Lent: The Time for Feasting!

One hundred years ago, when I was an undergraduate, I lived in a small dormitory on campus.  Not the mega high-rise sort comprised mostly of rebellious freshmen destined for one-semester academic careers of nightly boozing and general mayhem.  My digs were in the "honors dorm", a collection of very busy students whose curriculum was similar to that of almost all the other students at the university, but who also were fulfilling some extra requirements of the Honors College.  Among the perks of being in honors, a quiet and clean (mostly) place to live was one of the best.  It was a colony of  interesting people, regardless of our fields of study.  We were all a bit quirky, and sometimes even a bit offbeat.  For instance, my neighbor across the hall maintained a unique collection of petrified jello squares he had smuggled from the dining hall.  He was curious to see whether the jiggly stuff would actually decompose or would simply desiccate into a vitreous plastic solid.  In time, his windowsill was lined with colorful cubes of dried glass.  The absence of any observable putrefaction had given rise to suspicions that the dining hall jello desserts in fact weren't biodegradable at all.  This advancement in bioscience comes thanks to the beatnik across the way.  

Bizarre trends and wacky interests like this abounded in our community.  There were a few among our numbers who had revealed themselves early on as Roman Catholics.  When time came for the liturgical colors to switch from green to purple sometime in late February, time also came for a new fad: Lent and the Lenten dietary restrictions to which most Romans adhere for 40 days out of the year.  I was raised a Protestant, although one with a liturgical tradition, so we observed Lent as well, along with the other seasons of the calendar like our Roman classmates, just without all the rules, regulations, and certain perils of hell.  The dining hall was run by folks who didn't know much about the season and who probably didn't care much about it  either.  Come Ash Wednesday, they were forking up steaks and giant polish sausages.  The following Friday, same: pork chops and other meaty entrees.  Traditionally, our Catholic brethren eat fish on these days, especially Lenten Fridays when consumption of meat is officially forbidden.  Protests were launched that the dining hall never offered a Catholic food option, so the Romans were forced to eat around the meat and opt for a strictly vegetarian Lent.  And so arose the scandal that made Lent groovy.  Lent was trendy.  Lent was cool even if you worshiped nature goddesses, offered libations to the Greco-Roman pantheon, refused to believe there was any divinity at all, or even if you thought there might be some significance to all this, but weren't quite sure whether you should call him Zeus or Mithras.  The honors quarters were abuzz with Lent.  Friday was anticipated with glee, not so much because it was the final day of the work week as it was a day to grandstand. 

When your humble Libellus was a child, he learned in Sunday School, even before he could read, that it was only the Catholics who were chained to the strict regulations of eating fish on Fridays.  Since we could think for ourselves and because, as it was pointed out to us, we all had free wills liberated from the "yoke of Rome" (as they said) after the theses were nailed to the door in Wittenburg, we were allowed, if we wished and without guilt or worry of impending doom, to consume our favorite cuts of beef on any Friday of the year, even -- God forbid -- on Good Friday itself. As a result, Libellus never really thought twice about Friday fish.  If it landed on a Friday menu, it was simply by chance and not because eating meat on that day might place the soul on the wide, comfortable road to eternal damnation.  When my classmates protested that no fish was served on Fridays, my first suggestion was "just eat veg " (as I gnawed on my piece of greasy fried chicken).  By the middle of the purple season, as a show of solidarity with the starving Romans, the larger part of our community, whether Christians, pagans, agnostics, or atheists were Lenting it up on veggie Fridays.  Comments regarding a meatless plate became common at the dinner table: "Oh, no meat? I didn't know you're Catholic."  "Oh, I'm not.  I just thought it would be cool."  You see, Lent had become trendy.

