Letter To My Friend

Travel, Food and Sitting Still

Cooking at a rented apartment in Poços de Caldas, Brasil

Dear M,

Finally, I have sat down to write again. It seems like ages since I was able to sit and write exactly what I want. It is not so, but feels it. I have been wanting to write to you—you know, a good old-fashioned letter—for some time. I think I even attempted to years ago but it got lost in the wind, so to speak. Of course, there are certain types of essays and works that require a good deal of rooting through, editing, fixing the phrases to a certain exactitude. I like it much better when I can write rather free form, as if we were just chatting. Just saying hello, asking—how are you?

I have been in Brasil coming up on four years. This is the life span of one Presidential term and so as politics rev up, I am reminded of my own election—where I elected to leave America for good. I never put much thought as to when I would return for a visit. Because of immigration issues concerning Yasmin, I won’t visit America without her, forbidding some family tragedy, of course. To think I have never returned, what a move to make! I remember moving to San Francisco, essentially to leave my slow Georgia life behind and resume our friendship in closer proximity. Brothers in arms! We always talk of that moment when I was coming up the stairs to your apartment on Bush Street, the traffic whizzing east, with my one suitcase and guitar, you half asleep and shoeless, and I dazed from most likely a litany of strange and surreal circumstances. To be overwhelmed and afraid, to be daring and free-floating, to care and to be careless—that was a San Francisco worth pursuing. To think of that city as overwhelming now—not a chance! It was always a playground. Nothing more than a sandbox. Nothing to be scared by in the least. The worst thing that could happen was that you had to sleep outside for a night or two. Or you had to kick a horrible habit. Or you went flat broke for a while. . .

Funny enough, I recall so much about those first few weeks crashing on your floor. It rained quite a bit. Union Square in the evening. The unnamed fear in the pit of my stomach, which left me completely unable to take in any food. I didn’t eat for a week! When we did get around to eating it must have been those King Foot subs. Soft French bread. Crispy Julienne lettuce. Red vinegar. I think I ate those for a few weeks and nothing else. Also learned to eat kimchi, which I can still only take in puny sized portions. Also, some of the sappy music of that era. I remember that apartment of yours so well. I can smell it, honest. Anyway, nothing to be afraid of, like I said…

It may not serve much purpose to compare, but I wonder—are we in a deeper fix now? Are the stakes of today higher or lower than back in those days? Is it any better or worse or just different? Are we anymore alive or are we more dead? Those early days in San Francisco heaped so much onto our heads. Would you have done anything different? I cannot say that I would have. If only we realized that all things are a matter of time. I would have liked to know when the jig was going to be up. I would have liked to have known when I was going to finally set myself flat on my ass and then up and out of that city. But who could know such a thing? Of course, that is not to say I don’t have some regrets here and there, but most of those mistakes simply had to be made. You don’t know what a mistake your making half the time. You have to wait and see. Who doesn’t have regrets? But San Francisco, it moves at a dreary pace and sops up all misery and choice like bread does gravy. Whatever mistakes you made, sure enough, some sad sack is there right now repeating them. The city is a forgiving one because it has no memory.

Somebody said once, “Find what you love and let it kill you”. I guess that is probably about right. I cannot imagine applying that to a destination, however. Applying it to a city, I mean. Or should I say, I can only imagine it—I am sure glad I am not still living there. To find a city you love and let it kill you could be a San Francisco motto, of sorts. I think we both became our own little tyrants at some point and that suits me pretty well. In San Francisco, what do you expect? But to find what you love and let it kill you, is of course, not a statement from the aspect of death, but of life. It is a life-affirming statement. Let it overtake you, is what I take it to mean. To give yourself to something, to be in its service, and to never retire from it. At least we both have that. We both know our own assassins quite well. We are aware of them. We greet them as friends. It is not that you have that thing, it is that the thing has you.

