that bridge, I feel that all is well in the world.

Video   Tom Parker Bowles eats dangerously Dec. 5:  The son of Camilla Parker Bowles talks about the delicacies he has eaten and shows the TODAY team how to prepare tripe. Today Show Kitchen

But it wasn’t just America that had designs on my heart. I had travelled around India and Thailand, developing a taste for the sour and salty, the hot and pungent. Each different area had its own cuisine, its own table d’hote to be discovered and devoured. Thai food became an addiction, the heat and fragrance driving my taste insane with sultry, exotic new sensations. And I had started to cook properly too, first British and Italian, then anything I could lay my hands on. But America was still sacred and every new visit offered some new, and delicious revelation. I discovered Calvin Trillin and AJ Liebling, two masters of elegant, greedy prose. While Liebling concerned himself with Paris (his Between Meals is a collection of unparallel passion, libido, elegance and gustatory joy), Trillin went in search of the true American flavours. It was Trillin who taught me about buffalo wings, Cincinnati chili and the true home of real “que” (Arthur Bryant’s Barbeque, of course). Not that your Carolinians, Texans and various other Southerners would agree. I loved Trillin for his well-honed, clean prose and his inquisitive delight in all things edible. I must have read his “Tummy Trilogy” over a dozen times now, and each time, it seems to improve. My first brush with barbeque was in Virgil’s, just off Time Square in New York. When I admitted this to a true Q head, he laughed me out of town. ‘You go to New York for Que. Jesus, that’s so wrong. I’d keep that dark little tale secret if I were you.’ But a few sessions judging at The Jack Daniels Invitational Barbeque Competition in Lynchburg, Tennessee, soon taught me the difference between Boston Butt and Baby Back ribs, wet rubs and dry. Barbeque is a top ten food (alongside caviar, Joe’s Stone Crab, roast beef, Pho soup, cheeseburgers, potted shrimps, a proper meat ragu sauce, prawn dim sum, decent smoked salmon, chili and o-toro sashimi … wait, that’s 11. And I’ve hardly started. Tomorrow’s list is guaranteed to be different) and near impossible to get over here. I crave its smoky allure and miss it like a parent misses his child. It’s that bad.

In Britain, as a result of foot and mouth and BSE and Avian Flu and every other damned disaster that has erupted in the past few years, we’ve started to look more closely at where our food comes from, how it’s produced and how far it needs to travel. Thanks to the likes of Jamie Oliver and Nigella Lawson, food has become headline news, something to be discussed, argued about and improved. And not a moment too soon, as obesity levels are rising and the long term cost of cheap, processed foods ruinous. Although the organic movement moves from strength to strength, I worry that the big corporations just see organic branded goods as a way to make bigger margins. We should care about organic as a sustainable system of farming, not because it’s this week’s new trend. I’ve met scores of brilliant farmers who refuse to turn organic (it might cost too much, take too long or just seem unnecessary) yet their produce is among the best in the country, as they farm using old-fashioned methods. Intensive farming is at the heart of all our problems, not non-organic food. Food miles are another huge issue. How ‘green’ are organic French beans, jetted half the way across the globe from Africa? Good, healthy food comes from sensible, humane farming practices — a respect for the soil and the environment. Local food, too, is all very well in spring, summer and autumn but life could get a little dreary in winter without lemons, oranges and olive oil. So pragmatism is important too.

There is no easy solution to any of these food questions, but we should never stop searching. Food not only keeps us alive but is tightly entwined with politics, economics, health and happiness. In Britain, we’re once more starting to relish our national produce, to rediscover regional specialties, be they Melton Mowbray Pork pies or West Country cheddar.  For me, simplicity and a respect for ingredients are fundamental for good food; a perfectly hung piece of steak with crisp chips with fluffy insides, say. Or a slow cooked stew or chilli. And it’s my love of the regional cuisine of all countries (for there is no national cuisine, just a collective of regions) that remains constant. As much as I respect the Kellers, Towers and Trotters, my love is of the regional; the clambakes, boudin stalls, crawfish boils, breakfast burritos and frozen custard. Give me a napkin and a pile of boiled blue crab over silver cutlery and 3 Michelin stars any day. A good oyster Po’ boy is a thing of true beauty, and for me, more attractive than the creamy flourishes of New’awlins Creole cookery. I like unshowy kitchen knowledge, accomplished technique and quality of ingredients, not over-embellished flummery (though an evening with Blumenthal or Adria can delight and dazzle the plate too). Give me Goode’s smoked link and brisket over a whole river’s worth of foams and reductions. And that philosophy, I hope, permeates the book.

The Year of Eating Dangerously is not so much about picaresque derring-do (although there’s a little of that, albeit rather windy), but a fascination with the world’s diverse cuisines. And why ones man’s insect is another man’s garni. I wanted to sample everything, however gruesome, to try and establish some kind of culinary context. Very rarely did the taste repel on my travels. More often than not, it was the idea of the insect, dog or snake that put me off. It was my brain shutting down before I had the chance to reason. Strip away our preconceptions and everything’s just another source of food. British food — the real, artisanly produced stuff — is in rude health at the moment. You might laugh, but Britain’s raw materials are among the best in the world, some of our chefs and producers too — these are passionate people dedicated to quality and flavour, not to making a quick buck.

For those of you who see the UK as a culinary joke, think again. We’re a food nation on the up. But this is not the time or place for patriotic war cries. This is a book about food in its every guise. Although the title might sound a little sensationalist, I hope that my love of all cuisines shines through, from the high altar of Roubochon and Blumenthal and Ramsay to the pure incendiary joy of Prince’s Hot Chicken restaurant in Nashville, Tennessee. I went looking, not just for bizarre food, but to see if local food cultures were standing up in the face of ever-more homogenised fast food and processed pap. Even though 2 chapters are set in America, I have many years of research in the U.S. left to do — I want to crack Dungeness crab and catch shrimp off the Gulf Coast.

I want rainbow trout in the Rockies, chili cookoffs in Texas and the chilli harvest in New Mexico. Kansas City is a must, if only for Trillin’s immortal words on the subject. I want a genuine Philly cheesesteak sandwich (not a flaccid Vegas knockoff), and a proper New England clam bake. And that’s just the beginning.

Despite my life long love affair, I’m only really getting to know America now. As for America’s most dangerous food? No hesitation there, it’s gotta be those anonymous service station sandwiches that clog up the chilla cabinet like ghostly moans. That flap of lurid cheese, the over-sweetened bread and the slimy, processed ham from god knows where. They’re usually called something like “Happy Snack”, when they’re actually anything but. In a whole Year of Eating Dangerously, in a country blessed with a truly glorious regional and modern cuisine, this symbol to the cheap, the mass-produced, joyless, mediocre and unthinking was by far the most frightening thing of all. This is a book about a love of good food, and a fascination with other cultures. Far from being some gloating, narrow-minded rant about the strange food of foreign countries, I see this as a love story about all things edible. And, at the very least, I hope it makes you hungry.

Excerpted from “The Year of Eating Dangerously: A Global Adventure in Search of Culinary Extremes" by Tom Parker Bowles. Copyright 2007 Tom Parker Bowles. Excerpted with permission of St. Martin's Press. All rights reserved.

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