Lenten irony is fascinating, and the season sets itself apart as the high time to observe human nature and humans' peculiar, inborn desire to perform.  Lent is like attending the opera: telling someone you love the music is just subterfuge.  The real reason opera houses exist is to see and be seen.  In the little community of trendy Lenters back in college, we created our very own microcosm of Lenten gawking.  Outside our dorm, most folks were like the kitchen ladies.  They just didn't care, really.   In South Louisiana, however, where almost everyone is Catholic, Lent is eye-rollingly awesome.  

Let's think about this for a minute.  Time to go back to Sunday School.  The whole basis for this Lent business is the time Christ spent in the desert.  Key word: desert.  There's not too much going on in a desert.  Sand, heat, creepy-crawly things, maybe a few animal bones here and there.  Jesus faced temptation there, in the middle of nowhere.  No one really knows how intense that must have been, but it's pretty safe to say it wasn't like a 40-day spa visit.  Desert.  The Redeemer probably wasn't out getting a daily mani-pedi, although in those conditions, he'd more than likely have benefited from one.   So, each year -- as the story goes -- the trendy set enter with Christ into...a desert.  Let's think about this, too: Jesus went into the desert by himself, that is, alone.  He didn't bring other folks with him.  There were no paparazzi there recording his day to day jaunts through the sand.  No one followed him around each day to ask how it was going, or how he felt about living there.  He was alone.  That said, in order to re-create the desert feel of Lent, it has become tradition that one should "give up" the favorite stuff for 40 days.  Nothing like going into a real desert, but let's face facts: most of us don't have a barren waste land handy for an impromptu, long-term camp-out between Mardi Gras and Easter.  So in lieu of having to wash sand from our drawers when we return on Maundy Thursday, we do the giving up routine.  The key to this is really sacrificing things or activities that mean a lot, things one likes to do, significant things.  And what makes it even more difficult, is that this sacrifice is not something public.  It's something between you and God.  Remember, the Big C went alone into the dessert.  Nowadays, it's become a standard Lenten greeting to say "So, whatcha givin' up?" and the proper response is "I gave up (name your favorite chocolate candy here)".   Further, when offered a food item, or when asked to participate in certain activities involved in one's Lenten sacrifice, it's now common to say "Oh, I can't.  I've given that up for Lent" instead of simply "No thank you" or "I'd love to, but I can't."  The real art to Lent is sacrifice (and the resulting suffering, naturally) without trumpeting it to the world that that's actually what  one is up to.  Christ went alone. He didn't wear a big sign around his neck reading "Trendy Lenter here!  This year I gave up chocolate!"  

So, back to fish.  Libellus has never observed the dietary restrictions of Lent -- even while doing time  swinging his tits for beads at the Carneval parades on the yellow and white side of the Tiber.  Luther's stance on the matter that  "Fasting is ok, but not necessary" was ingrained early on.  So, if he wanted a Wendy's triple on  Friday, by golly gosh, Libellus the flagrant Lutheran simply got himself one, and oddly, he's survived to tell the tale.   Now, if I read the rule correctly, meatless Fridays are supposed to be sacrifice, right?   Your humble Libellus eats out quite a bit, which in these parts is a big deal, especially in Lent.  One might suppose that many give up cooking on Fridays altogether.  As a result, most every restaurant  in town features a "Special Lenten Menu".  If we recall Christ in the desert, a Lenten menu, logically, should be enjoyed in private, and should be extremely simple -- and if we include the restriction, something meatless.  For example, a sacrificial Lenten menu might consist of two slices of bread and a glass of water.  Maybe some steamed vegetables and a half portion of broiled fish.  On the other hand, a Lenten menu in South Louisiana consists of a giant platter of all manner of broiled, boiled, and fried seafood: fish, shrimp, oysters, crawfish, crab, a thick plank of oozy fried fish with a healthy portion of fries, and maybe for dessert a thick wedge of bread pudding with a good ladling of bourbon sauce.  After leaving the restaurant, one might be able to make the 9pm showing at the movie house to consume the mega re-fillable tub of popcorn with a few extra squirts of buttery topping (all meatless!).  Lenten sacrifice in the southern parishes is "slap-yo-mama" good!  Announcers for one local sushi restaurant are even telling us in a radio spot that not going to their joint for 40 days is too big a sacrifice for Lent, and as a result, they're offering more fish.  Good thing, that.  An inability to consume copious amounts of tasty meatlessness might spoil anyone's Lenten party!    

