Secrets Part 1

Found among the files.  Stuffed into the corners.  Crumpled and stained with coffee.  These pages hint at when and where our secrets began.  

The year is 1962.  Our world is waiting for something new, bulging at the seams.

It is the age of superpowers, a chess match between the United States and the Soviet Union.  In May of 1960 a US spy plane was shot down in Soviet airspace broiling tensions.  The pilot is still in captivity.  Last year the Bay of Pigs invasion fell flat and embarrassed the newly elected President Kennedy.  As the construction of the Berlin Wall divided Germany, the Soviet Union sent the first man into orbit and claimed technological superiority. Neither side will budge. Today, the game involves the entire world without a checkmate in sight.  What is the next move?  Is there a game changer, a single swipe that guarantees success?

It is the age of commercialization.  AT & T launched Telstar, the world’s first communication satellite, and television has become king.  In the comfort of our living rooms we see what to buy to make life better.  Everything is for sale; it just takes the right pitch.

It is the Space Age.  The Boeing 707, launched 4 years ago, shrunk the world.  Britain and France promise to develop a supersonic passenger plane to cross the Atlantic in 3 hours.  Mariner II reached Venus and sent us the first signals from another planet.  The goal is for man to set foot on the moon that luminescent ball in the night sky.

There is another age, one that most people are less aware of.  It is the age of agriculture, or as we in the industry call it, the Green Revolution.  Food problems have haunted mankind since the beginning.  The food needs of growing populations were always met by expanding cultivated land.  Not 50 years ago the intellects of the world foresaw mass starvation.  But investments in scientific research have led to dramatic breakthroughs.

The story of English wheat is typical.  This ancient crossbreed of wild wheat and goat grass became the first mass scale agricultural product.  Farmed by hand and planted once a year it yielded a meager crop.  Over 10,000 years humans developed the plow, the seed drill, and rotation crops so that yields increased 4 fold. Today, new plant breeds, inorganic fertilizers, and modern pesticides have tripled that in 20 years. Today, industrial countries have eliminated the threat of starvation.

The world is on the verge of a new age; the Age of Tomorrow.  Let us project ahead to an age of prosperity in which technology ushers in an era of leisure.  With new textiles, new building materials, new colors, new flavor enhancements, new hair products, new fuels nothing is impossible.  Never before has humanity made such progress in understanding the world.  We stand on the edge of tomorrow.

It's been a long and dreary spell without Nordo around these parts.  The months have dragged on with nothing to look forward to.  The world wobbles along on its axis without direction.  We've waited for a message, a note, a blip on the screen.  Nothing.

Then without warning he returns.  With unabashed style he flies in on a Pan Am plane direct from Honolulu with wild tales, even wilder dishes, and armed with blistering opinions on the state of the world through the eyes of a chef, or a celery stalk, his totem vegetable.

It looks as though Nordo may have gotten himself into the trouble while abroad.  A stable of international spies on his tail, he seems to have stumbled upon something no one wants the public to know.  Perhaps it is too incendiary, too incriminating.  Perhaps it would upend the dining table and flail the entire modern meal on the carpet.  What ever the secret is you can be sure it involves what is in the supermarket aisle.

Rushing down the tarmac he cradles a suitcase in his hands and constantly peers over his shoulders.  Beads of sweat drip from his brow.  He pulls up just short of running us over.

"We got them now," he pants.  "We got them.  Everyone will know what they've done."

Check out the website (Cafenordo.com) for details on the shows, buy tickets, and stay tuned for behind the scene updates on the drinks, the food, and the disastrous state of the global food industry!

Freedom from Industrialized Foods

Things have been slow in the Carnal Food Movement. Nordo has seemingly retreated into his kitchen for deep deliberations on the future. But occasionally, we do receive some bits of news from him. Apparently, the world has been weighing heavily on his shoulders. Monsanto has been buying up seed and grain companies left and right and a sugarcane company in Brazil, and the world of artificial foods continue to grow. He wrote me the entire ingredient list of a Stouffer's Salisbury Steak frozen dinner. The gravy alone had over 40 ingredients. It must have taken hours. He sent this out only a day ago in a missive titled "The Need for A Holiday Celebrating Freedom from Industrialized Food".

Mythologue #1

As the story goes there was a time that people subsisted on very unnatural things.

It was the age of petroleum when the black tar was used to fuel everything under the sun- machines, medicine, men, and women.

Trucks, who drank the stuff, rumbled over highways, poured from the stuff, and transported to every store boxed confections, extruded from the stuff, each one carefully packaged in the stuff.

Long oily worms of the stuff were pulled free and spun into new types of fabric.

Vats of the stuff were applied to the skin in order to lubricate, hide blemishes, and provide an attractive sheen.