As many friends and acquaintances I had in that town, there were still intense, very intense moments of longing, desperation, unwelcome solitude. I think on the colder nights at 210 Page and I wonder, with those nights on end, where were my friends? Was there nobody I could call? Was there nobody that would answer? Still, among the playground there were moments of uninspired loneliness. San Francisco had not begun its death rattle at that point. I still had hope. It still meant something. Until all that dropped dead and the forces of the past reared up and swallowed all signs of love and of future. Oh well, matters none now! We both crapped out of that town. I know I am better for it— the experience has shaped me in numerous ways.

And speaking of solitude, Los Angeles is not any better. In fact, one could posit that it is way worse. Something about the heat and the weather I think is misleading. When a city gets cold, one prepares for isolation. We become dormant, hibernatory, inspired only to sit still and read if we have to. We can go to bed early and still feel human. But In Los Angeles, in the heat, it is as if one expects to be carrying on the spirit of summer for the whole of the year. Isolation and heat go less together. It screws around with our senses, I believe.

I often wonder how long you will stay in Los Angeles. Certainly not forever, I would not think. It is so difficult to understand that city, even half a decade after living there—for half a decade. I don’t know if it is meant to be understood. I have always maintained its underbelly is much darker than San Francisco’s. The horrors in Los Angeles are just that; the horrors in San Francisco are comedic, in many cases. Of course, I am not making a huge distinction to those on the street! San Francisco is just a bit sillier, I believe. Los Angeles has a dark legend, a darker shadow. Again, the heat and the weather mislead in many ways.

I think so much about our friendship, so much of you, probably, one could say, because there is so few others to think about. I can think on them, sure. But there is no interaction anymore. I don’t know a single soul in Los Angeles. Hardly anyone in California that matters to me now. I wish them well, but you know, that is quite a low bar. I can wish anybody well, all of humanity. Doesn’t say much, really. Strange indeed, but of course, this is by design. It’s the old rule—one cannot grow without doing some shedding. If it is people, or clothes, or atmosphere or hobby, you have to shed.

And so I do my shedding in a foreign place! I care very little for new clothes, new furniture, new linens. I buy almost nothing. I only shop for food and mostly for vegetables at that. We love our home, but we can get moving along at any point. I have everything I need which is mostly saying—I have the time to paint and write and do my work as an artist. I have time to love and care for Yasmin and that is about all that matters. More and more I can see a glimmer into the rationale of you becoming a chef. To dedicate one’s life to food. I think I am cooking now, better than ever. For one, I have someone to cook for—my wife, of course, although plenty of times we eat different meals. But even to have a soul next to you in the kitchen probably does it for me. More and more we build a life together, her and I. The kitchen is in many ways the battery of the household.

And what about cuisine? I have always said that Indian cooking is probably the best. Whatever cuisine I could choose, it should first be rustic, plentiful. The aromatics of Indian cuisine I think are the most intoxicating, rich. Since Lahore Karahi, it is the curries that I mostly think of. Probably because I have been trying my hand at various types of stews in the last few years. What is curry but an earth-flavored stew? What I want in a chicken Tikka-Masala is that bright orange color, specked with tiny herbs. I have begun to flatten the chicken out, marinate it, and let it cook with the stew. I wonder if this is correct. Is there any reason to grill the chicken off first? It seems from what I have tasted in Thai and Indian curry, it appears that they do not. But every curry is different. It really is just a stew. Recently I have made a pumpkin curry, a beef curry, and a broccoli Korma style with varying degrees of success—all of them good, great even, but not great enough. I am happy with them, I just want to improve over time. But there is no grand use in trying to be completely authentic about it—I will never be an Indian!

For that matter, I will never be a Brazilian either. Stuck as an American, I am afraid. I think Brasil, like so many other countries, in our new modern food world, is in a sense, exploring retrospectively. One of the fundamental consequences of our new homogenized world, where every city has a McDonald’s or a Starbucks, where all the women in the lingerie ads look the same, everyone strikes the same poses, shoe stores sell the same styles, architecture is replicating exponentially—is that culture, the culture of the streets becomes indistinguishable from one another. Everything looks and feels the same—at least in the big cities, where modern consumerism hits the hardest and deepest.