In the end,  Libellus queries: What's the point to all this?  Is Lent really a time of sacrifice and introspection?  Or is it actually just a complicated excuse to rend one's garments and not one's heart?  After the last of the Mardi Gras floats has passed, all is not lost. Just listen and hear the merry calliope tootling that jaunty tune!  Happy Days are here again: All aboard the Lenten Showboat!                                 

Ku Ni Chi Wa, Angin-san!

Judging from the popularity of a recent Southern Living poll, Lafayette is quite the town for foodies.  It may even be the case that the countless new homes being built in the area actually have no kitchens at all, their practicality out-weighted by the overabundance of good restaurants here.  Apart from Libellus' frequent solo outings to eating establishments, once a month or so he teams up with a squad of good friends to experience a group dine-out event.  This is the Supper Club.  Depending upon everyone's availability, the group numbers 7-10, and is comprised chiefly of bachelor uncles enjoying various degrees of attachment -- some single, some partnered -- and one fashionably adroit straight couple.  This past Saturday evening was a designated club night, and the venue: Tokyo Hibachi Grill on Ambassador in Lafayette. 

The Japanese hibachi experience is wildly popular in these parts.  Several such establishments exist here, no doubt due to the entertaining food play involved in the preparation.  Typically when the geisha envie strikes, the Club has frequented the Lafayette hibachi standard: Shangri-la, a rather dark 1970's-inspired sushi joint with decent service and adequate fare.  In search of a new hibachi experience, and Shangri-la's mysterious sister restaurant "Dozo" never having answered her telephone to take reservations, Tokyo jumped to the head of the list.  

The location's first incarnation was as a landmark Benegan's restaurant.  When the Irish clover wilted a few years ago, it gave rise to a risque burger outfit, where, as word had it, the food was as tasteless as the servers' uniforms.  The property was then acquired by the Tokyo restaurant and completely gutted and transformed from working class Irish-pub-slash-peep-show to high end Japanese hibachi grill, replete with a prayer gate through which patrons enter.  Nice touch.

Libellus was the first to arrive, and the pagoda was packed.  One half of the restaurant consists of hibachi tables, while the other half  is dedicated to sushi.  Reservations are a must.  The bar was standing room, and the 21st century soft-spoken Japponaise bar tender was overwhelmed, both by drink orders and by her own state-of-the-art computer register, doubtless made in Japan.  A 30 minute wait for a double Crown and Coke seemed a bit excessive, and indicated Lady Mariko could benefit from a colleague whose sole job it should be to prepare cocktails destined for patrons seated in the dining areas.  Screaming infants, rude mothers with child carriers, and cocky fraternity dads blocked the service lane.  When my order was finally delivered, the over-worked Mariko had made it worth my while: a hulking quadruple Crown with a splash of coke served up in a high ball glass with a slice of lime and a giggle.  A double-fisted sipping drink fit for Osaka royalty: me love you long time.  

By then, the Club had arrived.  What we were experiencing in the lobby/bar was a whopping party of 20 plus walk-in's willing to endure a 2-hour wait.  Word was, as soon as the 20 were seated, we'd be next.  We stepped away from the rush hour bullet train platform, retreating outside near the prayer gate in hopes of a timely seating.  Thirty minutes past our reservation time, we were called and guided through the boisterous hibachi zone to our corner grill.  We were 7 at the table of 9.  

