Routledge Handbook of Food in Asia 9781138669918

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ROUTLEDGE HANDBOOK OF FOOD IN ASIA

Throwing new light on how colonisation and globalization have affected the food practices of different communities in Asia, the Routledge Handbook of Food in Asia explores the changes and variations in the region’s dishes, meals and ways of eating. By demonstrating the different methodologies and theoretical approaches employed by scholars, the contributions discuss everyday food practices in Asian cultures and provide a fascinating coverage of less common phenomenon, such as the practice of wood eating and the evolution of pufferfish eating in Japan. In doing so, the handbook not only covers a wide geographical area, including Japan, Indonesia, Vietnam, Singapore, India, China, South Korea and Malaysia, but also examines the Asian diasporic communities in Canada, the United States and Australia through five key themes: • • • • •

Food, Identity and Diasporic Communities Food Rites and Rituals Food and the Media Food and Health Food and State Matters.

Interdisciplinary in nature, this handbook is a useful reference guide for students and scholars of anthropology, sociology and world history, in addition to food history, cultural studies and Asian studies in general. Cecilia Leong-Salobir is a food historian affiliated with the University of Wollongong and University of Western Australia. Her publications include Food Culture in Colonial Asia: A Taste of Empire and Urban Food Culture: Sydney, Shanghai and Singapore in the Twentieth Century. Cecilia serves on editorial advisory boards for Global Food History and Food, Culture & Society.

ROUTLEDGE HANDBOOK OF FOOD IN ASIA

Edited by Cecilia Leong-Salobir

First published 2019 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2019 selection and editorial matter, Cecilia Leong-Salobir; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Cecilia Leong-Salobir to be identified as the author of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Leong-Salobir, Cecilia, editor. Title: Routledge handbook of food in Asia / edited by Cecilia Leong-Salobir. Other titles: Handbook of food in Asia Description: Abingdon, Oxon ; New York, NY : Routledge, 2019. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2018050052 (print) | LCCN 2018061573 (ebook) | ISBN 9781315617916 (Ebook) | ISBN 9781317209386 (Adobe Reader) | ISBN 9781317209379 (ePub) | ISBN 9781317209362 (Mobipocket Encrypted) | ISBN 9781138669918 (hardback) Subjects: LCSH: Food habits—Asia. | Food—Social aspects—Asia. Classification: LCC GT2853.A78 (ebook) | LCC GT2853.A78 R68 2019 (print) | DDC 394.1/2095—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018050052 ISBN: 978-1-138-66991-8 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-61791-6 (ebk) Typeset in Bembo by Apex CoVantage, LLC

CONTENTS

List of figures List of tables Notes on contributors

viii ix x

1 Introduction Cecilia Leong-Salobir

1

PART 1

Food, identity and diasporic communities

11

2 Geographies of fusion: re-imagining Singaporean and Malaysian food in global cities of the West Jean Duruz

13

3 Finding France in flour: communicating colonialism in French Indochina through bread Nicholas Tošaj

29

4 Japanese culinary mobilities: the multiple globalizations of Japanese cuisine James Farrer, Christian Hess, Mônica R. de Carvalho, Chuanfei Wang, and David Wank 5 Food and identity construction: the impact of colonization in Indonesian society Christina Nope-Williams

v

39

58

Contents

6 Searching for culinary footprints: a question of cultural identity – Kristang foodways and the Portuguese culinary legacy in Melaka Paula Arvela 7 Cooking in the Hmong cultural kitchen Hongyan Yang

73

89

PART 2

Food rites and rituals

107

8 Eating of wood: the practice of mokujiki in Japan Jon Morris 9 Cooking for demons, soldiers, and commoners: history of a ritual meal in Java Jiri Jakl

109

127

10 Enjoying a dangerous pleasure: the evolution of pufferfish consumption in modern Japan Chunghao Pio Kuo

139

11 Crossing Japanese rice products with Italian futurism: fortune cookies, onigiri and arancini as communicant rice-bites Annette Condello

148

PART 3

Food and the media

161

12 Food writing and culinary tourism in Singapore Donna Lee Brien

163

13 Her hunger knows no bounds: female–food relationships in Korean dramas Eunice Lim Ying Ci and Liew Kai Khiun

176

14 Untouched by human hands: making and marketing milk in Singapore, 1900–2007 Nicole Tarulevicz

193

15 Feasting on ‘the Other’: performing authenticity and commodifying difference in celebrity chefs’ food and travel television programmes Jacqui Kong

207

vi

Contents

16 ‘Sauce in the bowl, not on your shirt’: food pedagogy and aesthetics in Vietnamese ethnic food tours to Cabramatta, Sydney Rick Flowers and Elaine Swan

222

PART 4

Food and health

237

17 Uncle’s body: food, obesity and the risk of middle-class lifestyles in urban India Michiel Baas

239

18 Shaping nutrition: the role of state institutions in the production of nutritional knowledge in Maoist China Renée Krusche

251

PART 5

Food and state matters

263

19 “Protect agriculture and food safety!”: transnational protests against preferential trade agreements in East and Southeast Asia Cornelia Reiher

265

20 Agriculture, food security and the Trans-Pacific Partnership: stability and change in Japanese agricultural policy making Thomas Feldhoff

279

21 Contesting the corporate food regime in South and Southeast Asia Trent Brown

296

22 Japanese foods (washoku) with wine: a study in non-state culinary politics Chuanfei Wang

309

23 Shanghai, street food and the modern metropolis Anna Greenspan

321

Index

334

vii

FIGURES

4.1 7.1 7.2 7.3 7.4 7.5 7.6 7.7 7.8 7.9 11.1 11.2 20.1 20.2 20.3

The number of Japanese restaurants by region Kitchen plan of Tommy’s house Stove and open shelf in Tommy’s family kitchen Pantry room in Tommy’s house Kitchen plan of Mae’s house Free-standing open cabinet in Mae’s family kitchen Kitchen plan of Goeliang’s house A view of Goeliang’s family kitchen Soaking the rice Boiled chicken Mice contemplating the leftover rice balls from the “Hokusai School Sketchbook” (ca. 1830–1850) Baking Japanese fortune cookies with notes inside each one, aka tsujiura senbei (ca. 1878) Rice in Japan: Planted area, production, consumption and stockpiling by the national government and domestic rice price index, 1960–2015 Value of gross agricultural production and income by type of agricultural activity, 1960–2015 Minimum access quota of tax-free rice imports total and by country, 1995–2015

viii

40 94 95 95 97 97 98 99 100 102 152 153 284 287 288

TABLES

6.1 20.1 20.2

Words in Kristang with Portuguese equivalent Commercial farming and arable land in Japan, 1990–2015 Self-sufficiency ratio of comprehensive food, 1985–2015

ix

80 286 287

NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

Paula Arvela is an Honorary Post-Doctoral Research Associate at the University of Wollongong, Australia. She has taught at the University of Wuhan, China. She researches on cultural identity and food production/consumption in popular culture. Previously a professional chef, she uses her research to explore her lifelong interest in food and culture. Michiel Baas is a Research Fellow with the Asia Research Institute of the National University of Singapore. His research mainly centers on questions related to the Indian middle class, especially with respect to topics such as mobility and migration, as well as gender, sexuality and the body. Donna Lee Brien is Professor of Creative Industries at Central Queensland University, Australia; co-founding convenor of the Australasian Food Studies Network; and an editorial board member of Locale: Australasian-Pacific Journal of Regional Food Studies and TEXT: The Journal of Writing and Writing Courses. Her latest book is The Routledge Companion to Literature and Food (2018, with Lorna Piatti-Farnell). Trent Brown is a Research Fellow at the University of Melbourne, Australia. He researches on issues related to sustainability, youth and rural development in India. His publications include Farmers, Subalterns and Activists: Social Politics of Sustainable Agriculture in India. He is currently working on a project funded by the Australia Research Council that investigates India’s new agricultural vocational training initiatives. Annette Condello is a senior lecturer at Curtin University in Perth, Australia. Her books include The Architecture of Luxury (Routledge, 2014), Sustainable Lina: Lina Bo Bardi’s Adaptive Reuse Projects (co-editor, 2016) and Pier Luigi Nervi and Australia: Outback Modernism (2017). Her other publications have appeared in Architettura, Ricerca, Citta (Arc), Studies in the History of Gardens and Designed Landscapes, Architecture Research Quarterly (ARQ) and archithese and You Are What You Eat: Literary Probes into the Palate (2018). Mônica R. de Carvalho is Associate Professor at Fundação Dom Cabral in Brazil and a PhD candidate at Sophia University. She focuses on research topics of global scope, with special interest in institutional building and change. In the project on global Japanese cuisines at Sophia University, she studies the integration of this cuisine with local cultures in Latin America. x

Notes on contributors

Jean Duruz is an Adjunct Senior Research Fellow at the University of South Australia and an Affiliated Professor of the University of Toronto’s Culinaria Research Centre. She has published in Gastronomica, Cultural Studies Review and Food and Foodways in Asia (Cheung and Tan), and has co-written, with Gaik Cheng Khoo, Eating Together: Food, Space and Identity in Malaysia and Singapore. James Farrer is Professor of Sociology and Director of the Graduate Program in Global Studies at Sophia University in Tokyo. His research focuses on the contact zones of global cities, including ethnographic studies of sexuality, nightlife, expatriate communities and urban food cultures. His recent books include International Migrants in China’s Global City: The New Shanghailanders, Shanghai Nightscapes: A Nocturnal Biography of a Global City (with Andrew Field) and Globalization and Asian Cuisines: Transnational Networks and Contact Zones (editor). He leads the project on global Japanese cuisines at Sophia University, investigating the spread of Japanese restaurants throughout the world. Thomas Feldhoff is based at Ruhr University Bochum, Germany. His research focuses on political geographies of natural resources and energy transitions, rural development policy and planning in the context of food security issues. His work has been published in Sustainable Cities in Asia, the Routledge Handbooks of Africa-Asia Relations and Contemporary Japan and journals such as International Planning Studies, Journal of Rural Studies, Societies and Urban Design International. Rick Flowers is based at the University of Technology, Sydney, Australia, where he teaches subjects in the sociology of education. His research interests are in popular education, food pedagogies and intercultural learning. He was head of postgraduate programs for six years and director for the center of popular education. As a sole author, Rick has published widely on education and learning. With Elaine Swan, he has been studying food social enterprises in Sydney since 2011, and together they have published widely on their ethnographic and digital analysis of these enterprises, including five book chapters and eight peer-reviewed articles. They are writing a new book on foodwork and intercultural organizing. Anna Greenspan is Assistant Professor of Contemporary Global Media at New York University, Shanghai, China. Her research interests include urbanization, critical cartography, emerging media, philosophy of technology and modern China. Her book Shanghai Future: Modernity Remade was published in 2014. Christian Hess is Associate Professor of Chinese History in the Faculty of Liberal Arts at Sophia University. His work focuses on Japanese imperialism and its aftermath in the urban centers of northeast China. A California native, he is also interested in the interactions between Chinese and Japanese communities in California cities from the late 1800s through the 1950s. Jiri Jakl is a researcher at Heidelberg University, Germany. He received his PhD from the University of Queensland and has published widely on diverse aspects of pre-Islamic Java. His book on alcohol in Java before 1500 CE is forthcoming. He is also working on two other books on medicine and healing practices in Java before 1500 CE and on birds and their representations in Old Javanese literature and on Javanese temple reliefs. Liew Kai Khiun is an Assistant Professor at the Nanyang Technological University, Singapore. His research interests cover the transnational circulation of Asian popular culture, including that xi

Notes on contributors

of the more recent Korean entertainment in the region. He has covered topics ranging from the popularization of Korean popular music, television dramas, films and celebrities in Southeast Asia. Jacqui Kong is a PhD candidate at Monash University, Malaysia. Her research includes film and television studies, postcolonial studies and diasporic Chinese celebrity chefs. Her publications include: “Serving Up Chineseness: Myths of Authenticity and Identity in Kylie Kwong’s Cookery Texts”, Asiatic: IIUM Journal of English Language and Literature 10(1) and “Feasting with the ‘Other’: Transforming the Self in Food Adventuring Television Programs” in Asian American Literature: Discourses and Pedagogies. Renée Krusche is a PhD candidate of contemporary Chinese history at the FriedrichAlexander-University Erlangen-Nürnberg, Germany. Her research interests include the history of Western and Chinese medicine in the People’s Republic of China, as well as the history of physical education and veterinarian medicine in China. Chunghao Pio Kuo is currently an assistant researcher at Taipei Medical University, Taiwan. His recent publications are “When Little Island Cuisine Encountered Chinese Food: The Evolution of Taiwanese Cuisine in New York City’s Flushing Neighborhood (1970−Present)” and “The Taste of Power: Shad in Ming-Qing China, Tributary Offerings and the Culture of Imperial Rewards.” Jon Morris is a graduate of Bristol, London and Tohoku universities, and is now a lecturer at Komazawa Women’s University, Japan. His research area is pre-modern Japanese Buddhism, with a focus on traditions of Buddhist mummification and dietary austerity. He is currently taking part in a publicly funded research project on the concept of the early modern period. Christina Nope-Williams has a PhD on gender and cultural studies from the University of Sydney. She has lectured at Universitas Djenderal Soedirman, and her research interests are in food studies, Indonesian studies and gender studies. She has published a book entitled Jerat Kapitalisme atas Perempuan (The Snare of Capitalism on Women). Cornelia Reiher is a Junior Professor for Japanese Society at Freie Universitaet Berlin. Her current research focuses on the global agri-food system, globalization, food safety, food policies and rural areas in Japan. Her recent publications include Contested Food: Production, Trade and Consumption of Food in Global Contexts. Elaine Swan is based at the University of Sussex, UK, where she teaches research methods. Her research interests are in critical diversity studies, therapeutic cultures and feminist food studies on which she published three books and over 15 papers and 10 chapters. With Rick Flowers, she has published widely on race, gender and food social enterprises, and together they have convened a conference stream on gender, race and foodwork at Gender, Work and Organisation and edited two special issues on food pedagogies, as well as food and the senses. They have founded the blog Servings with Dr Maud Perrier. Nicole Tarulevicz is a tenured Senior Lecturer in Asian Studies and History in the School of Humanities at the University of Tasmania, Australia. She is the author of Eating Her Curries and Kway: A Cultural History of Food in Singapore (2013) and a recipient of the ASFS Award for Food Studies Pedagogy (2013). She was elected to the board of ASFS in 2014. Nicholas Tošaj is a PhD candidate at the University of Toronto, Canada, and teaches history at John Abbott College in Sainte-Anne-de-Bellevue, Quebec. He researches the place of bread and xii

Notes on contributors

staple carbohydrates in the French colonial empire. His article “Weaving the Imperial Breadbasket: Nationalism, Empire and the Triumph of Canadian Wheat, 1890–1940” was published in the Journal of the Canadian Historical Association. Nicholas is also a Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada doctoral fellow and affiliate of the Culinaria Research Centre at the University of Toronto Scarborough. Chuanfei Wang received her PhD in Global Studies at Sophia University in 2017. Her PhD dissertation covers wine culture in Japan, focusing on how Japanese wine producers, consumers and cultural intermediaries have incorporated Japan into the global wine world from the perspective of the sociology of culture. She is currently a post-doctoral research fellow at the Institute of Comparative Culture of the same university. She is conducting ethnographic research on wine tourism as a cultural experience in Japan and the globalization of Japanese culinary culture outside Japan. David Wank is Professor of Sociology and Global Studies at Sophia University. His conceptual concern is on how entanglements of individuals, networks, states and globalization constitute processes of value system formation and transformation. Ethnographic studies include religion, business and cuisine in China, Japan and transnationally. Findings have been published in books by Cambridge, Stanford and Sophia university presses and in numerous articles. Hongyan Yang is a doctoral candidate in Architecture in the Buildings-Landscapes-Cultures program at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, USA. Her interdisciplinary studies focus on how culinary practices translate into space, in particular how Asian immigrants’ cooking traditions and cultural sensibilities invest new meanings to the built environments and cultural landscapes in the United States. Eunice Lim Ying Ci is pursuing a PhD in Comparative Literature and Asian Studies at Pennsylvania State University, USA. She has a Masters in Arts from Singapore’s Nanyang Technological University. Her research interests range from the use of vernacular languages in Singapore literature and translation studies to culture and media in the Southeast and East Asian regions. The following are the editorial board members for the handbook: Donna Lee Brien, Sidney Cheung, Katarzyna Cwiertka, Jean Duruz, James Farrer, Jeffrey Pilcher and Krishnendu Ray.

xiii

1 INTRODUCTION Cecilia Leong-Salobir

Throughout the ages, man’s efforts in producing, preparing and consuming food have shaped whole civilizations. Food cultures have undergone changes during war and famine and throughout periods of exploration, conquest, colonization and globalization. Over the past few decades, the study of food has burgeoned and expanded into research areas across almost every field of the social sciences and humanities. Increasingly, food studies courses are offered at universities and colleges, interrogating the inquiry of food in pedagogical contexts and disciplinary perspectives. New scholars to food history/studies are now greeted with an avalanche of journal articles and books dealing with topics as disparate as food commodity histories, food appropriation, food consumption in literature and film, school food, food security and food and animal rights. Worldwide, academics are using foodways, food systems and food culture as ways of conducting analyses across the different disciplines. Food studies is an increasingly popular option among students, mirroring the voracious feeding of food-related content in the popular media. This handbook is useful for academics and students in colleges and universities in areas such as anthropology, sociology, world history, Asian history, food history/studies, cultural and social history, cultural studies, Asian studies and human geography. It will be of use as a reference guide for the media and other researchers. This handbook builds on the comprehensive Routledge International Handbook of Food Studies edited by Ken Albala in 2013. Other substantial reference works on food studies/culture/history in general include Routledge History of Food (ed. Helstosky 2015), Cuisine & Empire: Cooking in World History (Laudan 2013), Food: A Culinary History (eds. Flandrin and Montanari 2013), Food and Culture: A Reader (eds. Counihan and Van Esterik 2013), Food in World History (Pilcher 2017) and Food and Foodways in Asia: Resource, Tradition and Cooking (eds. Cheung and Tan 2007). Consisting of twenty-three chapters, the handbook presents diverse topics such as negotiating American kitchen space for Hmong families, food and the state, ethnic food tours, the French legacy of bread in Vietnam, the history of wood eating in Japan and the advertising of milk in Singapore, just to name a few. In their different ways, chapter authors discuss the diverse confluence of cultural, social, economic, political and literary influences within the disparate nations that make up “Asia”. For the purpose of this handbook, Asia includes North Asia (Japan, Korea and China), South Asia (India, Pakistan, Bangladesh and Sri Lanka) and Southeast Asia (Burma, Malaysia, Singapore, Thailand, Indonesia, the Philippines, Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia). 1

Cecilia Leong-Salobir

It may seem that Japan is disproportionately represented in the handbook. It is merely by coincidence that so many worthy food scholars on Japan submitted their contributions to this handbook. Nevertheless, this handbook provides a sample of different methodologies and theoretical approaches across a wide range of fields and disciplines. The handbook covers five broad themes: food, identity and diasporic communities; food rites and rituals; food and the media; food and health; and food and state matters. Following are brief summaries of each chapter.

Part 1 Food, identity and diasporic communities Gentrification projects in “ethnic” neighbourhoods of postcolonial cities of the West suggest intriguing implications for culinary futures. Jean Duruz’s chapter (Geographies of fusion: re-imagining Singaporean and Malaysian food in global cities of the West) traces the ways in which traditional tastes of Singapore and Malaysia’s “mixed” food cultures are reinvented in cities where shared histories of British colonialism intersect with Florida’s “creative city” planning. In recent years, in both Toronto and Melbourne, “fusion” food, together with associated hipster lifestyles and landscapes, has been declared “hot”. Although this trend might be cast as culinary adventuring, Duruz states that it is possible that new spaces and identities of belonging, vested in the “Asian”, the “cosmopolitan” and the “hybrid”, are being forged. Nicholas Tošaj’s chapter (Finding France in flour: communicating colonialism in French Indochina through bread) examines the place of bread in French colonial Indochina in the first half of the 20th century. The racialization of wheat bread and rice in French Indochina created a binary which came to constitute a key example of culinary “othering” manifested within the colonial context. Bread’s role as a staple food led it to occupy a central place in the colony’s foodscape, providing insight into notions of race, hybridity and identity within the Indochinese Union. Despite significant logistical and financial hurdles, bread remained a central part of French culture in Indochina, appearing in French dietary habits as well as in language and expressions. Habits of consumption and preference led to French attempts to maintain wheat bread’s central dietary role despite the considerable expenses undertaken to do so. While French attempts to maintain consumption of the staple persisted, the context in which it was consumed gave bread new meaning as the supply chain and processes necessary to produce it shifted. Bread continued to be a basic staple for French colonists in Indochina in addition to entering the diet of local populations. For indigenous bakers who undertook the difficult work of producing the French staple in the colonies, baking bread provided a potential venue for economic success within the colonial system. The use of Indochinese workers as labourers in French bakeries, workers who in turn opened their own bakeries, casts a different light on bread than on other foods identified as French. For indigenous bakers, creating bread identified as French when French bakers backed away from the trade provided an important venue for economic success even though some local bakers chose to adopt French names for their businesses. In recent years, Japanese restaurants have spread around the world. Authors James Farrer, Christian Hess, Mônica R. de Carvalho, Chuanfei Wang and David Wank base their chapter (Japanese culinary mobilities: the multiple globalizations of Japanese cuisine) on archival research and ethnographic fieldwork, detailing a historical and sociological overview of the global expansion of Japanese restaurant cuisine in Asia, North America, Europe and Latin America. The chapter describes the different historical waves of Japanese culinary globalization and the different types of culinary communities that played a central role in each wave of globalization, from imperial diasporas and settler communities to business expatriates. In the most recent phase of culinary expansion, it emphasizes the importance of non-Japanese 2

Introduction

migrant entrepreneurs who have furthered the spread of Japanese restaurants around the world in recent decades. The authors have narrated their research in terms of three patterns: Japanese settler migration, Japanese corporate expansion and ethnic succession mainly by other Asian groups. All of these patterns do overlap, however. They also emphasize that non-Japanese, both locals and migrants, have always been involved in the globalization of Japanese foodways. In addition, their concept of culinary mobilities includes movements of products, ideas and spaces, usually connected to human mobility. Christina Nope-Williams explores the impact of colonization on Indonesian society through food hybridity, food and social class and food and gender (Food and identity construction: the impact of colonization in Indonesian society). Nope-Williams uses both cookbooks and novels to examine attitudes between Dutch colonials and Indonesians, and to observe how food was used as markers of racial difference. Certain foods consumed by the Dutch were also consumed by the wealthy Chinese and elite natives. European foods were served at royal Javanese celebratory events. Eurasians consumed wines, smoked cigars and ate canned food as ways to disguise their perceived inferior part of their in-between identities. When Indonesia gained independence in 1945, its social stratification changed markedly. The move to establish a common national culture among Indonesians was galvanized by the political elites. The people of the newly independent nation started tearing down the barriers that differentiated the colonizers from the colonized in an assertion of egalitarianism. This extended to food consumption, when eating Western or imported food was seen as being on equal terms with the previous colonial masters. Paula Arvela follows the culinary footprints left by the Portuguese in Melaka. Her chapter (Searching for culinary footprints: A question of cultural identity – Kristang foodways and the Portuguese culinary legacy in Melaka) focuses on Gente Kristang, a small community in Melaka who still claim identity ties with their Portuguese forebears. From her fieldwork observations in Melaka and analysis of four cookbooks Arvela discusses the iconic dishes representing Kristang cuisine and reminds us of the entangled cultural associations between two geographically distant continents – Europe and Asia – drawn together by the vagaries of history. The study highlights this enmeshed cultural-culinary relationship, which is underpinned by the Kristang’s willingness to use it as an identification marker. This is associated with an imaginary place and a cultural heritage with which they feel a deep affinity but are only familiar with through intergenerational storytelling. The Kristang-Eurasian community of Melaka harnesses their cultural heritage, religious affiliation and foodways as cultural signifiers and tools of empowerment. By clinging to the symbols that are meaningful to them and with which they identify, they are consciously making an effort to maintain the “difference” that qualifies their cultural identity as an ethnic and religious minority in Malaysia. Diasporic populations arriving in the United States often find that their cooking traditions and cultural sensibilities do not align with the built environment of the American kitchen. Hongyan Yang’s chapter on “Cooking in the Hmong cultural kitchen” focuses on how three Hmong-American families readapt their kitchen spaces to conduct traditional cooking, bringing a unique sensorial experience and an informal materiality to the domestic space. Although most diasporas like the Hmong face difficulties in adapting to the different environments during resettlement, this research also demonstrates the power of culturally specific culinary practices in reshaping the sensorial experience and physical conditions of space and bringing the space a new cultural identity. The Hmong cultural kitchens offer a culturally specific experience through the smells of food and the arrangement of kitchen, as well as traditional Hmong diets. The seemingly chaotic materiality of the Hmong kitchens is actually in their cultural order, which is 3

Cecilia Leong-Salobir

shaped by their everyday traditional and innovative culinary practices, as well as the authority of first-generation Hmong parents in regulating the space. Influenced by their traditional practices in Southeast Asia, Hmong-American families have brought a sense of informality and casualness to the domestic kitchens. They seek to consume familiar food or use traditional cooking techniques to maintain cultural continuity and search for cultural comfort. At the same time, they learned to re-create traditional dishes and invented new dishes using readily available new ingredients and cooking techniques in the United States.