But, the world of food stands against this. Instead of every chef wanting to cook Italian or French cuisine masterfully, so many have gone the opposite and are finding pride in their once broken, once humiliated cuisine. I don’t know what the American version of this is—Barbecue? The soul food of the south? I think of the south not for personal reasons, but it seems to be the richest in flavor. A good thing about growing up in the southern states and cooking: you are likely not at all afraid of salt, butter, sugar, spice, heat. It seems that training a chef to back off of these things is an easier task than coaxing them out of their own fear and their instinct to prepare bland food. The instinct to over do it in this way is more inspired, I think. Whatever the case, Brasil has all the makings, resources of a great cuisine.

Here in Piracicaba, we have the Mercado Municipal. A decent sized one. Any city of a medium size will likely have a Mercado Municipal here in Brasil. In São Lourenço, it was puny. In Piracicaba, much better. In São Paulo, where there are two, they are practically the size of a wartime airplane hangar for an entire fleet. One of the best parts of my day is to go down to the Centro area and shop for produce. I wish you were here with me! There are several butchers, produce vendors, a few cafes. They sell rice, nuts, olives, cheeses, cachaças, fish, herbs, spices, desserts. On the topic of dessert, Piracicaba is known for its version of Pamonha. Basically, a soft and sweet cake made from corn. Sometimes it is stewed in its own husk like a tamale. This way, it can be made to be sweet or salty, whatever you prefer. Anyways, it is immensely popular in Brasil.

Yes, Brasil has all the makings of any kind of cuisine you could dream of. Bolinhos de bacalhau are an incredibly pungent and flavorful fish croquette. Pão de queijo (com requeijão!) are delightful and sold on every block. Espetinhos are meat skewers—must be served with a vinagrette of tomato and onion, and farofa, a Brazilian style bread crumb.

Brasil has also embraced a good bit of Arabic food. Particularly esfihas. Are you familiar? They are basically Arabic pizzas on wheat disks. Very small; you order them by the half-dozen. And Kafta, too, is an Arabic style meat skewer. Kibe is from the same part of the world and is also a meat croquette that is molded and fried off… very popular in Brasil. Funny how things take when it comes to food. Arabic, who would have thought…

I think I can only be humbled by food. I could never “create”, only happy to mimic and perhaps half-master a few recipes. Art and writing are different. Too much ego in it for me, too much pride and at a certain time, ambition. I have not tried to sell a painting in years. If I never needed the income, I would never try again. But I should probably think about exchanging my work for a buck or two at some point. I guess it wouldn’t hurt.

I think the closest thing I will get to being a chef is that my friendship with you is a friendship with a bona fide one. That suits me, I think. I still think of putting together a cookbook, some day. A kind of starving artist handbook to feed the soul, fill the belly, coat the ribs. Recipes on a budget, for nothing—you get me. Would be a little tongue-in-cheek, but I think it would be fun.

When I get to talking about food and travel, you know I can’t help but think of you and also of Anthony Bourdain. It seems that he got to a point where he did not need to cook. To eat and to travel, yes. But to cook—he hardly seemed interested in being in control. Completely at ease with being a permanent guest, all the time, everywhere he went. That spirit of the wonderer, the explorer, all of that. Not all chefs can do that, but for the ones who do—for a chef to relinquish control in that way, to constantly be in a humbled position, to not know what you may be in for. It is rather close to that same spirit of the artist and the poet and of course, the explorer. Artists and poets are explorers, in a metaphysical way. You see what I mean. That can be applied to the chef, more or less given his or her attitude about it. I wonder where you will run off to next? I mean to say, what is next after your venture of the private chef life?