As is customary at hibachi places, all the seats are filled, regardless whether or not everyone is of the same party.  A middle-aged married couple already occupied two seats at our grill.  Judging from their demeanor and dress, they were consummate conservatives: proper insertion of common charcoal could potentially produce the finest industrial grade diamond in seconds.  One assumes they're pulling for Santorum.  Here,  we had the makings for a classic diner de cons, a ready-made French-style game of social torture at the expense of a random victim invited to a dinner party at which he/they know no one else.  Club conversation is generally always unabashedly candid, witty, and upbeat.  June and Ward, having just sucked the juice of two lemons, had no idea what they were in for.  

We all marveled at the complete redo that had taken place to make Tokyo what it now was.  Stone tile and Japanese Zen garden styling created a comfortable, upscale Asian atmosphere.  A look at the menu previewed a culinary experience that proved a tough rival for Lafayette's long-lived (complacent?) hibachi standard.  The grill choices were more plentiful, as were the sides -- salad, rice, and noodles are extra across town, but are all included here.  Although the menu was heavy on selection, it was noticeably lighter on price.  

Orders placed, soup and salad consumed (although from plastic versions of the traditional porcelain bowl and spoon), our hibachi chef arrived with his cart and started the show.  We could tell from his timely addition of seasonings and sauces that we would be guaranteed flavor past the gratuitous use of salt and pepper and mounds of butter.  The first taste of combination rice confirmed what we had suspected simply from reading the menu.  Added to that, we had the pleasure of being served by a chef who had a concept of cooking times.  We had grown accustomed to Hispanic chefs more used to cooking fajitas than Asian cuisine.  The result: everything lumped at once onto the grill and everything mercilessly over-cooked.  Pass the tortillas, Pablo.  Here, meat and seafood landed on the grill in shifts.  Rare was rare, medium was medium.  Scallops and shrimp were done properly, not blackened.  Flavorfully prepared plentiful portions for almost half the price.  

And what of our dinner guests?    They barely said a word the entire evening -- perhaps poignantly aware that karma had elected them the evening's mystery guests -- yet now and then they cracked their Rushmores to sneak smiles in reaction to us and in reaction to our reactions to the hibachi chef's corny jokes and campy Asian humor.  It was brutally obvious that interaction with us required razor sharp wit.  Anything less would be tantamount to laying a bare hand atop the hibachi.  After the checks were collected, the pair vanished into the crowd, duly sated, yet deliciously scandalized.  

We learned toward the close of the evening, that word of our presence had quickly spread among the wait staff who favored the computer terminal adjacent to our table in order to overhear our colorful table talk.  The verdict on the evening: for Japanese-style hibachi grill, Tokyo is the place to go in Lafayette.  A generous, most flavorful and properly prepared meal in a beautifully appointed, yet easy atmosphere.  Libellus' advice: assemble a group of 7 or so, leaving room for extras. Visit the website for a complete menu listing, directions, and general information prepared for you in a delightful, Asian-accented Engrish.                                                             

Viet-Fail

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It's been so long since your dear Libellus has been posting.  The fact is, I've been out of comission to the greater extent having dined at a local Vietnamese restaurant.  I ordered a delicious stir-fry pork platter.  The portion was so enormous, I couldn't finish it, so I asked for a to-go box.  The next evening, I enjoyed the second half of my Friday evening dinner.  Within 3 hours of consuming what had remained of the Indochinese Surprise, I realized that not only had I received a fabulous tasting entree, but I had also been afforded an extra bonus from the rice patty: an unknown parasite that, to the dismay of physicians, banished me to almost six months of intestinal malaise and the requirement, at least for the near future, to maintain a strict gluten-free diet.  My advice to diners in the Lafayette area: unless you're feeling lucky, the local Vietnamese dine out option is much akin to eating blow fish.  You may or may not be going home in a pine box.  On a more positive note,  the minature turkey wing broom the server was using to sweep the dining room floor that evening was quite adorable indeed.  They're available at the Asian grocery on Arnould Blvd -- the cashier speaks no English (or at least he'd like you to think so), so put on your rude American face, buy a broom and sweep your kitchen like a jungle cooking hut!