Part 2 Food rites and rituals Jon Morris’s intriguing study (Eating of wood: the practice of mokujiki in Japan) examines mokujiki (“eating of wood”) in Japan. It introduces the various Taoist traditions relating to abstinence from cereals and the consumption of bark, leaves, pine needles and nuts which influenced the Buddhist practice of mokujiki and traces the establishment of those practices in Japan. Practitioners believe this diet of tree-based foods supports longevity and the development of spiritual powers. Mokujiki is, in essence, a mountain diet imbued with a spiritual energy and purity, which is in marked and deliberate contrast to a worldly diet based on cereals. It was and is taken up during short annual periods of religious practice on sacred mountains, though many have practised it for longer periods. Some ascetics vowed to continue the practice for life, taking “Mokujiki” as part of their religious name. Mokujiki, which was at the height of its influence from the 16th century to the end of the 19th century, is known in association with certain traditions of Buddhist statuary and Buddhist mummification in Japan. It is particularly associated with Shugendo and esoteric Buddhist traditions, though it was also practised within other Buddhist schools and institutions. Morris’s study gives particular weight to the importance of the mokujiki diet as a means for ascetics to develop their identity and social roles, and illustrates the diversity of mokujiki in Japan with regard both to institutions and the actual diets taken up by practitioners. Focusing on the dietary aspect of the practice rather than purely doctrinal concerns, Morris shows that it is the social and religious significance of personal vows to eat and act in the mokujiki mode, rather than sect orthodoxy or strict orthopraxy, which defines the practice and gives it its power. Jiri Jakl traces the history of Javanese slametan, a communal ritual meal in Cooking for demons, soldiers, and commoners: history of a ritual meal in Java. Scholars differ in their interpretations of Javanese slametan as either pre-Islamic or Islamic religious phenomena. There is little doubt, however, that the imprint of Islamic food culture on the culinary tradition of slametan has until recently been minimal. Moving toward a diachronic perspective, Jakl demonstrates that we can get new insights into the origins of slametan by comparing Javanese and Balinese ritual meals and by using textual evidence of kakavins, or epic poems composed in Java between the 9th and 15th centuries CE in the literary register of Old Javanese. Jakl argues, through reading anthropological evidence against the Old Javanese textual sources, that the origins of Javanese slametan can be traced to pre-Islamic participatory animal sacrifice. In Java before 1500 CE, sharing of meat dishes and alcoholic beverages was crucial in binding community members together and sealing oaths between them and protective guardian spirits. He elaborates on a thesis advanced by Fuller and Rowlands (2011) about the symbolic meanings of glutinous rice in rituals in East and Southeast Asia. Thus Jakl advances the notion that Javanese ritual cooking has more in common with East Asian rather than South Asian culinary tradition, although Indian influences had changed some of the Javanese culinary preferences. Interestingly, the same symbolic qualities pertaining to glutinous rice are prominent as well in (pre-Islamic) Javanese and modern Balinese ritual dishes prepared from meat. 4

Introduction

Chunghao Pio Kuo addresses how the eating of pufferfish evolved from a dangerous activity to a safe and enjoyable delicacy in the modern era (Enjoying a dangerous pleasure: the evolution of pufferfish consumption in modern Japan). The consumption of pufferfish peaked in China in the early modern era, and cultural interactions between China and Japan subsequently spread the dietary custom to Japan. However, without sufficient knowledge of the pufferfish’s toxin, people consuming the fish then suffered bouts of food poisoning, causing paralysis and death. The Japanese government banned consumption of pufferfish until the Meiji era. During this era, pufferfish consumption in Japan underwent a pivotal change. Encouraged by the Meiji Restoration’s embrace of modern Western medical knowledge, medical researchers discovered pufferfish toxins and safe ways to consume the fish. Subsequently the consumption of pufferfish, states Kuo, was no longer an exercise in gastronomical Russian roulette, but a source of culinary enjoyment in 20th-century Japan. Through pufferfish consumption, Kuo reflects how Japan skilfully absorbed foreign culinary cultures while sealing them with distinct Japanese dietary characteristics. Italy is recognized as the major European producer of rice, yet the cross-culinary connections between Japan and Italy have received scant notice. Annette Condello’s research addresses the historical encounters between Japanese and Italian cultures, as well as the intersection between Italian futurists ideas about food (Crossing Japanese rice products with Italian futurism: fortune cookies, onigiri and arancini as communicant rice-bites). Within the Italian futurist cuisine of the early 1930s there are common ingredients within Japanese culture, specifically leftover rice from risotto dishes to make antipasti. Considering rice is a more sustaining food for the masses rather than pasta, Japanese rice-bites affected futurist ideas about cuisine. Condello unravels the intertwined influences of the rice traffic between Japanese culture and Italian futurism. Interpreting the way Japanese cuisine was understood in the Italian context, it explains how Italian cuisine became established in Japan. As “communicant” rice-bites, fortune cookies, onigiri and arancini impart futurist messages through their spherical form. “Rice oranges” appealed to futurist protagonist Filippo Tommaso Marinetti and celebrated author of The Futurist Cookbook (1932). It demonstrates why the Italian futurists were attracted to Japanese cuisine through its military dimension. Although the Japanese onigiri and Italian arancini appeared at different times, the Japanese version most definitely preceded the Italian ones. Analyzing the cookbook’s Japanese origins and Marinetti’s penchant for fast, portable tidbits, the chapter argues how some recipes, to be consumed in foil-like interiors, were indebted to Asian traditions.

Part 3 Food and the media Food is increasingly being recognized as a significant component of the tourism experience, and many destinations promote themselves as centres of food culture or gastronomic experience. Donna Lee Brien’s chapter (Food writing and culinary tourism in Singapore) focuses on an acknowledged leader in the field of culinary tourism, the Republic of Singapore, to explore how food writing contributes to the culinary experience available to locals as well as visitors. The relatively young nation has a culinary literature in English and longevity of its marketing of culinary tourism. Singapore food writing, analyzed by Brien, narrates much more than recipes and culinary memories. All, for instance, include examples of changes to the social and physical environment of Singapore through time. However, while lost foods and landscapes might be mourned in these works, the onward pressure of development is never robustly criticized. The texts are also a rich source of food history, including recipes and traditional and adapted food preparation and cookery techniques, as well as a wealth of information on the history of dining out in Singapore. The locations where cooking and eating occurs in these texts is indeed notable, 5

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both in terms of the historical context and how this reflects shifts in food habits in Singapore. Most indelibly, both individually and together, these texts tell a story of Singapore food that is powerfully consistent in terms of the promotion of culinary tourism: this is, that Singapore has a distinctive, interesting, delicious and accessible food culture that plays a significant role in Singaporean life both currently and historically. Moreover, this food writing is widely available, making it possible to thus make a contribution to both locals’ and visitors’ appreciation of Singaporean food culture and history. The consumption of food is not merely confined to the physical act of eating, but is now mediated through televisual images. The act of eating becomes a performance, as Eunice Lim Ying Ci and Liew Kai Khiun discuss the enduring presence and performance of eating in South Korean dramas from the early 2000s to the present day. Their chapter (Her hunger knows no bounds: female–food relationships in Korean dramas) looks at how this has contributed to the success of the Korean Wave, as well the emergence of the Meokbang phenomenon on the Internet. Lim and Liew demonstrate how the portrayal of female–food relationships in these dramas departs from the traditional model of reserved, self-sacrificing women to make way for portrayals of ravenous females who take immense pleasure in consuming delicious food. This suggests that the dramatization of the female’s boundless appetite succeeded in appealing to Asian women who were starved of representation and confined to socially restrictive roles. The subsequent celebration and normalization of the female glutton in Korean dramas has since led to the Meokbang phenomenon, in which the televisual dining experience has become a substitute for social dining. This has resulted in the creation of yet another unrealistic and unsustainable social paradigm of the ideal woman, highlighting the urgency of re-evaluating the perpetuation of this female–food imagery in Korean dramas and other televisual platforms. Singaporeans have long enjoyed regular consumption of milk. As a city-state with limited land and water resources, Singapore has always relied on international trade to feed its populace. The story of milk production as largely happening elsewhere is thus not the exception; it is the rule, according to Nicole Tarulevicz’s chapter (Untouched by human hands: making and marketing milk in Singapore, 1900–2007). The experiences of Singapore – engaging with technological innovation and processing, sourcing milk from many nations with the ensuing negotiation of long supply chains and consequent need to reassure consumers of the quality of the product – means Singapore provides a historical example with startling relevance. The sustained presence of milk in Singapore is reflected in more than a century of advertising which has been remarkably consistent in relying on safety, purity and country of origin to sell milk to Singaporean consumers. For Singapore, milk – however it is produced, imagined and marketed – remains something that must always happen first outside the boundaries of the island nation. Milk is understood as an important, health-giving food, but one that is also at risk but can be made safe through inspection, regulation and technology. The continuity in global advertising in Singapore provides a historical example which speaks to contemporary challenges. Jacqui Kong’s chapter (Feasting on “the Other”: performing authenticity and commodifying difference in celebrity chefs’ food and travel television programmes) examines the relatively recent phenomenon of food and travel television programming and how such programmes featuring celebrity chefs describe and represent “the Other” in their narratives of the culinary culture of a particular place, country, region or ethnic group. Kong analyzes how difference is commodified and consumed through such food and travel narratives, and how a performance of authenticity is expected and called for from “the Other”. She engages with textual analysis to look at television programmes such as the late Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations, Jamie Oliver’s Jamie’s American Road Trip and Andrew Zimmern’s Bizarre World. Kong also scrutinizes two episodes of Bobby Chinn’s World Café Asia on the ways in which Asian food 6

Introduction

and foodways are commodified and exoticized. As a Malaysian residing in Kuala Lumpur, Kong’s insightful observation on celebrity chef Chinn’s portrayal and consumption of the cultures of Kuala Lumpur and Penang is invaluable. These television programmes and their representations of “difference” provide rich ground for analyses of Orientalism, as well as the application of postmodern theories such as Barthes’s myth. In doing so, the chapter provides new frameworks for thinking about and watching food and travel television programmes, as well as new ways for representing and relating to “the Other”. Kong acknowledges, however, that the Other is not always a passive and submissive figure who allows himself or herself to be exoticized and commodified. Thus, the Other is not always at the losing end of the encounter, and he or she is not always passively exoticized and commodified. Rick Flowers and Elaine Swan draw on studies of taste education and food aesthetics and from participant observation to analyze an ethnic food tour led by two Vietnamese Australian tour guides to Cabramatta, Sydney. They argue in their chapter (“Sauce in the bowl, not on your shirt”: Food pedagogy and aesthetics in Vietnamese ethnic food tours to Cabramatta, Sydney) that the guides teach tour participants a spectrum of aesthetic appreciation for Vietnamese food, including gastronomic sensory registers and practical, embodied and etiquette aesthetics. By discussing this range of aesthetic forms, including their focus on bodies, they extend the studies on taste education by Isabelle De Solier, Ken MacDonald and Krishnendu Ray to show the complexity, skill and taste in the food pedagogy work of the tour guides. Flowers and Swan’s findings reveal that the guides demonstrate an aesthetic sensibility which includes attention to the preparation of food and its cooking, the design work and processes of aestheticization of chefs and acts of tasting and eating. In so doing, they stress the sophistication and refinement of Vietnamese food and eating and heighten our understanding of aesthetic forms and expressions. But the work of the guides is just one small part of the increasing wider food and arts cultural production and design work of racialized minorities in Western Sydney, which includes emerging elite connoisseur producers and critics of Vietnamese food. Flowers and Swan’s study and other research in this area show that minoritized food workers such as the guides are influenced by but not overwhelmed by dominant white tastes or bodies and are sophisticated, skilled knowledge and cultural producers who come from a long line of minoritized transactors in taste and aesthetics.

Part 4 Food and health Michiel Baas’s chapter (Uncle’s body: food, obesity and the risk of middle-class lifestyles in urban India) explores the changing food habits among middle-class Indians in relation to the arrival of new bodily ideals, especially among Indian men. These male bodily ideals have gained popularity through their ubiquitous presence in Indian popular culture in recent years, especially in Bollywood movies and other regional cinema. While these bodies themselves have become products of consumption in terms of the way they are put on display on the covers of magazines, in music videos and in advertisements, they have created a surge in the sale of various meats and all sorts of “alternative” foods and supplements ranging from biological produce to protein powders and even anabolic steroids and growth hormones. Baas seeks to find out how these products speak to and conflict with traditional food habits. He questions what these kinds of “consumption” tell us about changing social and cultural dimensions among middle-class Indians. Renée Krusche’s chapter (Shaping nutrition: the role of state institutions in the production of nutritional knowledge in Maoist China) examines publications and education 7

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programmes of the Ministry of Health in the People’s Republic of China (PRC) during the Maoist period. Krusche shows the development of nutritional sciences as part of the modernization efforts of Communist China. Publications were aimed at disseminating nutrition knowledge universally, down to the grassroots level. Maoist nutritional information for professionals and laypeople was meant to build an awareness of the body and its functions and the correct scientific nutrition in order to build a strong nation where production and stability were ensured. A centralized and governmentally led health system as a basis for knowledge dissemination was possible when a stable state emerged from the conflicts between nationalists and communists. Thus, when the PRC was announced in 1949, the responsibility of providing for the population’s health, especially the workers and peasants as they formed the basis of the new state’s production cycle, fell to the new leaders. Krusche uses two case studies to exemplify the distribution and communication of nutrition knowledge: protein and vitamin C. By looking at these two nutrients the idea of nutritional governmentality will be explored, together with the nationwide standardization and rationalization where foodstuffs were concerned.

Part 5 Food and state matters Asia has witnessed a rapidly growing number of preferential trade agreements (PTAs) in the last decade. PTA negotiations in many Asian countries were accompanied by acrimonious protests by consumer and peasant organizations who feared a decline in food safety standards and food security, jeopardizing farmers’ livelihoods and increasing multinational agri-food corporations’ (MNCs) power. Cornelia Reiher’s chapter (“Protect agriculture and food safety!” Asia’s transnational protests against preferential trade agreements in East and Southeast Asia) shows that as the protests tackled problems of a globalized agri-food system, the protest movement became increasingly transnational and entangled with peasant and consumer organizations in other Asian countries and beyond. Drawing on the examples of protest against the Korea-US FTA (KORUS) in South Korea, Anti-Trans-Pacific Partnership (TPP) protests in Japan and the campaign against the US-Thailand FTA in Thailand, Reiher discusses two simultaneous processes: the transnationalization of anti-PTA movements in Asia, on the one hand, and the increasing emphasis on domestic agriculture and food nationalism in many national campaigns, on the other hand. She argues that these two simultaneous dynamics are two aspects of the same process: the increasing globalization of agricultural trade and the corporate agri-food system. All the anti-PTA campaigns discussed by Reiher had been criticized for the lack of transparency in PTA negotiations, the dominance of TNCs and many of the features of PTAs that interfere in domestic politics. Consumers and farmers have argued that PTAs threaten people’s right to safe food, consumers’ health and the livelihood of family farmers, and argue that the future of small-scale agriculture is endangered by the onslaught of imported agricultural goods. Japan, heavily dependent on food imports, has to cope with its food security challenges, given a rapidly shrinking agricultural sector, ageing and declining rural populations. The country’s agricultural sector, habitually supported by government intervention, is in an ongoing process of decline. Thomas Feldhoff ’s chapter (Agriculture, food security and the Trans-Pacific Partnership: stability and change in Japanese policy making) argues that the prospect of a comprehensive Trans-Pacific Partnership agreement, involving Japan and eleven other Pacific Rim countries, could have served as a focusing event triggering transformative policy change. The contribution to gross domestic product (GDP) is only 1 percent; the proportion of employment 4 percent, which mainly includes part-time and hobby farmers, as well as small and micro-plots farming; and two-thirds of commercial farmers are older than 65 years. So far, the discursive linking of Japan’s national identity to history and food culture, food security objectives and patronage 8

Introduction

for farmers caused strong barriers to any substantial policy innovation in the field. Feldhoff notes that by missing this rare window of opportunity for major punctuations mainly for political and vote-seeking reasons, the government failed to formulate and implement a coherent agricultural policy reform. As the domestic market will inevitably be shrinking and Japan has to offer highly value-added agricultural products, including high-quality rice, the strategy should be outward oriented towards expansion and not contraction in order to realize potential economies of scale. The “corporate food regime” refers to the arrangement of global food systems to the benefit of transnational capital and agribusiness. Trent Brown’s chapter (Contesting the corporate food regime in South and Southeast Asia) reviews existing studies of food sovereignty in South and Southeast Asia, demonstrating that most food sovereignty initiatives there have either been highly localized or articulated by non-governmental organizations (NGOs) rather than rural communities. Food regime analysts have argued that the corporate food regime’s tendency to homogenize agricultural inputs and food commodities for global markets comes into conflict with local needs for diversity, sustainability and autonomy. This conflict has been well articulated by peasant movements in Latin America with their concept of “food sovereignty”, which refers to the right of rural communities to constitute their own food systems, particularly through agroecology and localized marketing. In Asia, however, food sovereignty and agroecology remain relatively marginal concepts. Brown suggests that studies of food sovereignty have been too reliant on Latin American cases and offer little of analytical value in studying how the corporate food regime is contested in Asia. Understanding the ways in which the corporate food regime is contested in Asia may require attending to phenomena outside of the sphere of agroecology and food sovereignty – particularly democratic decentralization. Brown places emphasis on democratic decentralization as an alternative way of contesting the unfair features of the corporate food regime has illustrated the geographical diversity of food regimes and local responses to them. He notes the need for a more robust approach to analysing “resistance” within food regime analysis that may involve considering the ways in which farmers struggle for more favourable incorporation within food regimes. There needs to be more rigorous global comparative studies, evaluating the conditions under which certain forms of resistance or contestation are likely to emerge and their dialectical implications for food regime constitution. Chuanfei Wang’s chapter Japanese foods (washoku) with wine: a study in non-state culinary politics explains how and why Western-style wine became incorporated into the Japanese culinary system. It is a study in culinary globalization as well as a study in culinary politics, that is, how tastes and notions of taste pairing are used by culinary producers to reconstruct elements of Japanese cuisine. After washoku gained recognition as the world’s intangible cultural heritage, Japanese cuisine has been deployed as a way of enhancing national prestige. The case examined in this chapter illustrates how cuisine has become a kind of state-led national politics. However, culinary politics is not always at the state level. Thus, this analysis of wine and Japanese foods provides some insight into a type of non-state culinary politics while also telling the story of how wine is paired with Japanese foods. It shows that culinary politics works not simply as discourse but also engages consumers at the level of palatal taste. In this process, Western wine is chosen and used to frame Japanese foods in very specific ways to say something about the distinctive and fine qualities of Japanese foods. There is evidence of street food in even the most ancient of cities. In Shanghai, as in other cities, street food is under threat from local government for urban development and to restore orderliness and good sanitation in the public space. Shanghai, China’s most modern city, Anna Greenspan points out (Shanghai, Street Food and the Modern Metropolis), faces a topdown gentrification process, which empowers a sometimes-violent enforcement that targets 9

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mobile vendors. All over the city, street markets are being replaced with shopping malls. The city’s cuisine is a culinary repository of migrants’ culture from all over China, and indeed the world. Street markets are also a vital part of the city’s vast informal economy. This is of particular importance to Shanghai’s migrant workers (calculated at one-third of the city’s population) for whom street vending offers an entrepreneurial business opportunity with minimal start-up fees. This low-end commercial activity produces cheap and convenient goods while also providing a crucial contribution to the culture of the street so critical to the vibrancy of urban life. There are calls for increased toleration, with examples of Taipei and Singapore to argue for the cultural value of street markets. The strong economic case for street vending also seems to be gaining some traction. Faced with an increasing economic downturn and the need to create jobs, the Chinese government, under a policy named Mass Entrepreneurship and Innovation, is actively promoting small-scale entrepreneurial activity as a critical economic driver. Street food is sometimes included.

