Keeping Kosher During Lent

Madame's Nightshirt

Mrs. Peperium

About 23 years ago tonight, my Dad who long time readers recall has a most fatal James Bond complex decided to take my best friend and I (or is it me?) for a night out on the town in Tokyo - man-style. Tokyo is a man's town because women in Japan are second-class citizens.  If you doubt this, ask the 60 year-old women who follow behind the street cleaning machines down the streets of Tokyo on their hands and knees wiping up anything the machine might have missed.  Or better yet, ask a 23 year-old girl from Boston who the white gloved male subway car packers routinely shoved into a subway car in the manner of a herring being shoved into a tin by a woman at a herring cannery who had she been born into a higher social class would have boxed while up at Oxford.  Except the herring had it better that the 23 year-old from Boston had it because the herring was dead.  The 23 year-old was alive and more importantly so were all the breast-high Japanese men packed in around her. Some of whom must have looked at the American-style chin rest staring them so pointedly in the face and said 'Carpe Diem' in their native tongue.  And Carpe Diem they tried until they were smacked up the side of the head like a carp by the 23 year-old from Boston once she could wiggle her hand free but I am digressing. Thankfully when out on the town with my father, we did not travel by subway, we traveled by hired car. 

Now my Dad is not like the Obama Administration. At all. For instance, he is in to torture.  More than that, he is exceptionally good at it as any of my siblings and our childhood friends will attest. You see, since we had been rug rats my Dad had developed the pleasure of taking us to the best restaurants (worldwide) that his wallet could afford and there, he would ordered our meals for us.  Often employing the native tongue so we had no clue of the fate that was about to befall us. And whatever fate was placed before us we were expected to consume, smiling. Honestly, if I were allowed to choose between having to consume a giant soup bowl of whole baby eels swimming around in a garlic scented broth without gagging, much less slurping, and being led around on a collar and leash by a chain smoking female member of the United States Reserves, I would have gone with the dog collar and leash route.  But, thankfully that night in Tokyo, my best friend and I were not only on to my Dad and his ways, we were of age. And because we were on to him, over dinner our first night there, I had casually my Dad how to say the two words I knew we were going to need if we entertained any hopes of making it back to Boston intact :

スコットランドおよび水

(Scotch & water)

ありがとう

(Thank you)

As an extra caution, during the 3 day plane ride from Boston to Tokyo my best friend and I had made a gentleman's agreement : If we did not like something that was put before us at meal times we each had one turn per day to quietly say "Buddy". Buddy was the signal signaling that whatever was on the plate was going to cause us to boot. And to prevent the boot, the other was required to be a gentleman and step to the breach and consume it. So, it was fortified with a pre-night-on-the-town tumblerful of scotch and water and the Buddy system that we climbed into the hired car that would deliver us to the various men's clubs my dad had selected for us to experience. As I had stated, this was a man-style night out on the town so every place we were going was for men, only. Accompanying us on this club run was the youngish woman who was first in the queue to become my next stepmother. One of the first establishments we went to was almost military in style. It was magnificent.

(Now you have to employ your imagination here to understand this.) We were led into a moderately lit room with what looked like a large (by Tokyo standards) U-shaped bar with very nice leather chairs comfortably spaced all around it. But this was not a bar in the classic sense. Behind the bar, and it began at bar level going upward was a sea of crushed ice which stopped short at a large and open wood burning grille with an enormous exhaust system over it . Beneath the exhaust system and behind the grill were two male Japanese chefs in traditional dress kneeling on mats doing very impressive impressions of Buddha. Splendidly arrayed on the sea of crushed ice below them were the finest cuts of meats and choicest selections of seafood (and vegetables) my eyes have ever seen. There were only as many men seated in the chairs as there were chairs. No one stood except the waitstaff which were all men.

I was shown to my club seat which was at the very end of the bar and my best friend was seated next to me. We were right across from the chefs, who had stopped their their perfect Buddha impressions to grin and nod at us. We grinned and nodded back at them. The closest one was less than 4 feet from us. And though he was seated up higher than us, he was not seated high enough for us to miss all the action. Despite women being second class citizens in Japan and not being allowed into this club, the club had given us what we thought were the best seats in the house. But you might not have thought this if you were a man. The club also employed a 'Ladies First policy' and the waiter quickly quizzed me in Japanese for my drink order, 

"スコットランドおよび水" I replied. 

To my shock, he shouted it aloud. Then about 4 beats later the rest of the waitstaff said it in unison. Followed by the 2 chefs then saying it in unison. This happened again for my friend's order, my future stepmother's order and then my dad's. After the waiter left I just looked down the bar at my dad with big eyes for an explanation.

"Men do not like it if their order is incorrect. It is repeated by the entire staff to ensure there never is an error." 

"Oh."