What is next to either conquer or be humbled by? You still have a wild child within you. I am sure of it. Too old to be an enfant terrible, too young to take it easy. It is a wonder we are not worn out, but I never want to give in to older age. I am only 38 but there was a time where forty seemed old. Greece looks nice. Parts of Italy, clearly. For some essays I have been looking at maps of Europe. Spain—Barcelona. Austria seems nice. Paris seems done for. I think about Japan more and more. Asia—the true other world. Wherever I want to be, there is always water. I just never want to be landlocked. At least in Piracicaba, we have a river. It’s not what I mean when I say water, but it will do just fine for now. Yasmin and I have our sights set on São Paulo. Glad I didn’t settle down there first. Grateful I got to see some of the countryside, some of the smaller places in Brasil. To hop from one big city to the next, what is the point of that?

Anyway—these feel like perilous times. I am grateful for the few folks still left in my life and it’s not hard to believe you are still one of them. I think you are plagued by being above average in many senses. It is hard to know what we want from the world and what exactly we can afford or ought to give away to it. I do know that all of the possibilities, fates, dreams, visions, and actions are contained within you. That the spirit to move ahead in the face of any obstacle is clear and is present. That boundaries from one side of the world to another can be ignored, and you can carry on with an open heart towards wherever you may need. You are, indeed, a man of no malice. You care little for spite, little for revenge. Perhaps there was the taste of bitterness in your mouth, I don’t know—don’t know if I ever saw it. If so, it has worn away. Nothing in your past has turned you either bitter nor sour. Afterall, you have contained yourself around a heart that is full. If one were interested in victories or defeats, this is surely a victory in and of itself.

You are completely at ease with whatever perceived enemies, outward entities you have. But, of course, there is the great caveat to this—that your greatest enemy is often yourself. That you are your greatest saboteur, your greatest disruptor, your very own, in some cases, assassin. One might think, with this affliction, that I have as well, there exists the need to move around. To always have somewhere to go and to be, or somewhere to yearn to be, somewhere to yearn to go to. Not to be busy, but to move forward. In some way or another. It does not need to be ambitious, in the way we know the word to be now. But to be exploratory—exploratory of the self. Sometimes, I am content to sit and be “nowhere”, but my ultimate disposition is one of an explorer, and even when sitting still, one can still explore. Whatever debts or guilts, or faults or troubles—these will wither away—I believe it! You are your own assassin but also your own hero. That is what we wrestle with and once that fact is accepted, I think we can live in the moment, not really needing anything. Many things we search for often come when we stop looking for them. They can find us when we are at perfect ease, when we are sitting still, when we have forgotten, forgiven and have begun to laugh in the face of our woes.

I think you have got it made, is what I mean. I don’t think anything will come to harm you. I think, ultimately, you can take whatever risk you want, whenever you want and you will land rightly on your feet. It is a strength not cultivated or bestowed on absolutely everyone, and I think one ought to be loyal to it, embrace it, serve it.

Of course, some days I am lost, and other days I am found again. I find myself day in and out. I will never let on that I work hard, although I do. I never want to appear invested, but I am. I am in the thick of it. Nowhere to go but through. It is a relief in that sense. I am relieved that the life I have chosen has no end, no retirement, no safety net, no big promise or pot of gold at the end of it. Take from that whatever you will. You could even say that for yourself, if you wish. It is liberating.

The chef’s temperament—explosive, but requires discipline. Exploratory, but requires discernment. Egotistical, but requires humility. Ultimately, humility. A chef need not invent new tomatoes, or new herbs. Does not need to cook in a strictly authentic or original way. The chef is no better than the best tomato, no better than the freshest herbs, finest meat. This is humbling, in the way that the poet is given a heart, limitless flowers and the painter is given limitless hues. It takes courage to be humble and to explore. I don’t know when I will see you again, but I hope it is sooner than later. I hope to be a better cook by then, but who knows. Of course, you should take what I say with a grain of salt. Or, a twig of rosemary, a fat pat of butter, and a hunk of meat.

Either way, I miss you and think of you often.

JSV
July ‘24

Dear Friends,

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