References Albala, Ken (ed). 2013. Routledge International Handbook of Food Studies. London & New York: Routledge. Cheung, Sydney and Chee-Beng Tan (eds). 2007. Food and Foodways in Asia: Resource, Tradition and Cooking. London: Routledge. Counihan, Carole and Penny Van Esterik. 2013. Food and Culture: A Reader. London: Routledge. Flandrin, Jean-Louis and Massimo, Montanari (eds). 2013. Food: A Culinary History from Antiquity to the present. New York: Columbia University Press. Fuller, D.Q. and M. Rowlands. 2011. ‘Ingestion and Food Technology: Maintaining Differences over the Long-Term in West, South and East Asia’, in T.C. Wilkinson, S. Sherratt and J. Bennet (eds) Interweaving Worlds: Systemic Interactions in Eurasia, 7th to 1st Millennia BC, London: Oxbow Books. Helstosky, Carol (ed). 2015. Routledge International Handbook of Food Studies. London: Routledge. Laudan, Rachel. 2013. Cuisine & Empire: Cooking in World History. Berkley: University of California Press. Pilcher, Jeffrey M. 2017. Food in World History. New York: Routledge.

10

PART 1

Food, identity and diasporic communities

2 GEOGRAPHIES OF FUSION Re-imagining Singaporean and Malaysian food in global cities of the West Jean Duruz

Singapore cuisine is enjoying growing popularity beyond its shores and gaining greater awareness overseas. Dishes like laksa, chilli crab, char kway teow, and chicken rice are turning up in places like London, New York, Toronto, Mumbai, Chennai, Tokyo, Seoul, Shanghai and even Moscow. (Kong 2016: 225) Toronto’s east-west subway line traverses so many distinct neighbourhoods, you can chart the food almost by stop . . . West Indian, Mexican, Philippine at Main and Victoria Park, Italian at Woodbine and Coxwell . . . Afghan, Pakistani, Turkish and Iranian at Donlands, Italian and Macedonian at Pape, Greek and Asian in Riverdale . . . Hungarian, Korean, Cuban, South American, Spanish, Portuguese and West Indian . . . as you hit . . . Ossington, Dufferin, Dundas West and beyond. (Connelly 2009: 220)

Recent gentrification of “ethnic” neighbourhoods suggests intriguing implications for the future of postcolonial cities, their built fabric and culinary cultures. In Singapore, for example, it is claimed that a tabula rasa approach to urban planning resulted in the erasure and re-invention of ethnic quarters, such as Chinatown, and with this, presumably, the loss of tastes and smells of “authentic” dishes (Imran 2007: 7). On the other hand, it might be argued that no cuisine is static anyway, with Singapore and Malaysia, in particular, marked by the mobility of their foodscapes and nuances of culinary “fusion”. Such foodscapes emerge from complex histories of immigration and intermarriage; from everyday experiences of living in “mixed” neighbourhoods, with food and recipe exchanges across the borders of ethnicity; from practices of urban gentrification that involve appropriation/re-imagining of traditional dishes (Duruz 2011: 609, 612–613; Duruz and Khoo 2015: 138–146; Duruz 2016). What happens when these “already-mixed” cuisines travel to global cities of the West is the subject of this chapter. On this occasion, our destination for sampling “mixed” and “adopted” tastes of “Asia” in gentrifying urban spaces is Toronto, Canada. Toronto is promoted in touristic discourse as a city of diverse languages and cultures, a city with complex layers of migrational history, spatialised in its ethnic neighbourhoods and suburban strip mall development (Roberts 2009: 294; McNamara 13

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2009: 232, 236–237). While recently collected numbers of Singaporean and Malaysian immigrants to Canada are relatively small compared to numbers of immigrants, say, from China, there is no doubt that by the early years of the twenty-first century, Canada’s ethnic diversity remains unquestioned (City of Toronto 1998–2017 2017; The Canadian Magazine of Immigration 2016). Examining the political imperatives underwriting Canadian multiculturalism, Mahtani et al, for example, conclude “Canada advertises itself internationally as a multicultural nation, and Toronto has worked to position itself as a quintessential global city” (although, they add, “the reality is . . . social integration in the city is not a given”) (Matani, Kwan-Lafond and Taylor 2014: 251–252; Leung 2011). In addition to Toronto being lauded for its demographic diversity and global city status, the city is proclaimed “the gastronomic capital of Canada” (Lee and Lovekin 2001: 141). According to food advocate Wayne Roberts, Toronto’s culinary reputation is such that “California has its Silicon Valley and Toronto has a Culinary Valley” (2009: 294). The purpose of this chapter, however, is not to assess the merits of global cities’ promotional cultures – the “truth” or otherwise of their claims in relation to policies and practices of multiculturalism, urban planning or culinary entrepreneurialism. Instead, my fascination is with the imaginary itself – with cities imagined as cultural and culinary intersection societies, with traces of this imaginary not only “haunting” how people meet and eat together (or not) but also shaping their everyday rhythms of “lived space, and the disquieting familiarity of the city” (de Certeau 1984: 96). In other words, we shall map places of “mystery and possibility” in the changing landscapes of the city, especially when travelling food and cultures intervene in everyday life’s seeming “banality” (Bozikovic 2012). This “eating together” – its tensions, as well as pleasures – is a thread I have followed in previous writing, especially in relation to food’s significance as a medium of exchange in multi-ethnic relations, heritage conservation and urban gentrification in Singapore and Malaysia (Duruz and Khoo 2015; Duruz 2016). Now I want to travel with the tastes and aromas of these historically “mixed” Southeast Asian cuisines – travelling with the spiciness of the Peranakan dish asam laksa or the sweet crunchiness of nyonya kuih dadar [respectively, a distinctive soup of Chinese and local ingredients; sweet pancakes infused with local tastes, such as those of palm sugar and pandan]. With sensory memories like these as culinary baggage, I intend to engage with the tastebuds of Toronto, the “most varied multicultural city in the world” (Roberts 2009: 294). The intriguing question for me is: What happens when these historically “mixed” travelling cuisines of laksa and kuih dadar confront “other” (historically but differently “mixed”) local cuisines on the “others’” home grounds? What geographies of encounter – of taste blending and fusion, of ingredients’ separation and distinctiveness – emerge as sensuous traces? And, primarily, how to translate tastes of “Asia” for the palates of those “out-of-Asia”?

Mapping “Asia” on Ossington Avenue To set the coordinates for this mapping project, I want to trawl examples of small food businesses – cafes and bars – in a Toronto neighbourhood in search of re-inventions of traditional “Asian” tastes and aromas. Here, I am speculating that these re-inventions might not only signal adjustment by migrants and other travellers from the Southeast Asian region to unfamiliar places and ingredients but also express forms of creative entrepreneurialism and playfulness. In the process, it is possible that new identities are forged through intersecting imaginaries of “Asian”, “hybrid”, “modern” and “cosmopolitan”. At the same time these identities might challenge “fusion” as simply, in Darra Goldstein’s terms (2005: iv), “a murky mélange” or in Donna Gabaccia’s, as “the nouvelle, and often pricey and faddish, creoles of the 1980s, often associated with California’s chefs” (1998: 216). 14

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In other words, it seems that the much-disparaged “fusion”, “as intentional blending of disparate food cultures” (think “ghee-grilled Bombay sandwich – Jack cheese, chaat masala, pickled onions, Chiogga beets and Yukon gold potatoes”), has received bad press for its seemingly opportunistic culinary adventuring (Wharton 2014). On the other hand, if we broaden fusion’s definition to include both historical examples of culinary blending and present-day attempts to foster practices of belonging through food exchanges, it may be possible to rework meanings of “authenticity” itself. Identities shaped by the politics of “fusion” then, conceptualised as first-generation immigrant “authentic mixing”, might inscribe urban spaces differently, contributing to streetscape cultures that tangle – culturally and economically – with the dynamics of how we eat and live together in global cites. So, in this chapter, rather than tracing in detail the parameters of global migration from Southeast Asia to the West, I am deliberately looking at the intersection between migrating Asian food cultures and those gentrifying cities of the West. Here, Ossington Avenue becomes my case in point. So now, in search of flavour intersections, I set out to walk south down Ossington Avenue. Location-wise, I am on the western fringes of the city core. The stretch of Ossington Avenue that has recently taken on a life of its own (“a Hipster destination” [Anon 2012] . . . “Ossington still has a little of that raw, refreshing edge” [Chatto 2008: 100] . . . “For a hipsteriffic view of Toronto, look no further than the Ossington Avenue . . . [where] artisan produce and craft beer rule” [Not Quite Nigella 2015]) is between the busy streets of Dundas and Queen. Lined with a mix of lowrise commercial buildings – differing ages, current uses and degrees of renovation – the strip and its development continue to be a bone of contention. Competing narratives of “lived space” (de Certeau 1984: 96) clamour for attention, for example, compare “Once a sad-sack strip littered with booze-cans and long-dead store fronts, Ossington is quickly becoming a stylish destination” (Stren 2007) with “The Ossington Avenue strip between Dundas and Queen, once populated by dodgy Vietnamese-Canadian-frequented karaoke joints, has over the past two years, exploded into a wild frontier of overprivileged, mostly white 18–35-year-olds noisily partying with the collusion of unscrupulous bar owners out to make a fast buck” (McDowell and Medley 2009). Despite the current sense of unstoppable changes pervading both of these quotations (whether their speed is thought exhilarating or worrying), Ossington Avenue has a long history of flux in its built environment, labour patterns and ethnic identity (Lasky 2014; Ossington Community Association 2013). The Ossington Community Association (forged in the heat of the debate over one of the strip’s first condominium developments), somewhat romantically sums up these changes in the following quotation: It is not too early to predict that . . . [recent residents] will have rather different priorities than the cattle-traders and laborers of the 1870s; than the workers and small manufacturers and services of the 1920s; than the Portuguese-Canadians working in factories or as artisans in local light industrial floors or neighbourhood services of the 1980s. . . . [F]or the foreseeable future, our area will repopulate with white collar workers or researchers or independent creatives or skilled artisans or artists or social service providers or writers or small entrepreneurs of a broadly green or bohemian cast of mind. (Ossington Community Association 2013) In this longing to return to an idealised past and to reinvent such a past for future urban life, we are reminded of Richard Florida’s thesis in The Creative Class (2003). Elsewhere I have written about the significance of Florida’s approach to urban planning for global cities facing deindustrialisation in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries (Duruz 2018). Here, “creativity” serves as 15

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the touchstone, with creative workers forming an elite knowledge class for shaping a city’s economic and symbolic capital (Florida 2003: 320; see also 67). While our discussion seems to be straying far from the travels of Southeast Asian food to Canada and the significance of “fusion” food exchanges in the “most varied multicultural city in the world”, in these narratives of Ossington’s shifting landscapes, there are some nagging glimpses of class and ethnicity relations in particular that merit further discussion. Who, after all, is the “creative class”? And whose tastebuds are being tantalised by the “new” aesthetic of the artisanal, the handmade (Ossington Community Association 2013)? Does applying “creativity” to food production and consumption imply “promoting exclusive foods for the pleasure of [the] urban elite” (Donald and Blay-Palmer 2006: 1901)? For Donald and Blay-Palmer, such naïve celebration of diversity – in food, people and ways of living – is an insufficient basis for a socially inclusive and sustainable creative-food economy. The challenge remains. This is especially so as [t]his fusion generation with its bicultural or multicultural heritage is the face of the new Canada. A face more visible in the country’s big cities, it comprises a generation in the process of negotiating new spaces at the juncture of its cross-cultural past and its Canadian future. (Wiwa cited in Donald and Blay-Palmer 2006: 1911) From this brief discussion of Ossington as an imaginary – as an iconic neighbourhood resonating its history, politics and current tensions – it is obvious that this strip, like all urban streets in global cities, has many stories threading through its “lived” spaces. These, of course, compete to shape the everyday tastes and textures. With this plenitude of stories with their intersecting, sometimes contradictory, plot development, how do newcomers with different identities, different culinary skills and heritage, different ideas of “creativity”, insert themselves into the spaces of the street? Is the accumulated baggage of sensuous experience (of taste, touch, smells, sounds, sights), the archaeology of gastronomic memories, sufficient for the task (Hage 1997: 108; Teo 2002: 127)? It’s now time to actually walk down Ossington to a narrow-fronted restaurant-bar named Soos. Inside, the soft lighting, draped curtain entrance and the mid-century modern tones of the bar and furniture beckon, suggesting an elegant yet comforting escape from the Saturday night frenzy of the strip outside. As I search online for self-identified Malaysian cafes, restaurants and bars among Toronto’s recently fashionable and ubiquitous genre of “Pan-Asian” restaurants, Soos’ website (www.soostoronto.com) has already beguiled me with its promotional “Re-imagining Malaysian Food”. Anxious to trace that “re-imagining”, perhaps as the tastes of “fusion”, of “creative city”, of “new” identities and “old” yearnings; perhaps too as personal cartographies among this city’s “multi” landscapes of belonging, I push the curtain aside and enter.

Tastes of tradition . . . with a twist “I eat around” says Joanne Kates, food journalist and graduate of Paris’s prestigious Ecole Cordon Bleu de Cuisine. “Familiarity with other parts of the world allows me to say with certitude that in Toronto we have the most choices in Asian food of any city in the world”. She continues: But Malaysian cooking has been under-represented. The Soo family . . . [formerly of MataHari has] now reopened on Ossington at the epicentre of hipsterland, a sweet cosy boîte called Soos, with two rooms. The front room has one wall done in oversize black-and-white stripes with the word Soos in huge print, and the back room is cool 16

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in a whole other way: It’s a semi-private table for 12 (think party!) with red chairs and walls papered in elaborate retro print. . . . [In cuisine terms, however], Malaysian is not your easiest Asian. . . . But I for one am a little tired of some of the more obvious Asian cuisines as they’re interpreted here, and am happy to be turned on to the subtle pleasures of Soos. (Kates 2014) Like Joanne Kates, I also eat around. However, I’m assuming my evening at Soos has a different point of departure. Living ambivalently in Southeast Asia (despite its government policies of multiculturalism, Australia has never quite come to terms with its geopolitical positioning in the region, despite recent attempts to embrace “the Asian Century” as a business model) (Australian Government 2012), I have made frequent, often extended, trips to Malaysia and Singapore, and, over the years, witnessed the effects of Malaysian cuisine on the food of Adelaide, my home town. Elsewhere I have claimed the iconic Peranakan dish of laksa, in some ways, could be regarded as Australia’s national dish (2014: 195–196). So, as I approach Soos on a Saturday night I bring memory’s baggage of familiar tastes, smells and textures, as well as some teasing questions: Will the menu offer “my” Malaysian food among its “modern interpretations of Malaysian street food”, as the website promises? How recognisable will I find Soos’s rendition of “exotic and complex flavours of Malay and nyonya cuisines” and to what extent does the “with a twist” create a rapprochement between the “traditional” and the “modern”, allowing for flexible and imaginative practices of twenty-first-century belonging? Or is there something more market-driven, more determinedly trend-following, operating here? At first glance, Soos might not seem any different from other bars on the strip: “Soos has all the Ossington signifiers: patrons sport ironic moustaches and intricate sleeve tattoos and order from an encyclopedic cocktail menu” or again: “This new family-run spot mixes familiar Ossington cues – dangling Edison bulbs, sharing plates and citrusy cocktails”. On the other hand, “dishes are original, exciting and consistently excellent” and the design [of an artist friend] has “refreshing details, like pops of tropical colour from chilli-red chairs and blue-patterned wallpaper” (“Where to Eat and Drink: Soos”, Toronto Life 2015; “Review: Soos Brings Malay Streetfood”, Toronto Life 2014). The result, one reviewer claims, is a clever balancing act between homage to one’s past and an embrace of fashionable experimentation – “a restaurant . . . that delivers classic Malaysian dishes alongside clever bar snacks without seeming kitschy” (“Review Soos Brings Malay Street Food”, Toronto Life 2014). Eager to engage with tastes of traditional-modern rapprochement and to capture moments of culinary fusion, I consult the menu. At first my heart sinks a little. Mention of poutine, tacos and “reconstructed nasi lemak” [usually, a simple rice dish, with curried meat, egg, cucumber and dried anchovies] suggests a certain degree of playfulness of ingredients and technique. Are these current examples of the “bad fusion” associated with the 1980s that, we may remember, Gabbaccia claimed was “often pricey and faddish” or Goldstein declared “a murky mélange”? How does a Québécois dish like poutine or a Mexican staple like the taco or traditional Southeast Asian street food like nasi lemak, its ingredients “reconstructed” to produce a different dish in appearance at least, if not in flavour, reference the tastes and smells of the remembered every day in Malaysia? While I am puzzling over the extent to which “fusion” can be rule-breaking and challenge meanings of “authenticity” (whatever that is) and yet retain some integrity, Soos’s reviewers seem enthusiastic. The following example is typical: The pulled kapitan tacos are thick, coconut-milk pancakes piled with a subdued take on the typically fiery Chinese-Malaysian curry called chicken capitan. There are kaffir 17

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limes leaves in the yoghurt sauce. It’s tzaziki, sort of, and oddly terrific. . . . The pork belly pancakes . . . [are] crisp, golden, sweet and starchy, set under five-spiced pork belly slices that have been raised to a high gloss with reduced stock and soy. (Nuttall-Smith 2014) Meanwhile, the signature dish of laksa (a shining example of fusion itself, with its culinary roots from the fourteenth century onwards embedded in the marriages of Chinese traders and local women in the port settlements of Malacca, Penang and Singapore, and in the marriages of their descendants) (Duruz 2007: 187–188; Duruz and Khoo 2015: 125–126) is described approvingly as “a bowl of coconut milk stained ochre with yellow curry, with noodles . . . and tiger prawns and a few hunks of chicken. It is good laksa” (Nuttall-Smith 2014). Good laksa as distinct from bad laksa? Despite this review’s celebratory tone, there are also niggling hints of reservation throughout, whether it is the “oddly terrific” quality of the Greek tzatziki-like dish or the “subdued take” (a polite way of saying “dumbed down”?) on the “typically fiery” tastes of Malaysian spice pastes. In other words, this is not really real Malaysian food, but it can be “terrific” and “still the real deal” and probably the best one can expect on this side of town, away from those neighbourhoods most strongly associated with the city’s Asian/Malaysian communities (Soos’ “Malaysian” is “not too spicy and [displays] a light hand on the belacan. . . . If you hadn’t had Malaysian in [Greater Toronto’s] Scarborough or Mississauga – if you haven’t had Malaysian made for Malaysians – Soos is brilliant”) (original emphasis). On the other hand, diners are cautioned to avoid the “false” takes on cuisine; “what they serve at Hawker Bar, just up Ossington from Soos. Hawker Bar is to Malaysian food what Kraft Dinner is to Italian” (Nuttall-Smith 2014). So, although the “real deal” at Soos is somewhat elusive for those who know their “Malaysian”, relatively speaking there are still “bad”, “good” and “better” attempts to reference the culture’s “authentic” tastes. At the end of the day and in the circumstances, “It is a good laksa”, after all. And here, of course, knowing the difference – what a “good” laksa constitutes and the implied cultural capital of this knowing – is critical. Such an assessment (faint damning with strong praise) tends to ignore the restaurant’s socio-politico-spatial context on Ossington, and in twenty-first-century Toronto, and the extent to which “authentic” cuisines can, or should, be reproduced in new locations. How do Soos’s “re-imaginings” and “twists” of cuisine fit the imperatives of “creative cities” and yet sit well with migrants’ ensemble of belonging practices and nostalgic yearnings? Is there a space between the opportunistic seizure of “bad” cuisine and the rigid striving for an essentialised “authenticity” that allows a form of normalised hybridity – a space between memory and imagination for the global citizen? Talking of Australian cuisine’s emergence from its “cringeworthy” past of a couple of decades ago “when creativity meant smashing two things you didn’t really understand together, and then sitting back and seeing what happened”, prominent Malaysian-Australian chef and television personality Adam Liaw continues: In modern Australia, Mexico doesn’t own tacos any more than Korea owns the kimchi we love putting in them. . . . [T]he diverse influences in our food are just becoming part of the furniture – the new normal. . . . Meat pies, pasta, laksa and kimchi aren’t imports anymore. They’re just colours in an ever-expanding paintbox of . . . flavours. (2015) If this is the case, then how does Soos on Ossington normalise the flavours of “Malaysian” for multi-ethnic, multi-eating Toronto? On the other hand, is this business creating something else entirely – something nudging away from the simply “hip” towards the tastes of cosmopolitan 18

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citizenship, where “mixing” itself is the norm rather than a fetish of the “exotic”? At this point, a conversation with members of the Soo family themselves proves enlightening. Soos, the business, is embedded in the structures and history of Soos, the family, a middle-class Malaysian family of Chinese origins. Zenn Soo arrived in Canada from Kuala Lumpur in the late 1970s to study engineering; his wife Tricia, an accountant who had learnt to cook from both of her parents, arrived a few years later. Like many new migrants arriving in Canada with middle-class business credentials, the Soos, drawing both on cultural and professional capital, turned to small business and the food industry for a livelihood. Together they opened K-L Malaysia in downtown Toronto (“They didn’t know what they were doing”, says Lauren), and then the successful MataHari Grill.1 Zenn and Tricia’s two children, both born in Canada, were later to join the business – Lauren, working alongside her father, as front-of-house and also responsible for marketing and social networking and Zac as chef-trained, working alongside his mother in the kitchen. Meanwhile, the “adopted” member of the family, Johnny Kountourogiannis (Lauren’s Greek-Australian partner) (Hit and Miss; Soos-Ipsum), is bar manager, assisted by Lauren, renowned for serving “peach and Wild Turkey cocktails from cast-iron teapots”, her musical taste, “fun and poppy” (Nuttall-Smith 2014). Decisions regarding the shaping of the menu are complex ones, as well as questions of who is to eat the food and how customers will engage with its “twists” and “re-imaginings”. The dilemma for Tricia as head chef is clear: most Toronto diners are not familiar with Malaysian food, but for Malaysians, “you have to serve really authentic food” as they’re “very critical”. Food, then, has to introduce some diners to the unfamiliar (“you have to develop a taste for things, such as asam laksa”), while, at the same time, to meet the exacting standards of diners who are familiar with the cuisine, and who, no doubt, exercise a certain amount of gatekeeping in regard to traditional flavours. The family approaches this dilemma from several directions. One is to be unequivocal about their approach. Lauren announces: Clearly our food is fusion. After all, you won’t find tacos on the streets of Malaysia! Our concept [that I developed initially] is re-imagining Malaysian street food. We don’t want it to be labelled as either Asian fusion or traditional Malaysian. So how is this not-traditional-Malaysian, not-Asian food to be re-imagined? In the process of marrying familiar and unfamiliar tastes, Soos’s aim is not an exact replication but a form of referencing that contributes to diners’ culinary education. Lauren continues: Given the choice, most people will have the chicken tacos over the oyster omelette [or-chien] but our goal here is kind of introducing the [less known] flavours so people will say “My gosh, what is that flavour?” . . . Try the taste of lemongrass chicken and coconut milk in a taco and you might say “I’ve never had anything like this”. So maybe next time you come back, you try that real dish. Our food is fusion, but it is fusion with respect. You incorporate traditional flavours but use popular vehicles to carry these flavours. So many people have an issue with fusion. Fusion is a bad word. So, it is through a form of incremental creep of tastes and smells that Soos’s diners begin to imagine “Malaysia”, or at least moments of intersection between these re-worked cultural meanings of “Malaysia” and their own – in the case of a predominantly “not-Malaysian” identity positioning in the cosmopolis. 19