By the time I had uttered the oh, the waiter had returned with my scotch. And it was more generous than the one back at my dad's house had been. Then he and my dad began to confer over the menu in the native tongue. My best friend and I knew the torture session was about to get underway in the most serious fashion to date so we did all we could do to get ready. After examining all the various things displayed on ice and knowing that the large (about 8") shrimp which were still alive and still wiggling about were much too tame for my dad to select, we drained our scotches. Quickly getting into the spirit of things said in unison, 

"スコットランドおよび水". 

Which caused the waiter to stop conferring and shout "スコットランドおよび水". 

Which caused all the other waiters to stop what they were doing and shout "スコットランドおよび水". 

Which caused the chefs to stop what they were grilling and shout, "スコットランドおよび水". 

My friend and I looked at each other in amazement concluding if we were going to die, this would, at the very least, be an amusing way to go. After our second スコットランドおよび水 were placed before us, we then we set our attention upon our two chefs who, after witnessing us drain our first スコットランドおよび水 in such a hail fellow well met fashion had completely dropped the Buddha routine. They took to hand motions and nods to try and show us what they were doing. We were delighted, until they set the first dish before us. Holding a smile frozen by the "スコットランドおよび水", I looked down at my plate.

"What do you think it is?" my dad casually asked from down the bar.

"Crackers?"

"Take a closer look."

There were about 3 million little black eyes smaller than poppy seeds looking up at me. Whatever my dad had ordered looked like crackers but it wasn't. It was millions of fish smaller than your thumbnail bound together by a very thin batter, pressed firmly together and grilled until crisp over the open flames. We had watched the chef do this but had no idea it was fish. We thought it was a dough. Seeing all those little eyes and all of their little spines look up at me caused me to almost boot right there and then. But I couldn't because the chef who had prepared the dish was sitting less than 4 feet away from me. If I refused his dish, he was bound by honor to leave the premises until I departed. So I looked at my best friend and in unison we picked up our 'crackers' and took a bite and swallowed still smiling. The chef smiled back at us and turned his attention back to whatever he was grilling. I grabbed my スコットランドおよび水 and just as the tumbler was to hit my lips uttered a faint yet desperate,

"Buddy". 

My best friend heard her cue and said rather audibly, "I JUST LOVE THIS! CAN I PLEASE HAVE YOURS?" 

Turning my attention to her while casually sipping my スコットランドおよび水 and quietly marveling at the reality they just don't make many friends like her I took a decent enough amount of time to mull over her proposal. After catching my dad's bemused eye, said while still staring straight into his in equally audible tone, "Well, it's not everyday you get a treat like this, is it? Oh, alright. You can have it." and slid my dish over to her. The chef looked over at my friend and she gave him her best grin with a thumb's up and bit into the cracker. He gave her a thumb's up and went back to his work.

Thanks in large part to the medicinal effects of the スコットランドおよび水, we were fascinated by the chefs. As I said they were kneeling on comfortable mats in traditional dress in front of a large wood burning grille. They also had on white aprons that were floor length. After each order had been shouted out, the two chefs used long pointed cast iron rods to reach over and spear whatever item was ordered from the display below. Then they would prepare it and place it on the grille. The large shrimp that were still alive were a popular choice that evening. Both chefs thought it was very funny that my friend and I contorted ourselves when they skewered and then placed a still wiggling shrimp on the open flame. At one point the chefs had placed several shrimps on the grille they became distracted by our contortions which caused the chef closest to us to get sloppy. He reached over the fire in a most athletic fashion to spear something. His unusual manner of reaching across the open grille cause his apron to come out from beneath his legs. Then, the bottom corner of his apron rested just for a second upon the hot the grill. I saw that the small flame that chose to alight itself upon the apron in that very second. The chef had no idea the little flame had done this. He had quickly reseated himself in his kneeling fashion but in doing so had not snuffed out the little flame. So the little flame began growing. I realised he had no clue his apron was on fire. So i attempted to tell him by waving, pointing at him, then the grille and then back at him . He thought I was still going on about the wiggling shrimp and chuckled heartily as he worked furiously on his next dish. I decided I needed to take a more direct approach and said employing a rather audible as well as forceful tone,

"No. You don't get it," I said. "You're on fire."

He and the other chef knowing my speaking was something different both looked at me. Then they looked at the shrimp still wiggling and kept chuckling while working on their dishes. I made another attempt.

"Really. I mean it. You're on fire." I said, pointing at the apron and the grille and back at the apron. The chef looked at me, pointed at the by now limp shrimp on the grille and laughed some more. I picked up my スコットランドおよび水 and looked at my friend and said, "Well, I tried to tell him." She nodded in agreement.

It was about mid swallow of my スコットランドおよび水 when a very loud but not so very masculine scream rang out across the club. Everyone seated around the horseshoe shaped bar stopped whatever it was they were doing just in time to the chef running out the door to the kitchen with a large cloud of smoke following along in his wake. The other chef looked straight at me and I looked back at him. It was one of those rare moments in life when a man and woman who cannot speak the same language fully and completely understand each other. We broke into laughter. My Dad, who had been the consummate spectator during all of this, joined us. About 10 minutes later the slightly red-faced chef returned to the room in a new set of traditional clothes. He looked at me, pointed, nodded, and laughed. He then reseated himself just in time to prepare the best grilled shrimp I've ever had.