And, as the story goes, people bored into the inner workings of Nature itself. They cracked cells open and unraveled the strands of life.

Strands were twisted and rewoven to create new lives that died in a year.

To be bought every year.

Strands with bar codes. And strands with trademarks.

Strands with ingrained poisons for pests.

Strands with new colors and new flavors contrived so that our foods became infused with preservatives and would grow around the world in great fields of regularity.

People found that they could create another world, a synthetic manufactured world entirely controlled. People would never want and never need to fear the whimsical cycles of Nature.

As the story goes people willingly turned a blind eye to the darker side of their creations, and they relinquished power over their world to anonymous companies and unscrupulous individuals. Due to the chemical tinkering strange and unsightly creatures began to appear, and the Synthetic Garden was born.

Nordo.

I'm sure something is brewing. Keep posted.

Around and Around In Glass

There are percolations heard in Nordo's kitchen. Something seems to be brewing. Perhaps another show is coming...?

But for now, a small tale from a restaurant.

A female finger rubs the rim of a glass. It tingles. She amiably smiles over the rim at her gentleman as her foot, clad in a t-strap heel, bounces in time with the piano. He utters a comment, and she laughs tilting her head back. The glass is an elegant bowl on a long thin stem and empty.

A waitress in a flouncy black dress whisks the glass away in mid stride. The woman and her gentleman barely notice. The waitress approaches the kitchen. “Corner.” A waiter jerks to a stop, and she speeds by without pause. Pans rattle, and a spoon clatters to the floor.

The glass held high in the waitress’s hand rounds the bar station, its lipstick stain evident from across the kitchen. Turned upside down, it is placed in a dish rack. “Need more white wines”, she commands.

The glass is rearranged in the rack. Another two, four, six surround it. “They happen when they happen,” is the response. The rack is pushed into the washer. The door clicks closed, and the sterilization clears away any residual memories.

The waitress gazes up at the ceiling. “You can always tell when something isn’t right at a table.”

“The looks?”

“No, the way they hold their glass. Tight.”

Steam whistles out from the dishwasher and the door pops open. The rack is pushed out. The glass is hot to the touch.

“While you’re here, take these to the bar.”

“Got it.”

The glass clinks against another repeatedly as the kitchen door swings open raising a veil on the bar sounds. As alcohol slides down the throat, laughter bubbles up to the ceiling. The waitress passes table nine.

“I know, but there can be no regrets.” The lady intones.

“No. No regrets.”

“We make choices.”

“Yes. Choices.”

“Another round?” The waitress announces herself.

The lady and the gentleman size up the evening’s progress. The lady speaks first giving the slightest lift of a question for him to respond to. “Of course, another round.”

“Let it flow,” he complies.

And the waitress moves on with a smile. “Two more Sauvignons. Table nine.”

“Got it. They’re on a tear.”

The bartender reaches for the rack and grabs the glass by the base. Spun right side up it comes to rest on the bar. Another is set beside it. The pale yellow liquid slips into the bottom of the bowl, one finger, two fingers, three fingers, and a splash for good luck. Rounded out, the glass is full.

“Good pour.”

“Someone just got lucky.”

The waitress swirls the glass and watches the wine tickle the rim. “Someone may get lucky.”

From across the room the lady waves off her man. He responds with a quick word. She locks her eyes on him. The waitress pauses, the glass hovers in the air above the table.

“Why do we always go round and round on this?”

“Why are you so damn stubborn all the time?”

“Someone has to be right.”

“Sauvignon blanc,” the waitress whispers.

Without recognition, the lady grips the glass under the bowl. She takes a long drink.

“Thirsty?” A derisive drawl elongates the question.

“In need of drowning.”

“I could help with that.” And he tilts his glass with a, “Here’s to you.”

Tables stand empty with dirty plates, rumpled napkins, and credit card receipts. The evening’s volume fades, the remaining voices easy to distinguish.

“I don’t care what you think.” The words slip around in a slur, her voice raised in pitch. The glass sloshes overhead full with the words.

“I didn’t ask if you did.”

They repose and sit behind their respective walls.

“Done for the evening?” The waitress breaks the blanket of silence. The man stares ahead as the woman looks away from the man. She rubs the rim of the glass. Three seconds pass.

“Yes. I am done for the evening. I am done with all of this.” As the lady rises, the glass tips, and slowly falls to the table. It spills a dark wet spot onto the tablecloth. She walks to the door and out into the night.

“I guess I’ll take the check.” He raises his glass and gulps down the remaining wine.

It is quiet. The waitstaff nod to one another over tasks. A long stem rose rises in the center of each table. . A spoon, knife, and two forks lay upon a napkin. The glass is placed to the right and up from the napkin. It stands empty waiting.