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A second response to the “not-traditional” criticism materialises in the form of staging occasional banquets with a set-price menu of Malaysian stalwarts. The night before I left Toronto, I attended one of these and revelled in the flavours of all my favourite dishes – soto ayam [chicken noodle soup], prawn fritters with “auntie’s ginger chilli sauce”, stingray with lemongrass, woktossed clams with ginger and dark soy, nyonya chicken curry, gula melaka [palm sugar syrup usually on sago pudding] and nyonya pancakes. The result was a finely executed performance in nostalgia (for first and second generations of Malaysians and for experienced travellers and new converts alike), a chance to display expertise and to confront the sceptical. However, despite Lauren’s optimistic assessment of the growth in Toronto’s “food savviness” (“We’ve seen huge changes in the last five to seven years. . . . I’m surprised at how adventurous people have gotten”), Zenn adds a bitter note: The cost of food [in Canada, and the labour involved] – we grind everything from scratch. People are fortunate to be eating our food, but they don’t realise it. We have linen napkins, good cutlery, candlelight, the water always topped up – people don’t think about what this experience costs. Elsewhere, I pose the question of the translation of nostalgic cultures of family cooking from a distant homeland to fashionable sites of “hipster” hospitality, such as food trucks, in global cities: “Is this simply another form of commodification in which one parades one’s cultural/ethnic capital” (Duruz 2018)? The same question could be asked of Ossington’s bar and café cultures, where, for example, cultures of ethnicity are not only paraded but, more often, flagrantly “borrowed”. According to David Sax, for example, “In contemporary Toronto, ‘tapas’ apparently means any small dish, regardless of its culinary dislocation from anything remotely Iberian. . . . [T]apas are to today’s restaurant scene what fusion was in the 90s – a profitable and trendy buzzword” (2008: 120). Our reflections on the Soos’s adoption of “fusion” as a house style for their restaurant, however, has traced a more complicated narrative than one purely of “trend” and “buzz” for hungry elites (although such meanings are certainly implicated in this narrative). Here, geographies of fusion stretch beyond cynical appropriations on Ossington as “the hottest block” (Bozikovic 2012) and, instead, trace complex histories of tastes and memories, movements across the globe, cultures of generational cooperation, practices of belonging, moments of inter-cultural exchange and inventive thinking. This mapping signals not only efforts to wrest meaning from life but also, economically speaking, a livelihood: it plots daily life’s intricacies, the practices that make life habitable within the social structures that contain it (de Certeau 1984: 96). While Soos may never claim to be a Malaysian restaurant as such, it’s “re-imaginings” might prompt its diners to reflect on meanings of “Asian”, “modern” and “cosmopolitan”, while its culinary interventions in the streetscape of Ossington offer a subtle challenge – culturally and economically – to the dynamics of how we eat together in global cities . . . from chicken taco to nyonya chicken curry, perhaps? Is this latest version of “fusion” “lived” in a historical sense yet embracing the “mysterious” tastes and textures of Hage’s cosmo-multiculturalism (1997: 118)? As Bill Kim, Korean-American chef in Chicago, says, as he combines the “noodle, rice and dumpling dishes . . . [he] grew up with the pan-Asian flavors he’s encountered over the years in travels around the world”: “‘We live the life that we cook’” (Wharton 2014). Likewise, Preeti Mistry, head chef at the Juhu Beach Club in Oakland, California, sees her cooking as “living her life”. Her identity shaped by her India heritage, as well as years of living in Ohio and California, Mistry is the creator of the Bombay sandwich mentioned earlier, but unreservedly rejects the term fusion: “Mistry bristles at . . . the suggestion that her cooking is anything but an expression of her first-generation immigrant experience. ‘This’, she insisted ‘is who I am as a person’” (Wharton 2014). 20

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When Gingerboy comes to Ossington Reflecting on who I am as a person, culinarily speaking, I venture further into Ossington territory. A few doors up the street from Soos, a narrow shopfront with windows inscribed with the words Hawker Bar captures my attention. This produces immediate resonances. I have written about a “fusion” food business in a gentrifying neighbourhood in Singapore and traced its recent evolution from a traditional eating house to one marrying several functions: “Alibabar – Kopitiam [coffee shop] by Day, Hawker Bar by Night” is its catchcry (Duruz 2016: 148). My palate nostalgic for Singapore, I enter Hawker Bar. In addition, I have heard that the chef is Australian, so I am intrigued by the thought that Singapore street food may have travelled to Toronto via Australia’s embrace of “Asian” food. At the same time, the usual doubts about who is cooking Singaporean food and for whom persist. How inclusive, how “authentic” perhaps, are the chefs of this creative city? I eat at Hawker Bar several times before I meet Alec Martin, its chef. The clientele is not as hipsterish as I had imagined – from casual observation, a very mixed group in age, gender and ethnicity – while the overall ambiance is casual and friendly. On one occasion, I ordered brussels sprouts with a hoisin sauce and then shoulder of pork with coconut rice and papaya salad (the flavours reminiscent of one of my favourite Thai restaurants in Adelaide, South Australia), on another, a “shrimp laksa”. I noted in my diary While the food may not be “Singaporean”, there’s definitely something interesting happening here – kind of mod Oz/Canadian/Singaporean/Thai. . . . The laksa is rather curious – a cross between laksa lemak [laksa in coconut milk sauce] and asam laksa [with its sour, tamarind-flavoured sauce]. Certainly, it has the richness of coconut milk but it is also quite acidic – lemon? lime? Like it had been greatly reduced and is very intense and fishy. I like it but it is nothing like any laksa I’d had in Singapore. Nevertheless, it has great depth of flavour. Given that laksa, as an original example of “fusion”, is renowned for its infinite variations throughout Southeast Asia (with many of these place-based and competing in the authenticity stakes, as in the case of the “laksa wars” in Katong in the 1990s) (Duruz and Khoo 2015: 130–131), it is curious that I was so preoccupied with measuring the flavours of Hawker Bar’s laksa and of “Singaporean” food itself against the credentials of my own remembering palate. Alec is quick to correct my expectations that Hawker Bar should be “authentically” Singaporean: We labelled the bar Singaporean at the beginning but have tried to move away from this because I’m not a Singaporean chef. . . . I started small with a few Malaysian and Singapore-style dishes but copped some backlash from customers. I don’t want to call it racist but someone would look at me and say “You’re white. You shouldn’t be . . .”. It’s not like I just read a cookbook and said “I can do this.” I spent a lot of years learning. . . . [But] I wasn’t expecting [these kinds of comments] – it never happened in Melbourne. Can’t believe the amount of criticism that was out there.2 Meanwhile, although reviews tend to be fulsome, customer reactions continue to be mixed. Alec recalls ninety-year-old Singaporean grandfathers sitting at the bar and saying “Well done” to be followed the next day by a Singaporean who hadn’t been to Singapore proclaiming “This is not Singaporean!” Like the Soos, although from a different identity positioning, Alec concludes that 21

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catering for such “mixed” populations and expectations is difficult and “you’re never going to please everyone”. Alec’s connection with Asia is undeniably different from the Soos’, even though, as I point out to him, it is tempting to assume that recent experience of growing up in Australia means “you’re qualified to cook laksa. You’ve lived in a culture surrounded by Asian food and think this is normal, so white people cooking it is not unusual”. Nevertheless, in a customer’s accusation “You’re white. You shouldn’t be . . .”, the debates about culinary colonialism, from bell hooks onwards, claim a persistent presence, whether “you”, either as chef or customer, are positioned “inside” or “outside” the culture; whether “your” critics’ concern is for the “purity” of cuisine or with the question of who is entitled to produce it (hooks 1992: 21; Heldke 2003: xiv–xvi; Narayan 1997: 178–184). For Josée Johnston and Shyon Baumann, for example, the “gourmet’s quest for exotic food” (and, I would add, the industry that supports this quest) represents a tension of political imperatives: between the neo-colonial desire to feast on the Other as a form of “distinction”, and the desire to consume “foreign” foods in the name of inter-cultural connection and inclusivity (2010: 98; see also 106–107). Taking up the latter argument, these authors elaborate: “Culinary cosmopolitanism pushes foodies beyond the world of nationally-bound cuisine, and embraces both the possibility and also the reality that ideas, people and their cultural artifacts move more fluidly across borders in the globalization era” (106). So, is Alec’s cooking at Hawker Bar an opportunistic search for novelty in the face of competitive pressures from other businesses on Toronto’s “hottest block” or something else – something more “fluid”, perhaps “more cosmopolitan”, something sympathetic to Singaporean complex flavours even if not “authentically” from Singapore? Here it is salutary to recall Alec’s earlier comment “It’s not like I just read a cookbook . . .”, and its implication that he is not simply slavishly following the fashions of the market. His “lot of years learning” suggests a culinary biography in which there is a logical progression towards familiarity with “Asian” tastes and a cumulative acquisition of skills for producing these. Born in the 1980s and growing up in a single-parent Anglo-Australian family in country town in the region of western Victoria, Alec remembers his mother as a good, traditional cook (“scalloped potatoes, roast lamb . . . strictly meat and three vegs, and you had to clear your plate. It was comfort food”.). All four children were expected to help in food preparation – “peeling vegetables, mashing potatoes (you had to pull your weight) and nothing went to waste”. In many ways, his is an archetypal Australian story – a narrative of progress from monocultural to multicultural cooking and eating, underscored by thrift and hard work, but here with a distinctively “Asian” “twist”. According to Malaysian-born, Adelaide-educated Adam Liaw, this “Asianisation” of Australian cuisine and, with it, fusion and mixing, is a sign of a former British colony’s coming of age: Across the country, Asian, European and American flavours blend across the menus of any number of modern restaurants. Young chefs, who if born a decade or two earlier might have grown up on a steady diet of meat and three veg with spaghetti Bolognaise every Tuesday, are now as familiar with Vietnamese noodles, Thai herbs and Cantonese dumplings as they might be with British roast beef, Italian pasta and the smoke of an American barbeque. (2015) However, it should be remembered that this is not an exclusively Australian story. Accounts of other Western cities’ gastronomic “progress” towards globalism and multiculturalism would have a similar mythological ring. For example, Wayne Roberts, recalling the food of his 22

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childhood during the post-war years on Toronto’s outskirts and changes in food cultures since, says: I grew up in . . . [a] warm, friendly, hopeful, humble neighbourhood . . . I ate bacon and eggs with white toast and milk for breakfast, sliced cheese on white bread with Campbell’s soup for lunch and one of seven dinners served on the same day each week . . . and a dessert of canned fruit that was sometimes in Jell-O. (Roberts 2009: 292) [Now f]ood topics are covered on a regular basis in all the media. Food organizations are growing like topsy. Farmers’ markets are popping up all over the place. Organic sales continue to climb. . . . Local food is hot. (Roberts 2009: 299) Meanwhile, Alec served his apprenticeship in the mountain resort town of Mansfield and in Adelaide and Broome (a cosmopolitan pearling town on the far northwest coast of Australia). His moment of epiphany, however, was his gaining employment in a Melbourne restaurant, Gingerboy. He recalls: “I went into Gingerboy green. I didn’t know half the ingredients. It was an amazing restaurant to work at . . . long days but so much fun. Made me the chef I am now”. Hawker Bar’s genesis in Gingerboy is obvious from the philosophy articulated on the Melbourne restaurant’s website (http://gingerboy.com.au/): Gingerboy is renowned for its funky décor, Asian-inspired dishes and hip laneway location. Serving creative street food, based around plates for sharing, chef Teague Ezard takes a unique and bold approach to the foods of the region. The dining experience at Gingerboy is centred on a modern Australian adaptation of the Asian hawker-style street market food. . . . Menus at Gingerboy are written according to the seasons. Shared plates, seasonal and “local” ingredients, “creative” combinations of Australian and Southeast Asian flavours, the casual style of street and market food – these are the hallmarks of Gingerboy, translated by Alec into Hawker Bar’s menus. For example, a glance at Gingerboy’s current menu items produces such dishes as freshly shucked Pacific oysters with green nam jin as dipping sauce; steamed wagu [beef from Japanese-origin herds, now farmed in Australia] and bamboo dumplings with cashew chilli soy; barramundi in yellow curry sauce with zucchini and green pea fritters; Szechuan spice pork bao burger with pickles and hot sauce; summer fruits with Vietnamese mint and peach sorbet. Notable is these dishes’ use of local products – Pacific oysters, barramundi from northern Australian waters, wagyu beef, cashews most likely from Southeast Asia, teamed with Thai/Cantonese/Vietnamese techniques and flavours. The overall impression is less of “murky mélange” than a subtle pairing of local ingredient availability and “Asianinspired” flavours. Alec echoes these subtle pairings in the ways he describes his approach to cooking: Where I can, I take flavours and match them with food that’s in season here and food that people are used to eating, and you’ve got to come up with something that works, like squash is coming into season. I’m doing a lap cheong roasted sausage and squash, which is by no means authentic. However, I do always try to have some Southeast Asian elements in the food . . . with the sauces I make, I use the right ingredients, that’s my 23

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base, and then see what’s in season. . . . Where I can, everything is done in house, all the curry pastes, all the sauces. However, the question of whether his cooking is a form of fusion is more problematic: JEAN:

Do you see what you’re doing as fusion. Making things up as you go, but calling on references? ALEC: Definitely calling on references . . . but not trying to get a and b together as such. . . . I guess you could call it fusion but that’s not what I’m going for. I also don’t want to say it’s traditional ‘cos it’s not. It’s working with what produce we have here with flavours from there and then it’s making it work, but it’s never the idea that east meets west. JEAN: Presumably there are some things you’d never put together? ALEC: Oh yes, I’d say “No, that’s not going to work”. But, for example, with Singapore’s chilli crab, I wait till the softshell crab are in season here but I wouldn’t call that fusion – that’s just me doing with what I’ve got to work with. . . . And Hainanese chicken rice, the way I do it [boneless chicken thighs stuffed with ginger puree and poached] is not authentic . . . but it’s a different interpretation. The reference to “right” in ingredients and constant use of “work” throughout this conversation haunts me and recalls an interview conducted by Ian Britain with Sri Lankan-Australian chef Charmaine Solomon in 2002. Questioned about the then-fashionable fusion cooking, Chamaine replies: I don’t throw in things that shouldn’t be there. . . . [If you’re experimenting with fusion cookery] sometimes if the person who is doing it doesn’t really have a deep understanding of the cuisines he [sic] is trying to fuse it can end up as confusion . . . [b]ut many of the young chefs . . . here in Australia . . . seem to have a good instinct and feel about what will work and what won’t. (Solomon cited in Britain 2002: 74–75) Back at Hawker Bar, I sense traces of this “understanding” in Alec’s “working” of ingredients, though its emergence follows a different trajectory from Charmaine’s, a self-taught cook and prolific cookbook writer, whose The Complete Asian Cookbook (1976) has achieved iconic status. In contrast to the Soo family, with their richness of their experience within the Canadian hospitality industry and the palatal complexity of their Malaysian heritage, Alec is the consummate Anglo-Australian chef, middle-class by professional education if not through family background, apprenticed young and, after more than four years at Gingerboy, rising through the system to sous chef, before migrating to Canada. His “understanding” of ingredients and their combination might well be seen as simply following the rules of formalised chef training within restaurant hierarchies. However, employment at Gingerboy provided Alec with a window on a more inventive, often Asian-inflected culinary style known by some as “Australian freestyle” (Marsh 2009), as well as an entrée to a historical moment for Australia’s restaurant cultures and to critical figures within these. A recent post from Ezard (Ezard’s flagship restaurant) provides a strong statement of selfconscious history making: An exciting evening to demonstrate why we have been nominated as one of Australia’s Top Restaurants. A night to showcase our principles and foundations – where we came from and how it all began. 24

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Our food philosophy has always been focused on the pillars of hot, sour, sweet and salty. All that evokes Australian Freestyle cuisine, with an emphasis on luxurious seasonal produce and ingredients that abound in this beloved country [of] ours. A wealth of different flavours and techniques, blending into the distinct Ezard touch. (Ezard 2016) While Ezard himself might be seen as a foundation member of this culinary style, the use of local, seasonal products in combination with inventive use of “different flavours and techniques” accompanied by the mantra of “hot, sour, sweet and salty” (repeated by Alec himself and usually associated with Southeast Asia cuisine) could be attributed to a number of Australian chefs who, since the 1980s, have become household names, for example, Christine Manfield, David Thompson, Geoff Lindsay and Peter Doyle (Marsh 2009). Conversational fragments, then, emerging from my visits to Soos and Hawker Bar might suggest that, despite the apparent rule breaking that re-imaginings” and “interpretations” foster, alternative voices and stories might come to the table. Instead of dominant media myth making associated with the pursuit of “what’s hip”, “what’s hot” and “what’s authentic” in gentrifying neighbourhoods, there are intimations that geographies of fusion are diffuse and complicated, their outlines less sharply defined. Nevertheless, in both businesses’ imaginative attempts to combine ingredients, reference cultures, reflect on personal histories and capture cosmopolitan “moments”, there are echoes of Bill Kim’s “We live the life that we cook” and Preeti Mistry’s “This . . . is who I am as a person” resounding. Identities and practices of belonging and, ultimately, the tastes and textures of food cooked and eaten are embedded in the fabric of the everyday, with all its “mystery” and “banality”.

At the intersection of cross-cultural pasts and global futures Strolling back along Ossington Avenue, I have no doubt debates about the strip will continue (height of buildings; level of noise from venues; to allow, or not, commercial patio spaces for outdoor eating and drinking; the evils of “condofication” [excessive condominium development]; preservation of “character” versus economies of “development” and so on). In the meantime, the “charm” and “retro” “feel”, the “weirdness” and “chaos” – in other words, the distinctiveness of the neighbourhood – continue to be celebrated (Bozikovic 2012; Solmes 2011; Hellie cited in Field 2015). While this might seem a purely hipster perspective on Ossington’s popularity, residents are anxious to claim emotional ownership of its spaces in ways that move beyond parading certain “styles” and class-based activities. The discourse of “together” and “community” constantly surfaces (Hershberg 2011). Both the Soo family and Alec Martin echo sentiments of cooperation amongst small cafes, bars and restaurants, particularly as a survival tactic. The Soos report a strong sense of community on Ossington where you can borrow from your neighbours (a bottle of liquor, for example) or strive to include their products (beer, ice cream) on your own menu. Toronto, in general, is seen by Lauren to have “a small town feel” where “people are very friendly even when in competition with each other”. Alec, on the other hand, recalls ten years ago “when it was too dangerous to walk down the street – Vietnamese gangs and stuff ” and more recently, “the young Portuguese community around here have not liked what is happening to the neighbourhood. . . . Gangs are creeping up on couples . . . but that’s few and far between”. With Alec’s clientele drawn mostly from the neighbourhood (except on weekends when the twenty-five to thirty-five-year-old fashion-conscious “Queen Westies” descend), he welcomes other new businesses like his own to the strip (“Awesome!”, he says, “Brings more people in”.). 25

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While the shadow of gentrification, and with it the global spread of multi-national businesses and homogenisation, persists, there are still echoes here of William Lim’s “spaces of indeterminacy”. These are “mixed” spaces that retain archaeologies of former lives and cultures in constant battle/ negotiation with new imperatives. Writing about the neighbourhoods of Katong in Singapore, Lim provides an account that could well support efforts to “re-imagine” Ossington differently: Contrary to what Rem Koolhaas suggests, tabula rasa in Singapore is not complete. . . . [T]here are still numerous locations and sites of varied sizes with indefinable, evolving complexity, hybridity and territoriality, such as Geylang and Joo Chiat. I use the term “spaces of indeterminacy” to describe them. Geylang is a chaotic, rugged district, teaming with traditional eateries, fruit sellers and other small businesses. . . . On the surface, Joo Chiat appears quieter and more gentrified. . . . In actual fact, Joo Chiat, with its numerous shophouses, some beautifully conserved, others dilapidated, has withstood rapid usage changes, and is characterised by mixed usage and fragmented spatial arrangements. (2005: 165) The outcomes of these struggles over meanings of “Ossington” remain to be seen. Certainly, “mixed usage” and “fragmented spatial arrangements” have some purchase here as “new” businesses replace old on the strip, or meanings of the “old” intersect with those of the “new”, inflecting the “look”, “feel” and “taste” of both categories of meaning. For the multi-ethnic, multi-culinary city, then, there are continuing possibilities for re-working “fusion” and for re-drawing its geographies. Admittedly, in this chapter, I have tried to avoid the “fusion” that Krishnendu Ray characterises as “loud, avant-garde, celebrity-focused, exquisitely delicious ‘bad pseudo-fusion cuisine’ that is the leading edge of American restaurant food to-day” (2016: 169). Instead, here at Soos and Hawker Bar on Ossington, far from Singapore or Malaysia, nostalgic cooking – inscribed in “Asian” yearnings or in “white” belongings from a “mixed” region – suggests its origins in reflective, deeply rooted, struggled-for organic processes. While these businesses’ culinary narratives and promotional cultures are shaped by difference, their everyday practices produce commonalities – complex patterns of memory’s resources, professionalism, inventiveness and a stranger’s willingness to embrace the “local”. Together, the Soo family and Alec Martin, as cooks in the “edible city” and, arguably, “the most varied multicultural city in the world” (Palassio and Wilcox 2009; Roberts 2009: 294), acknowledge a common “Asian”, cosmopolitan heritage.

Notes 1 All background commentary about and quotations attributed to members of the Soo family are drawn from observations and an extended interview with Zen, Trish and Lauren Soo at Soos during November 2015. 2 All background commentary about and quotations attributed to Alec Martin are drawn from observations and an extended interview with him at Hawker Bar during October 2015. However, as this chapter goes to press, the business has closed its doors to give its owners “a chance to explore new, different opportunities” (https://hawkerbar.com).

References Anon. 2012. “Why I Love Toronto Reason #344: The Ossington Strip.” August 9. http://whyilovetoronto. tumblr.com/post/29053537105; accessed February 2, 2016. Australian Government. 2012. Australia in the Asian Century. Canberra ACT: Commonwealth of Australia. www.defence.gov.au/whitepaper/2013/docs/australia_in_the_asian_century_white_paper.pdf; accessed March 2, 2017.

