Schnitzel & Memory
 
I don’t know a whole lot about Polish cooking, except generalities that broadly apply to Eastern European cuisine and more specifically that I like kielbasa.  I know that, like the Russians and the Ukrainians, the Polish are big on stuffed cabbage, mushrooms, sour cream and above all, vodka.  This weekend, I plan to tie on an apron and make something Polish.
 
European food, in particular Eastern European food, has fallen somewhat out of favour, here on the West Coast, in a somewhat senseless attrition of culture and cuisine under the delusion that we are healthier without it.  Certainly, on the surface, that argument seems to make sense: one only has to look at the meat-heavy dishes, and the reliance on rich dairy and various animal fats to conclude that it isn’t the healthiest food around.  This is somewhat misleading, however, in the same way that judging North American cuisine solely on the giant steaks at Morton’s or the fast-food triple bacon cheeseburger would be.  For one thing, portion size is a greater demon than sour cream, and for another – many of the foods from Eastern Europe are quite healthy and not as stodgy as their reputation.  There are many vegetarian dishes, and there are a lot of soups made with very little fat.  Even properly made pierogi, unless you pile prodigious amounts of butter or bacon on top of them, are completely suitable to a health-focused diet.
 
The daily diet of first generation west coast Canadians of European and Scandinavian descent is often stunningly different from that of their parents.  With the large Asian communities offering an affordable and exciting variety of foods, our culinary palate has expanded beyond the imagination of many of our parents and grandparents.  We think nothing of popping out for African, Indian, or Japanese food when we don’t feel up to cooking, ignoring the fact that while all of these cuisines have very healthy foods in them, our dining choices are often for the fried and the rich dishes.  We indulge in coconut milk, palm oil, or other exciting ways to clog your arteries, such as greater proportions of meat in a given dish than would be traditional, yet have been adapted thusly for our market.  Yet, we feel good about our choices, because we are exploring other cultures (good!) and pat ourselves on the back for our cosmopolitan ways.
 
My generation is also noticeably putting off (or deciding against) raising families of our own, which also subtly weaves its way into our food choices.  There is less of a sense of urgency, I think, in preserving our cultural traditions when there isn’t a new generation to teach in our households.  By the time we do have kids, those recipes, traditions and even the delicatessens and specialty shops where we buy the ingredients may be lost to all but memory.
 
Some family traditions remain inviolate, at least for the holidays, which is when many folk of European descent crack open the pickle jars and cruise the specialty markets for that particular must-have type of cheese or cold cut.  At a time for feasting, whatever health-conscious doubts lay lingering in the back of their mind are shoved firmly away for the duration.  Alas, the problem with feasting is the gorging, and subsequent bloating that often sparks New Year’s resolutions along the lines of exercising and eating “better.”  No wonder there seems to be a correlation between these foods and our sorry waistlines!
 
I would feel better about the notion that our move away from these foods is based in the fight for healthier eating habits if it were borne out by results, but, sadly, the ever popular fast-food restaurants lay that slim hope to rest.  People, on the whole, aren’t necessarily eating smarter, they’re just picking their poison.  Sadly, they’re often picking one that they can eat quickly and surreptitiously in the car, depriving themselves of any real pleasure in their meal.
 
I am a member of the unofficial Schnitzel Club.  Do your ears prick up at the mention of the word schnitzel?  You might be a member, too.  There are no dues, no minutes, and no president, treasurer, or secretary.  The only meetings are convened over dinner in any of the few schnitzel-purveying places in town.  I was at first surprised, then delighted at how many people I know harbour a secret passion for breaded, pounded cutlets.  Try working the word “schnitzel” into a conversation at a party, and see who looks up.
 
I am also encouraged in the slow, steady resurgence of European restaurants in Vancouver.  It started with the French – a new bistro here or there, winning favourable reviews and reviving an excitement that has been missing from our restaurant scene.  Now I’m starting to see small places appearing, such as Mira Yaletown, a new Hungarian place, and the German Café Katzenjammer  on the West Side, serving carefully crafted traditional recipes with great pride and appropriate libation selections.  These discoveries help ease the pain of the loss of the wonderful Bandi’s, the Goulash House, and sundry German places that used to dot this town.  This reminds me that I’m due for another visit to Café Katzenjammer, as I have yet to try their duck salad.
 
This weekend, however, I will be cooking Polish food.  I have spent part of my morning printing out Polish recipes from an email that I received around this time last year, from a former co-worker named Jim.  When I first met him, I thought he was loud and he possibly thought I was humourless, because I didn’t laugh at his jokes.  We didn’t quite understand or relate to each other until we started talking about food, and then it seemed as though that was all we talked about.   I have been meaning to review the family recipes that he sent to me, and try a couple of the ones that he particularly recommended, but somehow over this past year haven’t really gotten around to it.  Then, this morning, I was told that Jim has passed away, an unexpected victim of the Norwalk virus while he was in the hospital.
 
When I remember people, one of the things that I remember best is what they liked to eat.  So, in memory of Jim, I am planning to make Chicken Gorky, a Russian recipe that I hunted down for him, and maybe one of the Barszcz (borscht) recipes that he sent me.  “Ohhhhhh, it’s a good one!” he promised, when we had a pop-quiz conversation in the kitchenette about the best ingredients for borscht.  “The best.  You’ll see.”  And he laughed, his big, booming laugh.  “You’ll see!”