I’m on the first leg of my flight home from Thailand, via Tokyo on All Nipon Air, where I just made my way through an 8:30a.m. Japanese 3-course dinner served in cute little lacquer boxes full of delicious but mostly unidentifiable processed cubes of things. I ate the ones I was sure were not mushrooms or flaccid boiled egg. The highlight was the banana poppyseed ice-cream ball. Those kooky Japanese chefs.
The Japanese elevate everything to an art form, including cooking, eating, and being a flight attendant. The Chinese, on the other hand, plan their menus as if Hannibal Lecter’s cousin is coming to dinner.
Disclaimer here: I am a very picky eater. I’m not adventurous in the culinary terrain, unlike my mom, who ordered a Peruvian delicacy — baked guinea pig— when we traveled together to the Sacred Valley a few years ago. Judith is a chef and a restaurant owner, so I think she’d want me to point out here that I did not inherent my food pickiness from her. I get it from my father, who, at the age of 62, I introduced to burritos just last year. “Can’t I just stick with tacos?”
On my last night in Bangkok, on the 36th floor of the Chatrium, I ate alone at the hotel’s fancy Chinese restaurant overlooking the gray river that winds through the endless city. The menu was an exquisite read — an ornothologist’s dream, really — until I realized that it was actually a list of FOOD OPTIONS. I laughed/gagged at the “roasted whole pigeon,” but I stopped laughing when I gamely perused the dessert selections and contemplated ordering something with the sublime name “Bird’s Nest.” I thought, I bet it’s some sort of an elaborate drizzled sugar confection, maybe with an egg in it just to be maudlin. Just to be sure, I googled it, and THANK GOD I did because it turns out that “Bird’s Nest” is exactly what it sounds like: a bird’s nest.
A swallow’s nest, to be precise. A certain kind of swallow that is rare and special, and so it’s a luxury of the upper class to get their hands on one of these nests, soak it in water for a bit, and then bathe it in coconut milk. I can only imagine that it tastes sort of like shredded wheat, but with a more fibrous quality that makes it an excellent intestinal stimulant. I might have been intrigued and brave enough to try it, until I read the fine print, which informed me that swallow’s nests are comprised primarily of swallow’s spit. Yes, their saliva.
I have to point out here that I think my cat Budapest might be Chinese, as once she came home with an entire birds nest (and a few little tiny just-born baby birds, whoopsie) hanging out of her mouth like, no big thang.
I shared the Bird’s Nest menu item with my friends. Tom, who is Taiwanese and grew up eating Chinese Food, said, “It sounds gross, but it’s super tasty! It was once of my faves! Like sharkfin soup, it is a Chinese delicacy. Unfortunately, the birds are not happy, and they face extinction, so I stopped eating it recently.”
Then Vanessa told me that she actually tried Bird’s Nest, in Singapore. I have a vague recollection of Vanessa going to Singapore but I have to admit that I didn’t retain this tidbit about her culinary courage. Although I love hearing about Vanessa’s life — which is much more globally glamorous than my own — flying to Singapore for a few days and eating local delicacies is something I just expect from her. Vanessa is a jet setter and she’s cool.
I’m not like that. I’m like this: just before I wrote this blog post, I spent an hour here on the plane meticulously planning my exercise schedule for the remainder of 2011 in my iPad calendar. Knowing exactly what to expect is how I relax.
And on that note, so happy to be home!