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Geographies of fusion Bozikovic, Alex. 2012. “No Mean City: Ossington Avenue, Condofication, and the Changing City.” Spacing Toronto, July 12. http://spacing.ca/toronto/2012/07/12/no-mean-city-ossington-avenuecondofication-and-the-changing-city/; accessed March 7. Britain, Ian. 2002. “Mixing It With Solomon.” Meanjin 61 (4): 71–81. The Canadian Magazine of Inmmigration. 2016. “Canada: Immigration by Source Country 2015.” April 5. http://canadaimmigrants.com/canada-immigration-by-source-country-2015/; accessed May 1, 2017. Chatto, James. 2008. “Electric Avenue.” Toronto Life 42 (5): 97–98, 100. City of Toronto 1998–2017. 2017. “Toronto Facts: Diversity.” www1.toronto.ca/wps/portal/contentonly? vgnextoid=dbe867b42d853410VgnVCM10000071d60f89RCRD; accessed May 1, 2017. Connolly, Kevin. 2009. “From Galangal to La Bomba: Where to Find Exotic Ingredients in Toronto.” In The Edible City: Toronto’s Food From Farm to Fork, edited by Christina Palassio and Alana Wilcox, 216–225. Toronto: Coach House Books. de Certeau, Michel. 1984. The Practice of Everyday Life. Berkeley: University of California Press. Donald, Betsy and Alison Blay-Palmer. 2006. “The Urban Creative-Food Economy: Producing Food for a Social Elite or Social Inclusion Opportunity?” Environment and Planning A 38: 1901–1920. Duruz, Jean. 2007. “From Malacca to Adelaide . . .: Fragments Towards a Biography of Cooking, Yearning and Laksa.” In Food and Foodways in Asia: Resource, Tradition and Cooking, edited by Sidney C.H. Cheung and Tan Chee-Beng, 183–200. London: Routledge. Duruz, Jean. 2011. “Tastes of Hybrid Belonging: Following the Laksa Trail in Katong, Singapore.” Continuum 25 (5): 605–618. Duruz, Jean. 2016. “The Taste of Retro: Nostalgia, Sensory Landscapes and Cosmopolitanism in Singapore.” In Food, Foodways and Foodscapes: Culture, Community and Consumption in Post-Colonial Singapore, edited by Lily Kong and Vineeta Sinha, 133–158. Singapore: World Scientific. Duruz, Jean. 2018. “Trucking in Tastes and Smells: Adelaide’s Street Food and the Politics of Urban ‘Vibrancy’.” In Senses in Cities: Experiences of Urban Settings, edited by Kelvin Low and Devorah KalekinFishman, 169–184. London: Routledge. Duruz, Jean and Gaik Cheng Khoo. 2015. Eating Together: Food, Space and Identity in Malaysia and Singapore. Lanham: Rowman and Littlefield. Ezard, Teague. 2016. “The Australian Financial Review Australia’s Top Restaurants: Australian Freestyle.” Ezard News, March 24. http://ezard.com.au/news/ezard/2016-03/the-australian-financial-reviewaustralia-s-top-restaurants-australian-freestyle; accessed April 11, 2016. Field, Rebecca. 2015. “Ossington Community Association Hosts Historical Walkabout.” Inside Toronto, July 15. www.insidetoronto.com/news-story/5738085-ossington-community-association-hosts-historicalwalkabout/; accessed March 7, 2016. Florida, Richard. 2003. The Rise of the Creative Class. North Melbourne, Vic: Pluto. Gabaccia, Donna. 1998. We Are What We Eat: Ethnic Food and the Making of Americans. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Goldstein, Darra. 2005. “Fusion Culture, Fusion Cuisine.” Gastronomica 5 (4): iii–iv. Hage, Ghassan. 1997. “At Home in the Entrails of the West: Multiculturalism, ‘Ethnic Food’ and Migrant Home-Building. In Home/World: Space, Community and Marginality in Sydney’s West, co-authored by Helen Grace, Ghassan Hage, Lesley Johnson, Julie Langsworth, Michael Symonds, 99–153. Annandale, NSW: Pluto. Heldke, Lisa. 2003. Exotic Appetities: Ruminations of a Food Adventurer. New York: Routledge. Hershberg, Erin. 2011. “Gentrification With a Side of Co-operation.” The Globe and Mail, February 26: 7. hooks, bell. 1992. Black Looks: Race and Representation. Boston: South End Press. Imran bin Tajudeen. 2007. “State Constructs of Ethnicity in the Reinvention of Malay-Indonesian Heritage in Singapore.” Traditional Dwellings and Settlements Review 18 (2): 7–27. Johnston, Josée and Shyon Baumann. 2010. Foodies: Democracy and Distinction in the Gourmet Food Landscape. New York: Routledge. Kates, Joanne. 2014. “Table Talk: Joanne Kates Reviews Soos.” Post City Toronto, June 2. www.postcity.com/ Eat-Shop-Do/Eat/June-2014/Table-Talk-Joanne-Kates-reviews-Soos/; accessed April 5, 2016. Kong, Lily. 2016. “From Sushi in Singapore to Laksa in London: Globalising Foodways and the Production of Economy and Identity.” In Food, Foodways and Foodscapes: Culture, Community and Consumption in Post-Colonial Singapore, edited by Lily Kong and Vineeta Sinha, 207–241. Singapore: World Scientific. Lasky, Julie. 2014. “Four Square Blocks: Toronto.” New York Times, July 30. www.nytimes.com/ interactive/2014/07/30/garden/toronto-design.html?_r=0; accessed March 30, 2016. Lee, Phil and Helen Lovekin. 2001. The Mini Rough Guide to Toronto. London: Rough Guides.

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Jean Duruz Leung, Ho. 2011. “Canadian Multiculturalism in the 21st Century: Emerging Challenges and Debates.” Canadian Ethnic Studies 43/44 (3–1): 19–33. Liaw, Adam. 2015. “No Fusion Please, We’re Australian”. SBS Food, June 18. www.google.com.au/?gws_ rd=ssl#q=No+Fusion+please%2C+we%27re+Australian; accessed April 5, 2016. Lim, William. 2005. Asian Ethical Urbanism: A Radical Postmodern Perspective. Singapore: World Scientific. Mahtani, Minelle, Dani Kwan-Lafond and Leanne Taylor. 2014. “Exporting the Mixed-Race Nation: Mixed-Race Identities in the Canadian Context.” In Global Mixed Race, edited by Rebecca C. KingRiain, Stephen Small, Minelle Mahtani, Miri Song and Paul Spickard, 238–262. New York: New York University Press. Marsh, Curtis. 2009. “Tongue Thai-ed.” The Wandering Palate. www.thewanderingpalate.com/restaurants/ jim-thompson-thai/; accessed April 11, 2016. McDowell, Adam and Mark Medley. 2009. “The New Frontier: Our Alphabetic Series About the City Continues with O for Ossington, a Strip that’s Suffocating Under the Weight of Its Own Popularity.” National Post, June 27. McNamara, Rea. 2009. “Never See Come See: Toronto’s Trini Roti.” In The Edible City: Toronto’s Food From Farm to Fork, edited by Christina Palassio and Alana Wilcox, 226–233. Toronto: Coach House Books. Narayan, Uma. 1997. Dislocating Cultures: Identities, Traditions, and Third-World Feminism. New York: Routledge. Not Quite Nigella [pseud]. 2015. “Getting to Know You: Toronto’s Ossington Neighbourhood.” December 17. www.notquitenigella.com/2015/12/17/ossington-avenue-toronto/; accessed March 3, 2016. Nuttall-Smith, Chris. 2014. “Soos: Hit and Miss But a Good Downtown Introduction to Real Malaysian Food.” The Globe and Mail, January 31. www.theglobeandmail.com/life/food-and-wine/restaurantreviews/soos-hit-and-miss-but-a-good-downtown-introduction-to-real-malaysian-food/ article16636042/; accessed April 5, 2016. Ossington Community Association. 2013. “Ossington Strip Heritage Conservation District Nomination.” October 11. https://ossingtoncommunity.wordpress.com/2013/10/11/heritage-conservation-district/; accessed March 3, 2016. Palassio, Christina and Alana Wilcox, eds. 2009. The Edible City: Toronto’s Food from Farm to Fork. Toronto: Coach House Books. Ray, Krishnendu. 2016. The Ethnic Restaurateur. London: Bloomsbury. “Review: Soos Brings Malay Street Food and Clever Bar Snacks to Ossington”. 2014. Toronto Life, January 9. http://torontolife.com/food/restaurants/review-soos/; accessed April 5, 2016. Roberts, Wayne. 2009. “How Toronto Found Its Food Groove.” In The Edible City: Toronto’s Food from Farm to Fork, edited by Christina Palassio and Alana Wilcox, 292–299. Toronto: Coach House Books. Sax, David. 2008. “Spanish Bull.” Toronto Life 42 (7): 120. Solmes, Catherine. 2011. “Toronto’s Best Vintage (and Thrift) Clothing Stores – Ossington Avenue.” Spotlight Toronto, September 29. www.spotlighttoronto.com/lifestyle-torontosbestthrift-ossington/; accessed October 3, 2016. Solomon, Charmaine. 1976. The Complete Asian Cookbook. Sydney: Lansdowne Press. Stren, Olivia. 2007. “Ossington.” Toronto Life 41 (5): 89. https://business.highbeam.com/2317/article1G1-163864383/ossington-once-sadsack-strip-littered-booze-cans-and; accessed January 1, 2016. Teo, Hsu-Ming. 2002. Love and Vertigo. Sydney: Allen and Unwin. Wharton, Rachel. 2014. “Don’t Call It Fusion Cuisine.” Wall Street Journal, February 28. www.wsj.com/ articles/SB10001424052702304610404579404951993253512; accessed March 21, 2016. “Where to Eat and Drink: Soos”. 2015. Toronto Life, November 7. http://torontolife.com/guides/restaurants/ malaysian/soos/; accessed April 5, 2016.

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3 FINDING FRANCE IN FLOUR Communicating colonialism in French Indochina through bread Nicholas Tošaj

Mr. Darles would have better chances at success if he could demonstrate that the colonists preach by example and that rice is eaten in many forms both in the colony and on the tables of the major importers of Marseille. This is sadly not the case, in Saigon much as in Hanoi, the French population rebels against rice and eats too much bread to the detriment of the people’s health. (H.C. 1928: 4–5)

These words, featured in a 1928 publication of L’Éveil Économique de l’Indochine, a colonial business journal, refer to the activities of Mr. Darles, a member of the colonial lobby and booster of Indochinese rice in the metropole. The article illustrates empire-wide tensions pitting rice against bread in a complex attempt at balancing French dining habits with economic necessity. Bread, as the undisputed foundation of the French diet for much of the nation’s history, has maintained a crucial place within French culture, both at home and abroad. While the status of carbohydrates has fluctuated in popularity in recent years, this statement dating from 1928 is an exception to general views of the period relating to bread and its place in a healthy diet. Perhaps more bizarre than this is the historical context in which this paragraph surfaces; by 1928 although the French colonial foothold in Indochina was long established, the colonists still relied extensively on foods from the metropole. These foods were either imported directly from France or amalgamated from combinations of local and foreign commodities and forced into a sort of ersatz French cuisine. Though the Indochinese Union was productive enough to generate ample sustenance, including a wide selection of European fruits and vegetables, colonists continued to devote considerable funds to the importation of metropolitan foods. The complaint transcribed here is significant on two counts, first for its criticism of the French colonial reliance on bread, an expensive habit to maintain, dependent on wheat non-indigenous to Indochina, and second as a condemnation of the French government, which in an attempt to support the colonial rice trade had toyed with the idea of introducing colonial rice flour into metropolitan wheat bread (H.C. 1928: 4–5). The creation of a rice versus wheat binary within the French Empire stands as a key example of culinary “othering”. The value of these carbohydrates at the base of both French and Indochinese diets assists us in disentangling the knotted foodways found within the colonial landscape. 29

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Though bread existed as a basic staple in France, a necessity even, within Indochina it became a comfort food of French origin, one which relied on expensively imported wheat flour. This stubborn dependence on food from the metropole was often contrasted with the purportedly more adaptable agents of the British Empire who did not hesitate to rely on local fare. The French reliance on bread as a dietary staple goes a long way in illustrating the established place of bread in French gastronomy, as well as the new roles it came to take in the colony. Bread was perceived of by the French as both a necessity and a potential means through which to distance themselves from their subjects. However, this did not always align with the realities of baking and bread consumption in French Indochina in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.

Historiographical context and methodology The consumption of bread in Indochina reveals underlying tensions found in attributing notions of “Frenchness” to food. Burgeoning concepts of gastronationalism become particularly interesting in the context of colonial encounters where foods, such as bread, become a symbol of colonialism. These foods are by extension important when identities formed along these lines are challenged by hybridization as outlined by Homi Bhabha (Bhabha, 1985: 154). The French saw wheat bread as embodying notions of “Frenchness” and feared any challenges to this conceptualization. However, by bringing bread to the colonies, the French brought it into a context where it could be hybridized in the hands of native bakers using foreign flours. In the context of the colonies, food becomes a platform upon which hybridity manifests, justifying to a certain extent the fear which the French had in relation to native foods entering their own foodways. The complications caused by blurred lines within the colonial experience have been alluded to in Patricia Morton’s Hybrid Modernities, Alice Conklin’s A Mission to Civilize and Eric Jennings’ Curing the Colonizers as ever lurking concerns for French colonial administrators (Conklin, 1997; Jennings, 2006; Morton, 2000). Fear of colonial cross-pollination, particularly in the context of the physical, was alarming and permeated the attitudes of the colonists in charge of implementing the French “civilizing mission”. Conklin mentions that the mission to civilize provided moral justification to the French occupation of its colonial holdings (Conklin 1997: 256). This form of colonization justified French republican imperialism from a moral perspective, affirming the need to colonize, even in areas which provided no economic impetus for doing so. This concept served to placate a French public which was not always supportive of colonialism. The civilizing mission encouraged them to have faith in an enterprise which would promote imperial prestige throughout the various political and economic shifts experienced by France in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Questioning this division between colonized and colonizer casts dubious light on the necessity of the mission to civilize and, by extension, on the imperial project as a whole. This is reflected in the ever-evolving nature of the civilizing mission, which was constantly redefined in order to remain relevant (Conklin 1997: 7). French civilians in Indochina eagerly grasped at overpriced supplies of canned food from the mainland in order to reassert their “Frenchness” as opposed to eating significantly fresher and healthier local foods (Peters 2012: 155). This decision, substantiated by a combined nostalgia for French cuisine and a chronic fear of “going native”, is particularly relevant in the context of bread. Notions of purity in bread are common in primary sources of the period, and to many French people only wheat bread was considered as truly being bread (Le Courier Saïgonnais, 1928: 19). Other grains such as rye were seen as contaminants to the classic French pain de froment both on the mainland and in the colonies. The addition of rice mentioned in the opening quote of this chapter was especially vilified in part due to its colonial ties (Janes 2016: 74). 30

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This chapter centres predominantly on the beginning of the twentieth century ending with the years predating the Second World War with some overlap into the late nineteenth century. By this time the French had strengthened their grip on the area, having formed the Indochinese Union in 1887, effectively binding Cambodia and Laos to Cochinchina, Annam and Tonkin. The period in question spans through the food shortages of the First World War, which affected French supply links with the colonies, and the Depression years, which affected the Indochinese economy in the early 1930s (Janes 2016: 15). My work relies primarily on sources collected from the records of the Résidence Supérieure du Cambodge, which are administered by the National Archives of Cambodia. I had the pleasure of accessing these documents on a research trip conducted in May 2016. The sources are remnants of the French colonial administration dating from 1863 to 1954 and are carefully maintained by the incredibly helpful archivists and archival staff. As is often the case with imperial projects, I am forced to rely heavily on government documents, newspapers and other documents that the colonial government stored, providing me with only a sliver of an infinitely bigger picture, a process which often feels like peering through a keyhole. As such I have endeavoured to bear in mind the advice of Ann Laura Stoler and remember that many government documents outline plans, rather than accomplishments (Stoler 2009: 4). To paraphrase Penny Edwards, my work remains captive to its reliance on the very European colonial sources whose fundamental assumptions I set out to question (Edwards 2007: 18). The archival documents used herein are supplemented by sources from the French archival website Gallica in addition to a range of secondary sources of which the recent works of Erica Peters and Lauren Janes have been especially pertinent.

French bread Ideas of French culinary exceptionalism have long been tied to bread, baking and French culture. The obvious springboard from which to understand the value attributed to French bread is the work of Steven Kaplan. Although an early modernist and Europeanist by training, Kaplan’s Good Bread Is Back provides useful insight into the status of bread, its production and consumption in France (Kaplan 2006). The use of bread to measure livelihood and earnings, being associated with wages and life, places it as a central tenet of the French foodscape and a food which belonged to every class in French society (Kaplan 2006: 1, 6). The centrality of bread to French culture and its democratization have also been alluded to by Rachel Laudan in her Cuisine & Empire (Laudan 2013). Laudan describes wheat bread, certainly white wheat bread, as trickling down beyond the French middling class in the early nineteenth century (Laudan 2013: 248). Parisian bread gained its worldwide reputation, and the prestige of French gastronomy made it easier for colonizers to justify their need for this European staple. It cemented French bread’s place in the dietary canon, legitimizing on a personal level the place which bread took in Indochina. By following French bread to Indochina we do not only expand Kaplan’s seminal work beyond the boundaries of Europe but we also study how the identity of French bread was treated in an exoticized context. French bread became a symbol of colonial culture one which, unlike other colonial hallmarks such as language, architecture or fashion, was directly consumed.

Bread and colonial language Within colonial sources bread holds an abstracted yet important place in the daily expressions found in various documents. One communiqué from the Indochinese Press referred to the education of indigenous children as “the bread which their souls need”, all the while referring to the children in question as protégés of France (Communiqué de la Presse Indochinoise 1920: 7). 31

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In doing so this turn of phrase blends bread, the religious significance attributed to it and the civilizing mission together into one uncomfortable statement. To claim that French education was like bread for the colonized soul evidences the flagrant irreverence that the French colonizers had towards Indochinese cultures, in more ways than one. Bread also surfaced in expressions which were not quite so vividly colonizing. For instance, in relating to hard times one rubber planter referred to the “bitter bread of poverty” which planters would be forced to consume should French policy on rubber tariffs not favour them (Sipière 1922: 769). The use of this expression in Indochina is particularly interesting in the context of the dearness of internationally shipped flour. The cost difference between wheat flour and rice did not make bread, no matter how bitter, a poor man’s food. In 1930 bread was purchased by the Indochinese government in Cambodia at twenty-seven Indochinese cents per kilogram, while rice cost only fourteen cents per kilo (Commande faite à Roussely pour le compte de l’Hôpital-Mixte RSC 34420 1930). The price of bread in 1930 was only one cent more than the price projected for it by government sources in 1918, demonstrating that wheat prices remained high even beyond the First World War (Rapport au Conseil du Protectorat RSC 37078 1917). The use of this terminology speaks more to a long cultural heritage of using bread allegorically in language than to the actual realities surrounding bread consumption in the colonies. Author Louis Cros in his guide for prospective colonists referred in 1931 to coal as “the bread of industry”, to rice as “Asian bread” and to bananas as being “the bread of the poor” (Cros 1931: 266, 359). The significance of bread for the French thus emerges as the basis for a comparative understanding of carbohydrates but also as a source of ethnic polarization. To see rice as Asian bread serves to highlight not only that rice was labelled as belonging to the colonized but also that in reverse, bread belonged to the colonizer.

Finding flour The place of bread in French culture begs the question, where did the flour from which to make bread in Indochina originate from? While modern enthusiasts of French terroir might assume that the flour used in Indochina was of the finest French stock, they would no doubt be disappointed to discover that this crucial ingredient originated, more often than not, from elsewhere. A number of primary sources stress the importance of foreign flour in fuelling Indochina’s appetite for bread, and Lauren Janes has demonstrated that particularly during the First World War and in the interwar period, French-grown wheat was in short supply even in the metropole (Cros 1931: 153–154; Le Courier Saïgonnais 1928: 19; Janes 2016: 74). Erica Peters has demonstrated that wheat flour often came to Indochina from the United States or Australia rather than France (Peters 2011: 120). The importation of foreign flour was the norm except for some notable exceptions such as the Resident Superior of Cambodia who imported French flour even during the war year of 1917. Records show that arrangements were put in place to import 100 kg of French wheat flour for use by the protectorate of Cambodia in the first semester of 1917 (Cahiers des Charges RSC 37078 1916). However, such consumption seems to have been anomalous behaviour in the colony. Colonial police records document samples of Owl and Monkey branded flour imported from Hong Kong being seized from a Chinese baker for chemical analysis in the same year (Répression des Fraudes, Procès 8427 RSC 17855 1917). In other years Hong Kong was an important source of flour for Indochina. Sourcing the flour traveling through British-held Hong Kong is an interesting case in itself. The climactic improbability of massive wheat cultivation in Hong Kong, as well as colonial references to major imports of wheat from Australia seem to indicate that Hong Kong flour was made using wheat which came primarily from the British colonies or the United States (Le Président de la Chambre Mixte de Commerce & d’Agriculture 32

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du Cambodge à Monsieur le Résident Supérieur au Cambodge RSC 2535 1930). In addition to this a 1938 summary of Indochinese imports and exports in 1937 specifically referred to large quantities of primarily Australian flour traveling through Hong Kong (Tableau du Commerce Extérieur de l’Indochine Année 1937 RSC 36623 1938). This flour was both more reliably available and less expensive than French flour. Issues pertaining to French flour in Indochina were highlighted in a 1930 letter from the mixed-race Chamber of Commerce of Cambodia to the resident superior of Cambodia which summarized a recommendation by the former concerning proposed changes to the special tariff on grain imports to Indochina (Le Président de la Chambre Mixte de Commerce & d’Agriculture du Cambodge à Monsieur le Résident Supérieur au Cambodge RSC 2535 1930). These changes aimed to augment the duties on foreign wheat flour in order to favour the flour produced by farmers in France (Le Président de la Chambre Mixte de Commerce & d’Agriculture du Cambodge à Monsieur le Résident Supérieur au Cambodge RSC 2535 1930). In this document the Chamber encouraged the consumption of French flour but expressed doubts about how competitive metropolitan flour might be in the long run alongside flour imported from abroad, particularly from Australia (Le Président de la Chambre Mixte de Commerce & d’Agriculture du Cambodge à Monsieur le Résident Supérieur au Cambodge RSC 2535 1930). The members of the Chamber of Commerce did not want to compromise on quality or price in discussing the importation of this valuable staple (Le Président de la Chambre Mixte de Commerce & d’Agriculture du Cambodge à Monsieur le Résident Supérieur au Cambodge RSC 2535 1930). They expressed their interest in potentially favouring French flour should they be guaranteed a steady supply of high-quality and affordable flour yet ultimately chose to sacrifice nationalism in exchange for the reliability and affordability long established by foreign sources of flour (Le Président de la Chambre Mixte de Commerce & d’Agriculture du Cambodge à Monsieur le Résident Supérieur au Cambodge RSC 2535 1930). The Chamber of Commerce placed the required imports of wheat at 20,000–21,000 tonnes and stressed that consumption of wheat in the colony was ever increasing (Le Président de la Chambre Mixte de Commerce & d’Agriculture du Cambodge à Monsieur le Résident Supérieur au Cambodge RSC 2535 1930). Their fear that France would not be able to maintain the high export numbers made possible by the 1930’s bumper crop and that the colony would later need to revert to importing foreign flour at a higher price encouraged the Chamber of Commerce to err on the side of caution as they voted to maintain the current tariffs (Le Président de la Chambre Mixte de Commerce & d’Agriculture du Cambodge à Monsieur le Résident Supérieur au Cambodge RSC 2535 1930). This decision ultimately paid off when French flour exports to Indochina subsequently plummeted alongside French production and foreign flour filled the breach once more, entering the colony with an average of 17,164 tonnes of flour yearly from Hong Kong alone between 1935 and 1937 out of a total yearly average of 18,445 tonnes imported in the same period (Tableau du Commerce Extérieur de l’Indochine Année 1937 RSC 36623 1938). French flour was not at all competitive, averaging a meagre 68.6 tonnes traveling from metropole to colony yearly in the same period (Tableau du Commerce Extérieur de l’Indochine Année 1937 366231938).