But now it's 23 years later, we're not in Tokyo, it's Lent, and since those Tokyo days I've gone Catholic. So this means the Catholic meatless Friday dietary rule is firmly in place during Lent. While I would love to attempt to replicate the grilled shrimp the chef made had 23 years ago, I'm not allowed to. I'm not allowed to because this past Sunday I tried to replicate a few other dishes I enjoyed during that trip and my family found them so repulsive, that they have placed a ban on me from ever preparing anything Japanese in the future other than sushi. As Mr. P said when he was first enforcing the new ban, "You only liked this stuff because it was the only edible things you could find."

So, with that, I give you a shrimp recipe that is so simple yet delicious, that when I served it to my father a few years back, he enjoyed it so much he made the youngish woman who had accompanied us on that man-style night on the town in Tokyo and achieved her goal of becoming my stepmother copy it out the cookbook so that she could prepare it for him, often. Yes, my Dad had picked up a few important lessons on how to handle his woman during his time among the Japanese.

Even a Catholic priest has to appreciate the title:

Maria's Ginger Shrimp

1 pound large shrimp, shelled & deveined 

(about 16-20)

2 tbspns extra virgin olive oil

4 tbspns grated fresh gingerroot 

(use fine holes on your grater)

7 plump fresh garlic cloves. peeled, 

halved, and slivered

salt to taste

2 cups drinkable dry white wine

2 cups hot cooked rice, any variety

 (Texmati if you can find it)

4 tbspns fresh basil leaves cut into 

thin strips, or chiffonnade

1. Rinse the shrimp and pat them dry. In a skillet large enough to hold all the shrimp in a single layer, heat the oil until hot but not smioking. Add 3 tbspns of the grated gingerroot, all of the garlic and a pinch of salt. Cook over moderately high heat just until the garlic turns golden but does not brown 2 to 3 minutes. Pour the wine over the surface of the pan, bring to a simmer (gentle boil) and cook until reduced to 1 cup -about 8 minutes.

2. Add the shrimp in a single layer and cook, stirring occasionally, just until the shrimp turn pink, about 4 minutes.

3. Prepare shallow soup plates with a nice bed of hot cooked rice. Serve the shrimp with its juices spooned over the rice. Sprinkle with the remaining fresh grated ginger and the fresh basil.

Accompany with more white wine, nicely chilled and a green salad with a vinaigrette. You won't even miss the meat. Which might be missing the point of Lent altogether. Oh well, I can make up for that with next Friday's fish recipe.

Comments

[The Maximum Leader]

What a great way of getting to the shrimp recipe.

(I believe the answer to your first question is "me" by the way.)

I am having oysters tonight. I'll try and do shrimp next week.

[MCNS]

A classic. Mrs P, when your collected essays are published this must be included.

[Old Dominion Tory]

What a splendid tale, and, at the end, a nice reward: what looks like a delectable shrimp recipe. Irish Elk is correct; this one needs to be included in the first volume of essays.

[Father M.]

Mrs. P.,
Mazel tov on your story for keeping "kosher" for Lent!

Thank you.

[Robbo]

Oh, thankee, Mrs. P!

Since you people lured me across the Tiber, I have tried to keep Fridays kosher myself and the fact of the matter is that I really dislike fish.

[Father M.]

By the way, this post reminds me of a song:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2BzO5nZoMk8

[Andrew Cusack]

All Asian food rebels against my system, for reasons completely unknown to me. This is rarely a problem for me, since I hate Asian food (though some have naturally speculated that I only hate the taste of Asian food because I subconsciously associate it with being grievously ill afterwards).

I do miss our St Andrews tradition of "fish-and-film Fridays" during lent, when we would gather anywhere from six to a dozen or so friends, order fish-and-chips from PM's on Market Street, and watch a suitably improving cinematic DVD presentation. (Ranging from "The Cardinal" to the Richard E. Grant "Scarlet Pimpernel").

This was made even more complete by that fact that there was a Friday evening mass in the Chaplaincy, so we had mass, then fish-and-chips, and then a movie, which is just about as nice a Friday as you can get.

Disturbingly, I have not yet found fish and chips in the university town of Stellenbosch. Even the mass-produced, kit Irish bar doesn't have it on the menu, which is so scandalous I've considered contacting the Irish legation in Cape Town.

Lacking fish, I try to stick to pasta.

[Mrs. Peperium]

Andrew, try Archbishop Tutu. He might set up some sort of fish and chip reconciliation group or encourage sanctions...

Father, per the song, I completely left out of the story the last club of the night had a newfangled toy my friend and I just had to give a whirl. It was technological breakthrough called " karoake" (sp?).

We did a rousing rendition of Born in the U.S.A.....