When supper is a sacrilege

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Travel essay: When supper is a sacrilege

By Radhika Kumar

Special to The Seattle Times

 

"...a visit to a cattle ranch, a fatted calf roasting on the

barbecue spit, all the tourists seated on either side of a long

table, and a rooting, tooting, foot-stomping band of cowboy

musicians to entertain them as they ate.

"Narakam," said my father-in-law, when they got back. "Hell."

"I don't have to die to know what cremation and hell feel like. I

saw it that day as the holy cow rotated slowly over the burning

coals. The people ate the meat almost raw. We could not even chew,

leave alone swallow a mouthful of the vegetarian noodles they served

us. We completely lost our appetite after that experience. We have

to go to Benares to absolve ourselves of this sin, but even the

Ganges cannot wash out the memory."

 

 

By Radhika Kumar

Special to The Seattle Times

Travel in a foreign country requires more than a desire to see

places or a spirit of adventure. It requires the willingness to

tolerate culinary diversity.

 

 

An American friend who has never relished Indian food recently

returned from a trip to India. Robust and athletic before her

vacation, she now looked like she had escaped from a refugee camp.

She'd gone to India to attend the wedding of her cousin, who was

marrying the son of a wealthy industrialist. Food was plentiful and

hygienically prepared. "The oily curries. I was ill with diarrhea —

Delhi belly — from the get go," she groaned. Though she'd stuck to

her itinerary and gone on tours to the palaces of Rajasthan, visited

the Taj Mahal and stayed only in the best hotels, her most vivid

memories of India were of how the mere smell of curry had triggered

her frequent visits to the bathroom. "I don't know what I would have

done if I had not taken along some packaged soups, crackers and my

electric kettle."

 

Her recollections of her tour reminded me of my in-laws' first trip

to the United States. They came to welcome their grandchild (our

first child) into the world and also to do some sightseeing.

Orthodox Hindu Brahmins who never ate meat, they nevertheless wished

to visit places they'd read about. Since we were busy adjusting to

life with a new baby and could not accompany them, we arranged for

them to join a tour group, organized by a reputable travel agency.

The group flew to different cities in the United States and then

chartered buses to visit nearby national monuments, parks and

historic sites.

 

When my in-laws returned from their tour, we realized we had not

been as careful in our planning as we'd hoped. Even though we'd

ensured that they carried the kitchen with them — everything from a

small rice cooker to spices and pickles — they were still forced to

join the rest of the group for one memorable meal.

 

In most restaurants, my in-laws could escape watching people eat non-

vegetarian food by sitting at a separate table and eating grilled

cheese sandwiches, pastas or salads.

 

Sometimes they pleaded exhaustion and went to their own room, where

they cooked their simple fare. In some towns they had relatives who

hosted them for Indian meals. However, when they were traveling by

bus from New Mexico to Texas, they had no one to rescue them. Dinner

was en route to the next hotel stop, and my in-laws had nowhere to

hide.

 

The dinner that evening must have been the highlight of the trip for

the rest of the tour group: a visit to a cattle ranch, a fatted calf

roasting on the barbecue spit, all the tourists seated on either

side of a long table, and a rooting, tooting, foot-stomping band of

cowboy musicians to entertain them as they ate.

 

"Narakam," said my father-in-law, when they got back. "Hell."

 

"I don't have to die to know what cremation and hell feel like. I

saw it that day as the holy cow rotated slowly over the burning

coals. The people ate the meat almost raw. We could not even chew,

leave alone swallow a mouthful of the vegetarian noodles they served

us. We completely lost our appetite after that experience. We have

to go to Benares to absolve ourselves of this sin, but even the

Ganges cannot wash out the memory."

 

Whether it was the memory of that meal, the frugality of the other

meals, or just the exhaustion of travel, my in-laws looked as

emaciated as Western tourists afflicted by Delhi belly.

 

No matter how carefully we plan a vacation to a foreign country and

how many places we see, it is our comfort with the local cuisine and

our memories of our meals that make or mar a vacation.

 

Radhika Kumar lives in Federal Way, Washington,USA

2004 The Seattle Times Company

http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/travel/2002100050_tressay28.htm

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