Divisions: racializing carbohydrates It has been argued that French colonizers designed their homes in an attempt to avoid being tempted into sexual intimacy with natives; their food was also segregated in the hopes that this would act as a racial divider, preventing hybridization on even the most mundane level (Peters 33

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2012: 154). These boundaries are evident in the categorization of rice as Asian and wheat flour as European. Lauren Janes in her Colonial Food in Interwar Paris has stressed the extents to which different groups went in encouraging the consumption of Indochinese rice in the metropole with varying levels of success (Janes 2016). Within France rice from Indochina had difficulties competing with rice from the Carolinas as well as with Patna rice from India (Janes 2016: 83). This was in part due to its quality as well as the reputation attributed to it (Janes 2016: 83). While attempts to popularize Indochinese rice in France did experience some success, as seen in the case of the Cordon Bleu demonstrations on proper rice preparation complemented by the sale of affordable sacks of rice at the 1931 colonial exposition in Paris, rice from the colonies did remain perceptibly tied to their origins (Janes 2016: 93). As Janes mentions, popular cooking magazines referred to boiled rice as riz à l’annamite alluding to the method of preparation used in the central protectorate of Vietnam (Janes 2016: 83). Most problematic of all was the use of relatively small amounts of rice flour in French bread in the metropole, a topic which Janes describes in depth and one which saw very little success in France despite the dear price of wheat flour in Paris during and immediately after the First World War (Janes 2016: 7). Indeed, in the short periods of time where rice was legally permitted to be used in bread, it was derided for undermining the purity of the national French wheat loaf, and loaves with rice in them were legally required to be referred to as rice bread even though they were never allowed to contain more than ten percent wheat flour (Janes 2016: 74). As such the identity of rice as the “other” when juxtaposed against wheat in bread baking encouraged its rejection. In the context of Indochina where rice was the dominant grain, the fear of bread adulteration was ever present. The 1917 seizure of flour from a Chinese baker in Phnom Penh named Lo Linh is indicative of this suspicion. Lo Linh, who had no prior convictions, was suspected of food adulteration alongside three other bakers (Répression des Fraudes, Procès: 8427, 8428, 8429, 3773 RSC 17855 1917). The flour and bread seized from the four bakers were all tested chemically for adulterants, but all of their products were ultimately cleared (Répression des Fraudes, Procès: 8427, 8428, 8429, 3773 RSC 17855 1917). No samples from European bakeries were tested (Répression des Fraudes, Procès: 8427, 8428, 8429, 3773 RSC 17855 1917).

Breaking boundaries The case of bread as the primordial French staple but also as one of the more affordable and thus accessible French foods seems to muddy the waters of colonial foodways. Contemporary texts reveal a wide variety of excerpts containing different opinions on rice. While there is definitely a theme of colonial rejection of rice, as seen with a variety of primary sources both bemoaning the colonizer’s reluctance to eat rice and the rising price of wheat flour, not everyone opposed the native grain. Cros writes that rice was not only enjoyable but sometimes too expensive for native consumption, leaving the lowest classes in the colony to rely upon millet and other substitutes (Cros 1931: 266). He further mentions that Indochina exported over 134,000 tonnes of rice to France and its colonies in 1924, although estimating how much of this actually made its way onto French tables rather than being used as animal feed or for distillation is difficult (Cros 1931: 139, 141). In addition to this, Cros brings to his reader’s attention, with no particular antagonism, the consumption of bread by certain “well-off natives” when flour costs were not too prohibitive (Cros 1931: 141). Such instances demonstrate fluidity when attempting to pin nationality to food. The complexities of the colonial space were subject to a variety of racial and class factors which made it nearly impossible for any French food that was not extracted directly from a French ship or can to truly be French. 34

Finding France in flour

With an estimated national consumption within France of 200 kg of bread per capita yearly in 1928, the French remained reluctant to abandon this safe and relatively affordable staple in the colony (Cros 1931: 376). Perhaps it is due to this that they were willing to ignore how hybridized their bread had actually become. Though some bakeries remained French in name and ownership, the actual bread consumed by the colonizers was not made by French hands for very long. Peters has stressed that upon arrival in Indochina, many bakers took advantage of the positions of power that their nationality granted them to escape the difficult conditions of their trade (Peters 2012: 157). Much as the French baker on the mainland passed off the hardest work to apprentices, the colonizers were quick to pass on the skills of their trade to native peoples, who in turn did the brunt of their work (Peters 2012: 157). This occurred in part because of a need to provide French-style bread to colonial soldiers and later to other wings of the colonial administration as evidenced by records from the mixed-race hospital of Phnom Penh (Cahier des Charges RSC 37078 1914). It also served to relieve French bakers from the backbreaking work of the trade, particularly in colonial locales considered by the French as too hot for habitation, let alone baking (Peters 2012: 159). The shifting of this difficult labour and its offloading to the colonial body reveals not only hierarchies based on class and race in the colonies but also alludes to notions of imperial climatology. The rhetorical commitment to bread being “French” and thus acting as a marker of difference contrasted sharply with the reality of who was actually doing the baking.

French dough, Indochinese hands Commercial baking in an era which had not yet seen a full mechanization of the trade remained a career that intimately tied baker to bread. Kaplan expands on this by describing how in hand-kneading it was estimated that every 172 kg of dough produced contained 500 or so grams of human sweat, and this in the cooler weather of the metropole (Kaplan 2006: 112). While this statistic is by no means easy to quantify with specificity, suffice it to say that French consumers of the period were well aware of the sweat they consumed (Kaplan 2006: 112). The near certainty that indigenous sweat was present in French bread in Indochina, particularly when one considers the heat of bakeries in tropical environments, combined with the bodily notion of native hands kneading dough for a product marketed as French is captivating yet conspicuously absent from sources. Understanding if the contact of colonial bodies with bread that was white, in every sense, had an effect on French perceptions of baked goods would be useful in elucidating the processes of racialization within French colonial labour systems. The same French colonizers that balked at physical contact with the people they colonized seem to have eaten the bread which contained the sweat of the native or Chinese bakers who had kneaded it, yet these colonizers continued to see this bread as French, choosing not to address this inconsistency in colonial society. Aside from government fears concerning adulteration, many French settlers in Indochina seemed to be blissfully unaware, or more realistically, nonchalant about who made their bread. Though some purportedly French bakeries such as that of a Mr. Clément stressed the importance of French bread, expressing its supposed superiority over the bread made in Chinese bakeries, it is difficult to know what percentage of French bread made in supposedly European bakeries was actually made by French bakers (Peters 2012: 159). Most colonial marketing, at least early on, focused on the food’s supposed “Frenchness”, even though in many cases there was indeed very little that was French about it (Gazette d’Haiphong 1893). As such, it seems that the techniques used to create French-styled loaves became the carriers of “Frenchness”. This, compounded by the lack of a widely consumed native wheat bread in Indochina, likely made a possible Indochinese adoption of French baking less frightening in the context of hybridity. In future work I 35

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intend to place this in a comparative framework alongside Algeria where wheat was an essential feature of the foodscape prior to French colonialism.

Edible colonialism The lack of a native Indochinese wheat bread and of willing French labour partially justifies why in a society where even directories were separated by ethnicity, there was such common acceptance of native labour in food. This acceptance was no doubt enhanced by the colonial habit of having domestics of varying ethnicities prepare ersatz European foods. In addition to this, perhaps the desire for comforting bread outweighed any racial prejudice that might impede access to this staple. As early as 1899 another French writer in a guide to the colonization of Tonkin advised that, should one be stationed in the bush, native cooks, if taught well by the colonizer’s wife, were liable to surprise their master by learning the art of baking quickly (Joleaud-Barral 1899: 60). This leads me to suspect that the integration of French baking into Indochinese culture was understood as one of the successes of French colonialism. I believe it to be the case that the various offshoot bakeries formed by indigenous bakers who opened their own European-style shops producing French baked goods were taken as evidence of cultural assimilation. My belief is based in part on the lack of a significant outcry against indigenous and Chinese bakers, though allusions to the superiority of French bakers were present as seen in the aforementioned case of Mr. Clément (Peters 2012: 159). Assimilation through bread baking and consumption was not an uncommon concept among colonizers, some of whom assumed that their perceived superiority was a product of their diet (Janes 2016: 63). However, it must be mentioned that while it became acceptable for non-French people to become bakers, they were still viewed with suspicion. Newspaper advertisements for French bakeries implied lack of hygiene in competing Chinese bakeries, while the aforementioned government inquiries into food adulteration in Cambodia featured chemical testing of breads made by Chinese bakers and their Vietnamese staff in Phnom Penh (Répression des Fraudes, Procès: 8427, 8428, 8429, 3773 RSC 17855 1917). The wide array of bakeries compiled in the joint directories sported a variety of names, both French and indigenous. Some clearly took names which were not French, while others made use of designations reminiscent of France. The French names of bakeries did not, as aforementioned, imply a French baker or apprentices. The Pâtisserie Dauphinoise, a pastry shop in Dalat, sought to evoke France with its name even though its baker, Ban Thaï, sported a name that did not (Jennings 2011: 84). Though we might assume that the bakery’s name was meant to provide an illusion of Frenchness, to mask the baker’s identity, it seems equally likely that the owner simply wished to attract a wealthy French clientele while exploiting the cachet attributed internationally to French baking, which took on additional value among potential French clients in the colonies. Indeed, a quick look at restaurants and bakeries across the world today reveals that the appropriation of French cachet to sell foods remains very much en vogue. While there were also bakeries which operated under local names such as the Van-Lan bakery in Hanoi, information about these businesses is sadly lacking in colonial sources (Lacroix-Sommé, Dickson and Burtschy 1933: 107, 121). Though it may not be possible to unearth what exact types of bread such bakeries sold and to whom, it is not preposterous to hypothesize that they produced bread in some approximation of the French tradition. French baker Bernard Ganachaud once stated that if there are 38,000 bakers in France, then there are 38,000 ways to make bread (Kaplan 2006: 94). This was doubtless also the case in Indochina. Much as bread baking was individualized and ever changing in France, it certainly went through a variety of permutations within the colonies, yet it still maintained French affiliations in the eyes of those eating it and to an extent still does. 36

Finding France in flour

Conclusion The use of Indochinese workers as labourers in French bakeries, workers who in turn seem to have opened their own bakeries, casts a different light on bread than on other foods identified as French. The difficulties of growing certain European fruits and vegetables, except in microclimates such as that of Dalat, allowed these foods to be prized as status symbols shoring up ideological walls which could defend colonizers from the fears of cultural hybridity. With these symbols secured in the lofty ideals surrounding French food, bread could instead be perceived of as a colonizing tool or be interpreted as evidence of colonial success. For indigenous bakers, however, creating bread identified as French when French bakers backed away from the trade provided an important venue for economic success even though some local bakers chose to adopt French names for their businesses. Even in distant Indochina bread remained a central part of French culture, present in day-to-day expressions, even when the expressions themselves seemed out of place in the colonial context. Habits of consumption and preference led to French attempts to maintain wheat bread’s central dietary role despite the considerable expenses undertaken to do so. While French attempts to maintain the staple persisted, the colonial context gave new meanings to bread as the supply chain and process necessary to produce it shifted. Bread continued to be a basic staple to the French and was consumed by locals, providing Khmer, Lao and Vietnamese bakers with an important means through which to make a living in a heavily hierarchical and racist system. The global expansion of the wheat market has allowed bread to become common on the streets of the countries which once formed French Indochina. More recently bread’s integration into local foodways as bánh mì, khao jee and num pang has led to it taking on entirely new meanings yet again. That these breads and the sandwiches named for them have become national symbols in countries proud of their anticolonial histories, all the while continuing to be marketed as French influenced, provokes a whole new array of questions about the meaning of bread in these countries today.

Bibliography Primary sources ‘Ancienne Boulangerie Francaise’ (1893) Gazette d’Haiphong, Dimanche 23, p. 4. ‘Cahier des Charges’ (1913) in ‘Fournitures de matériels divers, de denrées alimentaires, de médicaments nécessaires aux divers services du Cambodge.’ RSC 37078 (1915–1918) Fonds de la Résidence Supérieure du Cambodge (1863–1954), National Archives of Cambodia. ‘Cahier des Charges’ (1914) in ‘Fournitures de matériels divers, de denrées alimentaires, de médicaments nécessaires aux divers services du Cambodge.’ RSC 37078 (1915–1918) Fonds de la Résidence Supérieure du Cambodge (1863–1954), National Archives of Cambodia. ‘Cahiers des Charges’ (1916) in ‘Fournitures de matériels divers, de denrées alimentaires, de médicaments nécessaires aux divers services du Cambodge.’ RSC 37078 (1915–1918) Fonds de la Résidence Supérieure du Cambodge (1863–1954), National Archives of Cambodia. ‘Commande faite à Roussely pour le compte de l’Hôpital-Mixte’ (1930) in ‘Exemples et factures de fournisseur de l’administration des années 30 (sociétés commerciales, magasins, négociants, boulangeries, maisons d’éditions etc . . . basés au Cambodge ou à Saigon.’ RSC 34420 (1918–1937) Fonds de la Résidence Supérieure du Cambodge (1863–1954), National Archives of Cambodia. Cros, L. (1931) L’Indochine Française pour Tous. Clichy Seine, Paul Dupont, Paris. ‘Fourniture des denrées alimentaires et des articles d’épicerie nécessaire au Protectorat du Cambodge pendant le 1er semestre’ (1917) in ‘Fournitures de matériels divers, de denrées alimentaires, de médicaments nécessaires aux divers services du Cambodge.’ RSC 37078 (1915–1918) Fonds de la Résidence Supérieure du Cambodge (1863–1954), National Archives of Cambodia. ‘Fumez le Globe’ (1928) L’Éveil Économique de l’Indochine, Numéro 563, Dimanche 1 Avril, pp. 16–19. H.C. (1928) ‘M. Darles Rentre en France pour Vulgariser la Consomation du Riz.’ L’Éveil Économique de l’Indochine, Numéro 564, Dimanche 8 Avril, pp. 4–5.

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Nicholas Tošaj ‘Instruction Publique’ (1920) Communiqué de la Presse Indochinoise, Presse Française, Paris. Joleaud-Barral, J. (1899) La colonisation Française en Annam et au Tonkin. Librairie Plon, Paris. Lacroix-Sommé, L., Dickson, R. J. and Burtschy, A. J. (1933) Indochine Addresses 1933–1934: Annuaire Complet (Européen et Indigène). Imprimerie Albert Portail, Saigon. Le Courier Saïgonnais, ‘Fumez le Globe’ (1928) L’Éveil Économique de l’Indochine, Numéro 563, Dimanche 1 Avril, p. 19. ‘Le Président de la Chambre Mixte de Commerce & d’Agriculture du Cambodge à Monsieur le Résident Supérieur au Cambodge 25 Juillet 1930’ (1930) in ‘Relèvement des 1930.0 droits du tarif spécial ce qui concerne le froment l’épeautre le méteil et leurs dérivés.’ RSC 2535 (1930) Fonds de la Résidence Supérieure du Cambodge (1863–1954), National Archives of Cambodia. ‘Rapport au Conseil du Protectorat’ (1917) in ‘Fournitures de matériels divers, de denrées alimentaires, de médicaments nécessaires aux divers services du Cambodge.’ RSC 37078 (1915–1918) Fonds de la Résidence Supérieure du Cambodge (1863–1954), National Archives of Cambodia. ‘Répression des Fraudes, procès 3773’ (1917) in ‘Dossier de la répression des fraudes alimentaires au Cambodge (fraudes et falsifications dans la vente des denrées alimentaires et de certains produits agricoles et naturels).’ RSC 17855 (1917) Fonds de la Résidence Supérieure du Cambodge (1863–1954), National Archives of Cambodia. ‘Répression des Fraudes, procès 8427’ (1917) in ‘Dossier de la répression des fraudes alimentaires au Cambodge (fraudes et falsifications dans la vente des denrées alimentaires et de certains produits agricoles et naturels).’ RSC 17855 (1917) Fonds de la Résidence Supérieure du Cambodge (1863–1954), National Archives of Cambodia. ‘Répression des Fraudes, procès 8428’ (1917) in ‘Dossier de la répression des fraudes alimentaires au Cambodge (fraudes et falsifications dans la vente des denrées alimentaires et de certains produits agricoles et naturels).’ RSC 17855 (1917) Fonds de la Résidence Supérieure du Cambodge (1863–1954), National Archives of Cambodia. ‘Répression des Fraudes, procès 8429’ (1917) in ‘Dossier de la répression des fraudes alimentaires au Cambodge (fraudes et falsifications dans la vente des denrées alimentaires et de certains produits agricoles et naturels).’ RSC 17855 (1917) Fonds de la Résidence Supérieure du Cambodge (1863–1954), National Archives of Cambodia. Sipière. (1922) ‘Marché Français du Caoutchouc.’ Bulletin du Syndicat des Planteurs de Caoutchouc. Numéro 49, 11/08, Imprimerie A. Portail, Saigon. ‘Tableau du Commerce Extérieur de l’indochine’ (1938) in ‘Tableau du commerce extérieur de l’Indochine et statistiques de navigation.’ RSC 36623 (1935–1938), National Archives of Cambodia. ‘Vve. Pétigny à Monsieur le Résident Supérieur de la République Française au Cambodge à Phnôm-Penh’ (1917) in ‘Fournitures de matériels divers, de denrées alimentaires, de médicaments nécessaires aux divers services du Cambodge.’ RSC 37078 (1915–1918) Fonds de la Résidence Supérieure du Cambodge (1863–1954), National Archives of Cambodia, Novembre 12.

Secondary sources Bhabha, H. K. (1985) ‘Signs Taken for Wonders.’ Henry Louis Gates, Jr., Ed. in Critical Inquiry, pp. 144–165. Chicago University Press, Chicago. Conklin, A. L. (1997) A Mission to Civilize. Stanford University Press, Stanford. Edwards, P. (2007) Cambodge. University of Hawaii, Honolulu. Janes, L. (2016) Colonial Food in Interwar Paris. Bloomsbury Academic, London, New York. Jennings, E. T. (2006) Curing the Colonizers. Duke University Press, Durham. Jennings, E. T. (2011) Imperial Heights. University of California Press, Berkeley. Kaplan, S. L. (2006) Good bread Is Back. Duke University Press, Durham. Laudan, R. (2013) Cuisine and Empire. University of California Press, Berkeley. Morton, P.A. (2000) Hybrid Modernities. MIT Press, Cambridge, MA. Peters, E. J. (2012) Appetites and Aspirations in Vietnam: Food and Drink in the Long Nineteenth Century. AltaMira Press, Lanham. Stoler, A. L. (2009) Along the Archival Grain. Princeton University Press, Princeton, NJ.

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4 JAPANESE CULINARY MOBILITIES The multiple globalizations of Japanese cuisine James Farrer, Christian Hess, Mônica R. de Carvalho, Chuanfei Wang, and David Wank

The globalization of the Japanese restaurant as a tale of multiple mobilities Over the past decade, Japanese restaurants have proliferated around the globe, increasing from 24,000 in 2006 to 117,568 in 2017 (MAFF 2017). Drawing on original multi-site fieldwork by our group based at Sophia University in Tokyo (see www.global-japanese-cuisine.org) and a review of existing research, this chapter is a global overview of the expansion of Japanese restaurant cuisine in Asia, North America, Europe, and Latin America, the regions where the vast majority of the world’s Japanese restaurants outside Japan are located (see Figure 4.1). Culinary globalization has been described as the transnational spread of foodstuffs and foodways by corporations, traders, migrants, and other actors, accompanied by processes of localization and indigenization as recipes are adjusted to local palates, ingredients, and social conditions (Ritzer 2008: 166). The global expansion of Japanese restaurants, from the late nineteenth century to the present, has generally followed this pattern. Japanese migrants, chefs, and entrepreneurs were the initial actors bringing Japanese food abroad. In the earliest phase, overseas Japanese restaurants were usually dining places for Japanese migrants. As Japanese restaurants expanded beyond local Japanese communities, they were noticed by local trendsetters and urban elites. Processes of culinary localization, involving cheapening and indigenizing ingredients, led to their popularization and massification (Cwiertka 2005; Farrer 2017; Hamamoto and Sonoda 2007; Iwama 2013; Koyama 1985; Mladenova 2013; Nakano 2014; Ng 2001). The most familiar story of Japanese culinary ‘glocalization’ (the simultaneous processes of globalization and localization; Robertson 1995) centers on sushi. In the 1960s, Japanese chefs in Los Angeles came upon the novel idea of adding avocado, crab, and mayonnaise as a substitute for fatty tuna. Known as the ‘California roll’, this variety of rolled sushi now has spread around the world, engendering countless local variations (Issenberg 2007; Ishige 1985b). Sushi restaurants from Singapore to Berlin serve elaborate rolls with innovative ingredients that would not be found in Japan (Keßler 2012; Ng 2001). Other types of Japanese foods, from teppanyaki to ramen, also have been glocalized as they have spread around the world and been adapted to local tastes (Kushner 2012; Solt 2014; Ujita 2008). This chapter does not contradict this typical story of culinary glocalization, but it does question the usual assumptions that the epicenter is Japan, that the key actors are Japanese, and that localization is an ever-deepening process that entails the loss of culinary ‘authenticity’. We 39

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2017

2015

2013 69,300 45,300

Asia (except Japan) 27,000 25,300 25,100

North America 17,000 Europe

14,600 12,400 6,700

Latin America

4,600 3,100 2,900

Oceania

2,400 1,850 700

Middle East

950 600 250

Africa

350 300 150

Figure 4.1 The number of Japanese restaurants by region Source: This graph was made by Chuanfei Wang according to the statistics in MAFF [Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry and Fisheries]’s report. www.maff.go.jp/j/press/shokusan/service/pdf/150828-01.pdf and www. maff.go.jp/j/press/shokusan/service/attach/pdf/171107-1.pdf [Accessed February 7, and November 12, 2017].

emphasize the transnational mobilities of cuisine across a variety of dimensions. A primary focus is the role of non-Japanese, particularly migrant entrepreneurs, in creating and promoting Japanese cuisine around the world. However, mobility is not limited to long-term migration. Based on Urry’s mobilities approach (2007: 47), other forms of culinary mobility include short-term movements of people, both producers and consumers; movements of objects, not only foodstuffs but also interior design elements; and imaginative mobility, such as the globalization of Japanese food media. Looking at all these forms, we can see that the transnational field of Japanese cuisine is characterized by increasing mobility at all levels, high and low, and in multiple geographical scales, with new centers outside Japan emerging. We can even say that mobility is part of what is consumed at a Japanese restaurant in the twenty-first century, in particular when considering the iconic modern Japanese dish, sushi. As journalist Sasha Issenberg writes, ‘[m]ore than any other food, possibly more than any other commodity, to eat sushi is to display an access to advanced trade networks, of full engagement in world commerce’. Consuming sushi or ramen in cities from Moscow to Mumbai represents being part of the mobile global elite, eating quickly on the go, savoring a product made by a staff of migrant workers. Even the environment is an assemblage of transnational elements and flows, from the raw fish transported frozen from around the world, to 40

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the Japanese-labelled sake and condiments which are likely the only elements actually from Japan (Issenberg 2007: 267). Japanese cuisine, however, has neither always been this popular nor had these associations with modernity and mobility. Nor has sushi always been the representative dish of global Japanese food. Our story surveys the multiple globalizations of Japanese cuisine over more than a century and the different actors involved. We focus here only on restaurants, not on products or home cooking. Moreover, we concede that this is a tentative exercise. We hope, through our global scale, to stimulate further conversation about Japanese culinary globalization.

Overseas migrants and Japanese culinary communities The first wave of global expansion of Japanese restaurant cuisine outside of Japan began soon after Japan’s own opening to the world following the Meiji Restoration (1868). Japanese eateries accompanied Japanese settlers in cities around the world in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Some of the earliest and largest were in the parts of Asia that were falling under Japanese influence, some becoming formal colonies, others semi-colonial concessions. Japanese restaurants appeared in Chinese cities well before the fall of the Qing dynasty (1644– 1912) (Iwama 2013). The 1880s ushered in a fashion for Japanese culture among Shanghai residents, including patronizing Japanese teahouses and geishas. The former sold Western and Chinese dishes as well as some Japanese snacks. This Japanese nightlife boom in Shanghai ended with the Sino-Japanese War of 1895, when most of Shanghai’s Japanese community returned to Japan. After the Sino-Japanese War, restaurants appeared in Shanghai that appealed largely to the growing Japanese population of the city rather than to local Chinese. One of the earliest and most famous was Rokusantei, a large full-service restaurant opened in 1900 by Nagasaki native Shiraishi Rokusaburō on Tanggu Road. It was near the site that would soon be occupied by the prestigious Japanese Club in the heart of Hongkou District, Shanghai’s unofficial ‘Japantown’, part of the semi-colonial international settlement. Rokusantei boasted dozens of geisha from Nagasaki and a large second-floor tatami-covered room with tokonoma (alcoves) featuring Japanese flower arrangements. By the 1910s there were fifty to sixty Japanese restaurants in Shanghai, twenty-four of which served alcohol and offered the companionship of geisha along with Japanese food (Iwama 2013; Farrer 2017). The treaty port of Tianjin was another early center for Japanese restaurants, emerging after the Sino-Japanese War with the expansion of Japanese imperialism in China. A Japanese concession in Tianjin was established in 1898. By 1901, there were over one thousand Japanese migrants in Tianjin, mostly living in the Japanese concession. Yamaguchi Tsutomu, in his tourist guidebook Shinkoku Yureki Annai (1902), recounted seeing eight Japanese restaurants in the most prosperous area of the Japanese concession in Tianjin during his trip in 1901. These restaurants mainly served Japanese migrants and, sometimes, local political or economic elites (Wan 2010). Outside the Japanese community, there is mixed evidence of a broader popularity of Japanese cuisine in China before the 1990s. Aside from politics, the greatest culinary obstacle to widespread acceptance of Japanese cuisine may have been the Chinese reluctance to eat raw foods (Nakano 2014). Therefore, one of the most common Japanese dishes offered was the cooked beef dish known as sukiyaki. It seems that sukiyaki was popular with Westerners as well as Japanese. For example, in the 1930s the Kasen Restaurant in Tsingtao (Qingdao) advertised ‘sukiyaki with rice’ on its English menu for two dollars per person (with accompaniment by a ‘geisha girl’ for an additional fee of three dollars an hour). Sukiyaki even made it into the menus of some preeminent Western restaurants in Shanghai, including the German restaurant Deda, which served sukiyaki in the 1930s. During wartime, the famed Cathay Hotel offered sukiyaki, written 41

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in Japanese katakana on the English and French menu (Farrer 2017). Like sushi some fifty years later, sukiyaki can be considered the emblematic global Japanese dish during this first wave of Japanese culinary globalization. In Hong Kong, where the first Japanese restaurant opened in a Japanese hotel in 1892, popular interest in Japanese cuisine did not emerge until relatively recently. As late as the 1960s, Hong Kong people complained, ‘There is nothing to eat in Japan’ (Nakano 2014: 112). Starting in the 1960s Japanese department stores offered imported Japanese food products, but these were priced beyond the reach of most Chinese. The boom in Japanese restaurant cuisine in Hong Kong began when its middle class emerged in the 1980s, a decade in which Japanese pop culture influences were at a height in East Asia. The greatest impact of Japanese restaurant culture in the pre-war period was in Japan’s imperial possessions, particularly in Korea (Cwiertka 2013). As early as 1888, Seoul counted five Japanese liquor shops, ten Japanese-style confectioners, and fourteen Japanese restaurants. During the colonial occupation of Korea from 1910 to the end of World War II, the huge influx of Japanese administrators and entrepreneurs stimulated the creation of modern restaurant sectors in Korean cities. These started with hotel restaurants and grew to include independent restaurants, bars, cafes, and department store restaurants. Soon, Japanese cuisine dominated the urban restaurant scene, mostly in the form of Japanese-style Western restaurants but also including specialty restaurants serving sukiyaki, udon, and other items. These Japanese restaurants and restaurateurs not only introduced Japanese cuisine but also had a profound impact on the development of Korean and Chinese cuisine restaurants and modern consumer culture more broadly. Especially influential was the quintessential modern institution of the department store restaurant, which often served Japanese-style Western dishes, such as curry, salads, and cutlets. By the 1930s, eating in Japanese restaurants and Japanese-style Western restaurants had become a part of the daily life of middle-class urban Koreans. As in Japan, these restaurants often served a variety of Japanese, Western, and Chinese dishes. The Keijo (Seoul) Chamber of Commerce listed two hundred and fifty establishments serving food and drink in the capital at the time (probably a low estimate), with seventy-three Japanese restaurants being the biggest category (Cwiertka 2013: 36). In comparison to East Asia, where Japan had military and political dominance, the overseas Japanese culinary communities in the Americas were scattered and more vulnerable to local hostility. Perhaps the first Japanese restaurant opened by Japanese immigrants in the United States was in 1887 in San Francisco (Koyama 1985: 28). Chinese migrant suppliers provisioned many of the first generation of Japanese restaurants before the Japanese established their own systems of production and distribution (Ishige 1985a). Following the devastating San Francisco earthquake of 1906, Japanese immigration to the region shifted to Los Angeles, where the first sushi shop opened in 1906 in Little Tokyo (Koyama 1985: 28–31). Within two years there were thirty-four shops serving Japanese dishes. Early in the twentieth century, many Japanese migrants also entered the Chinese- and American-style restaurant sectors (Koyama and Ishige 1985). By the turn of the twentieth century Americans from San Francisco to Chicago (even North Dakota!) had some exposure to Japanese cuisine. This initial wave of interest in Japanese food in America was built upon decades of growing interest in Japan, largely spread by missionary accounts (Miller 2015). As early as 1889, the San Francisco Chronicle newspaper carried travel stories like ‘Yum Yum at Dinner: Mysteries of the “Jap’s” Cuisine’ (June 23, 1889), with detailed descriptions of Japanese restaurants and cuisine in Tokyo, in this case, a restaurant in Tokyo specializing in unagi that the author visited. By 1905, Japanese cuisine was a small but established feature of the culinary scene in many American cities. According to a 1909 government report on the Japanese living in the eleven Western states, there were one hundred and 42

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forty-nine Japanese-owned restaurants that served American meals and two hundred and thirty-two Japanese-owned restaurants that served Japanese meals. The largest concentrations of Japanese restaurants were in the coastal cities of Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, Sacramento, and Los Angeles. Japanese food recipes could also be found in mainstream newspapers (Miller 2015). As in Asia, the sukiyaki seems to have been the signature dish. American newspapers carried descriptions of sukiyaki as early as 1919, and by the mid-1930s, New York’s sukiyaki houses were featured in articles hailing them as ‘a nice adventure’ (New York Times 1919). By the 1950s sukiyaki was so established on the culinary scene in large US cities that it was frequently mentioned as the featured dinner item at elite social parties (see Washington Post 1934; Los Angeles Times 1959). While interest in Japanese food was rising, in California, home to the larger and more established Japanese communities in the United States, Japanese-run restaurants were also sites of serious racial conflict. In reaction to the cost-cutting practices of Japanese restaurant owners, white restaurant owners and culinary workers in San Francisco, working through the Waiters Union, staged a three-week boycott of Japanese-run restaurants in October 1906. The local press reported attacks on Japanese-owned restaurants and their patrons. The San Francisco Chronicle ran a two-page story discussing the report by Victor Metcalf, the Secretary of Labor sent by President Roosevelt to investigate incidents of discrimination against Japanese, which had grown into a major diplomatic row. The report noted: ‘Hardly a day goes by in the territory south of Market Street, that some threatening demonstration is not made by roughs and hoodlums against Japanese places of business in that district’ (San Francisco Chronicle, December 19, 1906). Anti-Japanese sentiment and the internment of Japanese Americans in World War II decimated the Japanese-run restaurant business in the United States. Even by the 1950s, there were only five or six operating in Los Angeles (Koyama 1985: 28–33). Japanese restaurants would eventually remerge in the United States, but traditional Japanese migrant communities would not be the leading sites of this revival. However, the removal of Japanese-Americans from the coast promoted the development of new, though smaller, Japanese-American business districts in inland cities such as Chicago and Minneapolis. The situation was quite different in Brazil, which had the largest and most resilient Japanese migrant culinary community outside of Japan. The first spaces to serve Japanese food were the boarding houses, or pensions, in the Liberdade neighborhood of São Paulo. Japanese began moving there in the 1910s as they left the agricultural settlements in the countryside of São Paulo States, to where they had first migrated. Unlike in the United States and Canada, there were scarcely any internments of Japanese descendants in Brazil, allowing for intergenerational transmission of family ownership of restaurants. Moreover, many Japanese communities became isolated in the Brazilian countryside during wartime, contributing to the maintenance of ‘pure’ Japanese culinary traditions. The same pattern existed in other regions (Para and Parana States), with Japanese food eating habits being confined largely to domestic spaces until the post–World War II era. Both outmigration from and return migration to Japan have remained a much more pronounced feature of Brazil’s Japanese food scene than elsewhere in the world. After World War II, the majority of Japanese immigrants came from educated social strata, including technicians and engineers, who moved directly to urban areas. They became an important consumer group for Japanese food produced locally, with their presence fueling the appearance of establishments that aimed to reproduce the traditional eating and drinking culture of Japan. With the growing Japanese presence in the Liberdade neighborhood in the early 1950s, the first Japanese food restaurants opened (Veiga 2011). The position of Liberdade as the most important space for Japanese gastronomy in the country persists to the present day, with many Japanese cuisine restaurants in the area still run by Japanese migrants and their descendants. More 43

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recently, many Japanese restaurateurs who started business in Liberdade are moving to other areas in the city, where they reproduce their original concept (grassroot ‘traditional’ Japanese cuisine) in different spaces. Well-known examples are Kinoshita (originally owned by chef Tsuyoshi Murakami), which moved to the trendy neighborhood of Vila Nova Conceição, and Kiyo, whose chef Kiyomi Watanabe pioneered the sushi-bar restaurant in São Paulo. The exemplary career of these restaurateurs can be seen in the case of Tsuyoshi Murakami, a star chef who represents the continuity of Brazil’s immigrant traditions and close ties to the cultural traditions of Japan. Now forty-eight years old, he was born in Hokkaido and migrated to Brazil with his family in the early 1970s. Because of his rebellious nature, he was sent back to Japan by his father after being expelled from school in Brazil and then began working in restaurants in Tokyo. At the age of eighteen, Murakami came back to São Paulo and became an assistant to sushiman Toshio Kinoshita, owner of a restaurant with his family name, located in Liberdade. He had learned the craft of cooking Japanese cuisine by working in Japan, and later he would also work in New York and Barcelona. After marrying Mr. Kinoshita’s daughter, he took over the business and, in association with a well-known local entrepreneur, moved the restaurant to a new location in the upscale Vila Nova Conceição neighborhood. The history of Kinoshita can be seen as a continuum from the old master Toshio to the innovative and talented Murakami, who now concentrates solely on kappo, traditional Kyoto-style cuisine. In the 1980s and 1990s Japanese cuisine spread further over the country, incorporating the globalized associations of Japanese cuisine with healthy habits and sophisticated, exotic environments. Brazil is one of the few areas in the world where Japanese settler communities and their descendants still retain a dominant presence in the restaurant business to such a significant extent. However, even in Brazil, the global spread of Americanized sushi rolls is evident on many contemporary restaurant menus.

Japanese corporate samurai and the first post-war Japanese food boom The global post-war boom in Japanese restaurants was initiated by Japanese corporate expatriates and had its epicenter in the West Coast of the United States. This story, with its nuances of Japanese cultural nationalism, is captured most vividly in the title of Ujita Norihiko’s 2008 Japanese book The Samurai Who Popularized Japanese Food Culture in America (Ujita 2008). These corporate ‘samurai’ were important in two senses. One was as customers for overseas Japanese restaurants in such commercial centers as Los Angeles, New York, Düsseldorf, São Paulo, London, and Shanghai. The patronage of the Japanese managerial diaspora, one of the largest and most affluent in history, drove the opening of high-end restaurants around the world, serving expensive formal Japanese restaurant cuisine, including nigiri sushi. They also insured that Japanese food would now be seen as expensive elite cuisine. The second sense in which Japanese corporate elites were important, and the one intended by Ujita (2008), was in setting up the infrastructure for this transnational Japanese culinary system. Large Japanese trading companies established a full-scale supply system for Japanese products in the United States from the second half of the 1950s to the first half of the 1960s. Unlike the small traders before World War II, these new Japanese trading companies exported not only food ingredients but also Japanese tableware and cooking implements. By the end of the 1960s, Japanese trading companies had replaced small-scale traders as the leading suppliers of Japanese food ingredients and other Japanese food–related products. Additionally, Japanese food makers started to establish factories in California. From the late 1960s, they made products targeting American consumers, not just Japanese communities. Their products were sold in the supermarkets near 44

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areas where middle-class white Americans lived, furthering the popularization of Japanese foods among these consumers (Ekuan 1985: 67). This narrative of Japanese corporate ‘samurai’ creating a transnational infrastructure for Japanese products obscures the essential roles of a variety of non-Japanese actors, from fishermen to consumers (Bestor 2001). In post-war Los Angeles, the Mutual Trading Company reopened in 1946 and was supplying Japanese products to restaurants and consumers in the 1950s. By the 1960s it pioneered the shipment of fresh fish directly from Tsukiji market via Japan Airlines (Issenberg 2007: 86–92). Along the East Coast, other transnational companies emerged, such as True World Foods, founded in the mid-1970s and owned by the Korean-based Unification Church, which also sold glass display cases, specialty knives, and other equipment geared for a sushi restaurant. Eventually, locally owned seafood firms expanded to selling sushi-grade fish, an example being Samuels & Son Seafood in Philadelphia (Wank and Farrer 2015). Local non-Japanese consumers were also essential actors. Opinion leaders, notably Hollywood stars in Los Angeles in the 1960s, began to patronize these Japanese establishments, turning them into food fashion trends (Isenberg 2007). This caught the attention of American food critics, such as Craig Claiborne, whose 1963 review of the newly opened restaurants Nippon and Saito for the New York Times, alerted a broader audience to the rise of Japanese restaurants (Grimes 2009). West Coast elites, in particular, embraced the idea of fresh raw ingredients with an Asian flair (Issenberg 2007: 96–99), and sushi even began to appear in Hollywood films. From the late 1970s, the growth of Japanese restaurants was driven largely by demand among white Americans. The most popular dishes still were sukiyaki and tempura (Shuzo and Ishige 1985: 55). In São Paulo, chef Kiyomi Watanabe launched the first sushi bar in town in the early 1970s at Bixiga, the city’s famed theater district. Similar to Hollywood, Sushi Kiyo’s growing reputation came from the patronage of Brazil’s trendy white artists and show business entrepreneurs in that neighborhood. In line with the lively artistic environment, chef Watanabe even used to sing traditional Japanese songs for his clientele while serving conventional sushi, Japanese style. Worldwide, the upper end of Japanese food fashion was represented by a number of expensive restaurants serving Japanese fusion cuisine, a trend epitomized by Nobuyuki ‘Nobu’ Matsuhisa (Imai 2010). Trained as a sushi chef in Tokyo in the 1960s, he then moved to Peru where he opened a sushi restaurant in Lima in 1974. There he incorporated Peruvian ingredients into Japanese dishes to make a unique fusion style. After a few years, he moved to Los Angeles, eventually opening his own restaurant, Matsuhisa, in 1987. It quickly became popular with Hollywood celebrities, and in 1993 he opened a restaurant in New York City called Nobu in partnership with the actor Robert De Niro. His restaurant became known as one of the most expensive in the city and famous for its fusion dishes, such as blackened cod in sweetened miso sauce, sashimi covered in hot oil, toro tartare, and yellowtail sashimi with jalapeño. Matsuhisa would go on to open a dozen other restaurants in major cities around the world. His success paved the way for other celebrity chefs, trained in Japan and abroad, most notably Morimoto Masaharu, who after working at Nobu, opened Morimoto in 1997 in Philadelphia and then in New York. Sushi was not the only post-war American Japanese restaurant trend that would disrupt the fine dining market. Another was the teppanyaki steakhouse. Invented in Japan after World War II for American military personnel who could not stomach regular Japanese fare, the first Benihana steakhouse was established in New York in 1964. They featured joke-telling chefs who prepared meat at customers’ tables in virtuoso displays of whirling knives and flaming foods. As a new type of fine-dining experience for Americans, Benihana contributed to an image of Japanese cuisine as highly performative. Over forty Benihana restaurants opened in larger cities, with cheaper imitations following in smaller ones (Ujita 2008: 183–185). 45

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The pattern that we see in the post-war United States was repeated globally, from Europe to Southeast Asia and China, with the timing depending on the influx of Japanese capital and corporate expatriates. In Asia, Singapore and Hong Kong were the early cases of this pattern. In both cities, modern Japanese restaurant cuisine initially appeared in the 1960s and 1970s to serve Japanese corporate expatriates. By the 1980s, consumption of the Japanese cuisine expanded to a larger market of urbanites seeking this newly recognized taste of culinary modernity (Nakano 2014; Ng 2001). Both cities became major staging points for the expansion of the Japanese food industry into Asia, with restaurants targeting both mass and luxury markets. High-end Japanese restaurants figure prominently in the Michelin Guide recommendations for both cities. In the 1990s, Mainland China, too, emerged as a growing economic giant with increasing Japanese investments and a large Japanese expatriate population. After World War II, the first Japanese restaurant in northern China opened in Beijing in the 1960s but closed during the political turmoil of the Cultural Revolution. The reestablishment of Japanese restaurants after the Cultural Revolution began in 1977 with a restaurant in the Beijing Hotel. In the 1980s there were eight Japanese restaurants in Beijing with the chefs and materials all coming from Japan (Hamamoto and Sonoda 2007: 6). Japanese restaurants also reemerged in nearby Tianjin in the 1990s, as Toyota and other Japanese companies established factories there. They were mainly opened in the high-end hotels, Japanese residential areas (Shuishang Gongyuan area in Nankai district), and in the economic development zone (Tanggu district) where Japanese companies were concentrated. These restaurants targeted Japanese expatriate businessmen and their families. In the 1990s, Shanghai emerged as Japan’s corporate center in China, hosting the largest corporate Japanese expatriate population in the world. As in the post-war United States, Japanese expatriates were the most significant stakeholders in the early development of Shanghai’s Japanese restaurant scenes. The starting point of the Japanese culinary renaissance in Shanghai was the Okura Garden Hotel that opened in 1990 on the premises of the former French Club of Shanghai. The head chefs from Japan trained the first generation of Chinese chefs making Japanese food, who then went on to staff the Japanese restaurants that would appear later in the decade (Iwama 2013; Farrer 2017). The largest scene developed in the Hongqiao area, the center of Japanese business activity in Shanghai. These included many small venues that featured nijikai (after-party) drinking sessions with Chinese hostesses, perhaps not so different from the geisha services decades earlier. By the mid-2000s, local Shanghai elites and non-Japanese expatriates were becoming important customers in Shanghai’s Japanese restaurants. A survey of thirty Japanese restaurants conducted in 2005 found that thirteen had Japanese owners and seventeen had Chinese owners. Half of the restaurants still served a clientele that was more than fifty percent Japanese, whereas nine of the thirty had a customer base that was less than thirty percent Japanese (Farrer 2017). Corporate Japanese chains in the 2000s hastened the popularization and domestication of Japanese tastes in major Chinese cities and began introducing Japanese foodways to middle-income Chinese consumers. Japanese chains active in Shanghai include Watami, Gatten Sushi, Ajisen Ramen, Genroku Sushi, Matsuko Japanese Restaurant, Saizeriya, Yoshinoya, Sukiya, and Matsuya (JETRO 2010; Hamamoto and Sonoda 2007: 1). Japanese corporate and government expatriates have also led the creation of culinary districts in other Asian countries, though in each there are connections with earlier contacts with Japan. In Indonesia, there was a small community of Japanese soldiers who stayed behind after World War II to live in Indonesia, with some fighting in the independence movement and then marrying Indonesian women. The first Japanese restaurant in Jakarta, Kikugawa, was founded by an ex-soldier, Kikuchi Surutake, who opened a restaurant with his Indonesian wife in 1969. Still in operation in 2016, it is a nostalgic representation of old Japan with ornamental bamboo, Japanese calligraphy, ceramics, Japanese dolls, and other small accessories (Rachman 2013). 46

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Japanese expatriates fostered what is now called Little Tokyo in Blok M in South Jakarta, which in the 1980s grew into a shopping district with Japanese restaurants, izakaya, and karaoke clubs. Though many Japanese expatriates have since moved away, Little Tokyo is still known for restaurants serving authentic Japanese food, targeting both Japanese expatriates and upper-class Indonesian society. It has now become one of the more popular Jakartan foodie tour destinations. Since 2010, the local government and Japanese cultural foundations have organized a festival called Ennichisai, attended by more than 200,000 people every year, that takes the form of a classic Japanese matsuri (festival) with Japanese food stalls and omikoshi (temple deity parade) (Ennichisai 2017). Japanese restaurant expansion has been centered on the growing centers of global trade and finance, linking this cuisine to the lifestyles of mobile corporate elites. In nearly all these global cities, Japanese corporate expatriates have served as a transitional market for Japanese cuisine, a bridge from the home market that then expanded to local elites and eventually to ordinary urbanites. In most cases, Japanese companies and individual Japanese restaurant owners acted as early movers and market makers. Some cities in developing countries may still be in this phase, especially in those where Japanese investment is increasing, such as Vietnam. However, in more developed markets, a new set of mobile actors has emerged, as the presence of corporate Japan has declined.

Ethnic succession and the glocalization of Japanese restaurants The emblematic dish of the global post-war Japanese food boom is sushi, and even while its cultic center remained the Tsukiji fish market in Tokyo, its creative center from around the 1960s was arguably Los Angeles. Japanese chefs in Los Angeles created innovations that laid the basis for a later global boom in Japanese cuisine. One Japanese restaurateur invented the California roll that used cooked crab, mayonnaise, and avocado. (Scholars differ on the timing of this invention, with Ishige dating it to 1962 [1985c: 239] and Ujita to 1971 [2008: 171–175].) Another invention was the inside-out roll that placed rice outside the nori to overcome the strangeness of biting into the paper-like dried seaweed. Such innovations started a pattern in which restaurants distinguished themselves through highly localized versions of sushi rolls, such as the Philadelphia roll that used cream cheese, the British Columbia roll made with grilled or barbecued salmon skin, and the Mexicano roll featuring jalapeño peppers (Issenberg 2007: 79–107). Over subsequent decades these iconic styles of Americanized Japanese cuisine, most notably the California roll and the inside-out roll, spread throughout the world, and even back to Japan. This global trend was also facilitated by the image of Japanese food as ‘light’ and ‘healthy’ that was first popularized in the United States. In most of the world, this boom was not led by Japanese but by a range of non-Japanese chefs, consumers, and entrepreneurs. Many of the chefs were Asian, including Koreans, Chinese, Vietnamese and many others. Outside of Asia, their presence played to ethnic stereotyping on the part of non-Asian consumers while also utilizing culinary cultural capital related to panAsian ingredients and cooking styles. The United States was the leader in this process of ‘ethnic succession’ in Japanese cuisine, as groups of Koreans, Taiwanese, and other Asians took over from Japanese, in some cases buying out Japanese-owned restaurants and in other cases opening up their own. Then, after several decades, many of the first generation of non-Japanese Asian ethnic restaurateurs were supplemented by new networks of ethnic entrepreneurs from Vietnam, Mainland China, and other areas. Krishnendu Ray has described this process of ethnic succession in other cuisines in the United States, as migrants fill employment niches in restaurants in which they can pass as authentic representatives, such as Italians opening French restaurants 47

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in the early twentieth century and, more recently, Bangladeshis opening Indian restaurants (Ray 2007: 111–112). We see this as a global process in Japanese cuisine, in which networks of Asian migrants, often transnational in scope, have taken up this cuisine, then cede this niche to other migrants as their sources of cheap co-ethnic labor dry up. This process of ethnic succession in Japanese cuisine was already underway in the United States in the 1980s. With the growing number and variety of Japanese restaurants all across the country, there were not enough Japanese chefs to meet the demand. Visas for chefs to work in the United States could take two to three years to process (Ujita 2008: 185). Moreover, the sharp appreciation of the Japanese yen in the 1980s made it less attractive for Japanese chefs to work in the United States. This created an opening for new restaurateurs and chefs in the Japanese cuisine industry. Partly because they could pass as Japanese and were familiar with some ingredients used in Japanese food, immigrants from Korea, Vietnam, and Taiwan began running teppanyaki steakhouses and sushi restaurants that served food approximating that of restaurants in Japan. These Asian migrants had begun coming to the United States in large numbers after abolishment in 1965 of racial quotas in immigration policy and the resettlement of refugees from Indochina. Growing competition among restaurants in major urban areas led some immigrants to set up Japanese restaurants in smaller cities where it was cheaper to do business. By 2000, Japanese restaurants began a huge expansion outside of major urban centers. In the eastern half of the United States this was driven by surging immigration from China. The immigrants came from coastal Fujian Province, arriving in large numbers from the late 1980s, and quickly grew into a community of over one million people in New York City. Many went into the Chinese restaurant trade, which soon became hypercompetitive. Seeking advantage, some restaurants began serving sushi because consumers considered it healthier than Chinese food, which was increasingly seen as oily and laden with MSG, and thus were willing to pay a premium for something labeled ‘Japanese’. A sushi roll could sell for several times the price of a spring roll. This caught on in copycat fashion, and Chinese restaurants installed sushi bars to attract patrons through the performative aspects of food preparation. As competition further intensified, restaurateurs moved to suburbs, and then to smaller cities and towns, and finally to rural areas far removed from New York City. During the first decade of the 2000s, small cities and towns in the eastern part of the United States that previously had only a few Japanese restaurants run by Koreans and Taiwanese from the earlier immigrant waves of the 1960s and 1970s now had many more new restaurants opened by Fujianese entrepreneurs. They employed low-cost Chinese staff who were hired in New York Chinatown and travelled to outlying regions to work in the restaurants where they lived in housing provided by the restaurant, alternating between long periods of work and short visits back to New York to see family members (Wank and Farrer 2015). These Fujianese-owned restaurants served hybrid Japanese-Chinese and other Asian dishes in a kind of pan-Asian cuisine with sushi as the center. Rolls were the most popular items. Restaurateurs created ever more signature rolls featuring catchy names and multiple ingredients that were said to evoke the locale, such as pastrami in the New York roll. The selection of fish on the menu was narrower than that found in Japan and emphasized fatty ones, such as tuna, bonito, and salmon, that appealed to the palate of American customers. One area of innovation by Fujianese chefs was their liberal use of sauces on the sushi. All of the sushi chefs used five basic sauces – spicy mayonnaise, ponzu, Chinese eel sauce, soy sauce, and Vietnamese hot sauce – on the fish, while some had up to fifty sauces. The rest of the menus were non-sushi Japanese cuisine, Chinese cuisine, other Asian cuisines, and Asian American fusion entrees. While these menus may have appeared to be a hodgepodge, they reflected a calculated business logic of trying to increase the customer pool by appealing to various tastes (Wank and Farrer 2015). 48

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The story of the establishment of the Japanese restaurant sector in Europe follows a pattern similar to that described in the United States. Early Japanese restaurants in European cities opened to provide a taste of home for the Japanese expatriate community. For example, in London, Uno Mantaro opened the Miyako-tei in 1906 serving Japanese expatriates (Itoh 2001). However, without the large Japanese settler communities that existed in the Americas, the number of Japanese eateries in pre-war European cities was small. Only in the 1990s did a wave of interest in Japanese cuisine reach a broader European population, and it was largely an extension of the popular styles of sushi that had already been created in the United States, such as the California roll (Cwiertka 2005; Mladenova 2013). Perhaps the first new Japanese restaurant in post-war Europe was Takara, opened by Ashibe Tetsu near the Pantheon in Paris in 1958 and then moved to its current location on Rue Molière in the early 1960s. The neighborhood grew into a small Japanese culinary district along the Rue Saint-Anne in the Opera district in the second half of the 1980s. Operating under new ownership since 2005, Takara still serves familiar Japanese dishes in a nostalgic izakaya setting, though now mostly to French people. In the 1980s this district was transforming from a red-light district into a Japanese culinary district. The establishment of the Tokyo Bank (today’s Mitsubishi UFJ Bank) in the early 1960s and the Mitsukoshi department store in the early 1970s in front of the Opera House attracted Japanese companies, Japanese expatriates, and well-off Japanese tourists to the area. Japanese restaurants run by Japanese offered kaiseki cuisine for high-end diners, including the Japanese-owned restaurant Higuma. However, as Japanese corporate expatriates began to leave the neighborhood in the second half of the 1990s, many restaurants shifted down-market to satisfy a growing interest in Japanese food among young Parisian locals. Higuma, for example, became a casual dining restaurant famous for ramen. Around this time, in 1988, Sapporo Ramen was founded by the French Korean entrepreneur Serge Lee, who became one of the prime movers in the neighborhood, eventually opening seven Japanese eateries in this thriving, but everchanging, Japanese food scene. In other parts of Paris, many migrants, especially Chinese from Southeast Asia and South China, began to fill a niche for Japanese food aimed at more cost-conscious and less discerning Parisian locals. Notably, Chinese migrants from Chaozhou were largely responsible for creating an enduring strip of Japanese restaurants in the 1980s along the Rue Monsieur le Prince, an area of Saint Michel frequented by tourists, students, and government workers. As this first generation of Chaozhou migrants retired (and their children went into other occupations), they have been replaced by newer Chinese, mostly from Wenzhou, and Southeast Asian immigrant restaurateurs. Throughout Paris and into smaller cities in France, Chinese migrants not only established hundreds of restaurants but also were part of a multi-ethnic culinary network of small businesses that supplied pre-made sushi rolls, yakitori on skewers, and even ready-made menus. As one Japanese restaurant owner said to us in a February 2017 interview, ‘We should thank the Chinese for spreading Japanese cuisine to Europe’. In Germany, the first Japanese restaurant, Kogetsu, opened in 1962 in Hamburg, already a center of Japanese commerce with thirty-five Japanese firms employing four hundred and four Japanese expatriates. The small five-table restaurant featured kimono-clad Japanese waitresses, shrimp tempura, and a soy sauce–laden sukiyaki prepared at the table. All guests were required to use chopsticks, clearly a challenge at the time for Germans (Verg 1962). In the pattern seen elsewhere, early Japanese eateries, also including Nippon-Kan in Düsseldorf (1964) and Matsumi in Hamburg (1981), were opened by Japanese restaurateurs for Japanese expatriates, with German customers becoming the mainstay much later (Mladenova 2013: 282). Although Hamburg had been the earliest center for German-Japanese trade, it was superseded by Düsseldorf, which still hosts one of the largest Japanese expatriate communities in Europe with about eight thousand 49

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five hundred long-term residents and four hundred Japanese firms. Düsseldorf in 2018 remains home to the largest concentration of Japanese-owned restaurants in Western Europe, attracting Japanese expatriates from around the region and Germans wanting an ‘authentic taste’ in restaurants ranging from Nobu-style fusion fine dining in the Michelin-starred Nagaya to tempura prepared by the chatty master chef in Maruyasu. However, even in Düsseldorf, we can see a transition to ownership by other migrant groups. After the iconic Nippon-Kan closed after forty-six years of business in 2010, the site was taken over by a Chinese-owned all-you-can-eat chain called Okiini, where the main attraction to its mostly young German clientele was ordering pre-cooked Japanese and Chinese dishes from an iPad. The broader popularization of Japanese cuisine in Germany beyond such communities depended largely on two factors. One was the globalization of the American sushi boom and the image of Japanese food, particularly sushi, as both a symbol of urban cool and health (Keßler 2012; Mladenova 2013). The other was immigration from Asia. Though packed with calorie-rich American-style ingredients, such as mayonnaise and cream cheese, sushi managed to retain its image as a ‘healthy’ food in Germany, unlike Chinese food, which became associated with high fat content and MSG. At the same time, newer and cheaper forms of sushi restaurants were appearing in Germany and elsewhere in Europe. Many were ‘running sushi’ (kaiten sushi, or conveyer belt sushi), while others were marketed more broadly as ‘Asian restaurants’, but with sushi as the most prominent menu item. Both types of restaurants were usually owned and manned by non-Japanese immigrant entrepreneurs. Here we see the same trend towards ethnic succession that occurred in the United States. East Asian immigrants who could ‘pass’ as Japanese typically led the way in popularizing and localizing Japanese cuisine and making it more affordable. In doing so, they usually adopted recipes from the Americanized global sushi culture rather than adhering strictly to Japanese recipes. In Hamburg and some other German cities, the earliest popularizers of Japanese cuisine included ethnic Koreans, some who moved to West Germany through guest worker programs in the 1970s, often as nurses or coal miners. Among the earliest in Hamburg was Bok, a pan-Asian restaurant known for sushi, though it served a variety of Asian dishes. The founder was a Korean named Kae-Soon Lee, who came to Germany in 1971 on a guest worker program for nurses to work in the Hospital St. George. While still working as a nurse, she opened a restaurant near the train station. She then brought her three daughters and son to Germany and opened the first Bok Imbiss, a snack shop in Hamburg’s bohemian Schanze neighborhood that specialized in sushi. By the time ‘Mama Bok’ died in 2010 at the age of seventy-four, there were seven Bok shops in Hamburg (Siebecke 2012: 29–30). Although the staff was nearly all Asian, by 2016 its members mostly came from Vietnam, Nepal, or West Asia rather than Korea and China. As East Asian countries became richer, fewer migrants from Korea, Japan, and even China were willing to work in Japanese restaurant kitchens in Germany. Therefore, entry-level positions were increasingly filled by more recent migrants from further afield, as in the case of Bok. Working in Japanese restaurants, often Korean owned, gave these newer migrants the cultural, social, and economic capital to eventually open their own Japanese restaurants. One example was the new and growing chain Sushi für Hamburg, which first opened in Hamburg more than a decade ago. It has developed into both an eat-in and delivery service venue focused entirely on sushi rolls. It was jointly owned and staffed by a group of Afghani immigrants from Kabul who arrived in Germany in the 1980s and 1990s. According to a manager interviewed in August 2016, the founder of the group started the restaurant with a Nepali sushi chef, who became a partner. This also reflects the fact that Nepalese were among the first migrants to get into the sushi business in Hamburg by working for Korean owners. This example shows how culinary expertise can be transferred – from Korean to Nepali to Afghani chefs – and how social capital 50

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may function even across ethnic lines to enable the process of ethnic succession within the Japanese restaurant sector. Cheap and plentiful labor, often relying on family members, was the initial advantage for ethnic-based expansion into a restaurant niche, as seen in the case of Sushi für Hamburg. While Nepalese, Chinese, Afghanis, and others have been active within the Japanese restaurant space in Western Germany, in the former East Germany many of the restaurants were owned by Vietnamese who came to the former German Democratic Republic as guest workers. Over time, however, a new cohort of second-generation Asian European restaurateurs is emerging. One of the leading Japanese restaurant entrepreneurs in Berlin is Duc Ngo, whose family came to West Berlin from Vietnam in 1979 as refugees when he was only six years old. Not aiming at the low end of the market, Ngo’s chic and pricey restaurants, including the graffiti-covered 893 Ryotei, attract fashion-conscious young Berliners. For entry-level Japanese cuisine, German-owned chain restaurants have become important players. The German-owned chain Sushi Circle and Sushi Factory both have more than a dozen shops. Despite their German ownership, Sushi Factory has still hired Asian staff, including young Japanese on working-holiday visas, to ensure the ‘authenticity’ of their offerings (or at least the appearance of authenticity through ethnic marketing). It would be a mistake to see this process of culinary cultural transfer in European Japanese restaurants as a one-way process of localization or indigenization. Restaurant owners we interviewed in Copenhagen, Berlin, and Hamburg, some of whom started out with little to no knowledge of Japanese cuisine, often spoke of making extensive study visits to Japan to learn about Japanese culinary practices. They returned with ideas for improving their offerings along the lines of what they had seen there. Japan, however, was not the only center of learning. Other Japanese restaurateurs spoke of visiting London, New York, or Paris for inspiration. As one Hamburg-based Japanese chef explained, Paris was inspiring less for the innovations happening in traditional Japanese restaurants than for the fusion dishes that Japanese chefs were producing in French fine-dining restaurants. Indeed, Japanese-French fusion cuisine was inspiring restaurateurs even in Tokyo, including some of the most celebrated restaurateurs such as Yoshihiro Narisawa (no. 18 on the World’s 50 Best Restaurants list in 2018). China experienced its own form of ethnic succession in the restaurant scene, but one led almost entirely by the Chinese themselves. The decade from 2005 saw a dramatic proliferation of Japanese restaurants throughout Chinese cities (Farrer 2017). During the 2000s, individual Chinese entrepreneurs, and later Chinese-owned restaurant chains, became the dominant players in the Japanese restaurant market in Chinese cities. There were two pathways by which Chinese chefs learned Japanese cuisine. One was by working in a restaurant managed by Japanese in a major Chinese city. The other was by working in Japan. For many of the hundreds of thousands of Chinese students studying in Japan in the 1980s and 1990s, the most popular type of parttime work was in the food and beverage sector (Liu-Farrer 2011: 67). After graduating from school in Japan and then working in Japanese companies, they returned to cities in China to open up small restaurants, often izakaya. In Shanghai and Tianjin, many of these returnee chefs and restaurateurs were not natives of major cities, but rather came from smaller towns in other provinces, a situation that underscores the relationship of transnational to intra-national labor mobility in the restaurant trade. Many categories of Japanese food can be seen in the Japanese restaurants of Beijing, Shanghai, and Tianjin, which generally are more faithful to the culinary categories found in Japan than are restaurants in the United States or Europe. These include sashimi, yakimono (grilled items, such as yakitori, yakuzakana, and yakiniku), agemono (fried items such as tempura), nabemono (hotpot items such as gyunabe, shabushabu, and sukiyaki), nimono (braised and boiled items such as nizakana and niyasai), and tsukemono (or pickles). Regardless of whether the chefs are Japanese or Chinese, 51

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the quality of the Japanese food they provide is defined largely in terms of its ‘authentic’ Japanese flavors. This means that, in terms of presentation and taste, they intend to serve food as close as possible to the food in Japan. Such factors as proximity to Japan, the large number of Chinese who have worked in Japanese restaurants in Japan, and the large number of Chinese urbanites travelling frequently to Japan have connected the Chinese market more closely to Japan than in other world regions, despite the localization of ownership and labor.

Accelerated culinary mobilities: chefs, ideas, products, and spaces The story of the global Japanese food boom might imply a one-way flow from Japan outward. However, our historiographic and ethnographic study suggests that the trend is better characterized as one of increased mobility – a circulation of people, ideas, products, and even spaces – rather than a unidirectional influence. Especially at the high end of the market, we can see a transnational circulation of culinary personnel on a global scale, centered in such major global food cities as New York City and Paris, and to some extent, through Japan itself. This mobility is evident even in the market of São Paulo where urbanites have dined for decades in tradition-bound family-owned restaurants and where there are many local Japanese culinary traditions, such as the popular temakaria, fast food shops that sell only temaki sushi (JETRO 2012; Rocha and Shimoda 2014). One example of the transnational mobility of Japanese chefs is Brazil’s Jun Sakamoto. Fifty-three years old, Jun started as an assistant to sushiman Nakamura in the New York restaurant Shinbashi. After working his way up in the prestigious Japanese establishment, Jun returned to São Paulo and gathered the financial means to set up the restaurant that takes his name. A former student of architecture, Jun chose the location, oversaw the remodeling, designed the interior and menu, and hired and trained staff. At Jun Sakamoto’s, the menu also features a weekly jazz selection, and the menu de confiance is prepared nightly by chef Jun at the counter. He was recently appointed by the Japanese government as the curator for the culinary section of ‘The Japanese House’ project in São Paulo. In an interview with our group in December 2016, he expressed the desire for an innovative Japanese cuisine that would put together ‘original Japanese and original Brazilian elements; not a blend of fakes, modified stuff ’. He said, ‘I dream of a fusion of originals, and that would be like watching a new culture being crafted before our eyes’. As the case of Jun Sakamoto illustrates, the global circulation of Japanese culinary talent seems for the moment to be centered in New York, a city of ‘culinary contact zones’ in which nearly all kitchens welcome migrants from around the world (Farrer 2015). Not all the top Japanese chefs circulating are now ethnic Japanese or even ethnic Asian. Famous examples are Ivan Orkin, a Jewish man who opened Ivan Ramen in 2006, and Joshua Smookler, a Korean American adopted by a Jewish family who opened Mu Ramen in 2013. Another example is Buddhakan opened by Stephen Starr in 1998 in Philadelphia with the non-Asian head chef Michael Schulson who trained for a time in Japan. Buddhakan went on to open branches in New York and Washington, DC, while Schulson took off on his own to open an izakaya in Atlantic City and become a celebrity chef in his own right. Another example is Korean American David Chang’s Momofuku Noodle Shop that opened in 2004 with its signature ramen and pork buns. It now has outlets in several other cities in the United States, as well as in Toronto and Sydney. While ethnic Asians still dominate among owner-operators of mid-range Japanese restaurants in most markets, other ethnicities are increasingly common among the staff as waiters and cooks. The circulation of culinary ideas is not restricted to the top end of the market, but includes convenience foods. Fast food temakerias have spread all over Brazil, including shops opened at 52

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gas stations. Makis, the biggest temakeria chain in Brazil, currently counts over one hundred and forty shops and has now expanded into the United States market. Another global fast food trend is the ramen shop, the Japanese adaptation of Chinese pulled noodles that are served in a fish or pork broth with toppings (Kushner 2012; Solt 2014). The ramen boom in New York is largely associated with creative versions by celebrity chefs such as David Chang, but the Japanese chain Ippudo also is immensely popular. By 2018, a search for ‘ramen’ in Yelp for the New York area lists over a thousand locations. Ramen also had replaced sushi as the new representative Japanese dish in the Opera neighborhood in Paris. Similarly, Japan food connoisseurs in the Japantown on Immermannstraße in Düsseldorf lined up daily at the local chain Takumi Ramen, founded by a migrant Japanese entrepreneur Haruhiko Saeki, now with outlets in several other German cities and Barcelona. Japanese food service corporations have largely played catch-up to the global Japanese food boom, but as Japan’s domestic market has steadily aged and begun shrinking, they have begun more aggressively expanding abroad. With over five thousand locations in nine countries in 2018, Zensho Holdings aimed to be the ‘world’s No. 1 company in the food industry’, spreading its Sukiya brand of gyudon restaurants in Asia and Latin America (zensho.co.jp). Similarly, by 2018 Yoshinoya Holdings had opened six hundred shops abroad, expanding from its early base in the United States to focus on Asian countries. It aimed to open one thousand and five hundred restaurants worldwide (yoshinoya-holdings.com). Other global trends involve mobility of restaurant spaces, or design concepts, sometimes by small-scale migrant entrepreneurs. We see this in the growth of Japanese-style pubs called izakaya. One example is in the city of Davis, California, a college town with 60,000 residents. There, one of the newest Japanese restaurants is Yakitori Yuchan, which serves classic yakitori and izakaya dishes along with standards like ramen. The owner trained in a small izakaya in Koganei, a suburb of Tokyo, and moved to California from Japan over twenty years ago. He seeks to re-create in Davis the izakaya where he worked in Koganei. Towards this, the website for his restaurant explains in detail about what an izakaya is and how yakitori is prepared, and he even imports his charcoal from Japan. Having visited both the Koganei and Davis establishments, we found them remarkably similar. The emerging global popularity of izakaya represents a growing curiosity about Japanese drinking culture (including sake and whiskey) and expresses a new view of Japanese restaurants as relaxing and sociable, in contrast to the older image of sophistication and cool. The marketing of these restaurants reflects intersections with other global culinary trends. Therefore, in the United States and Europe, many izakaya market themselves as ‘Japanese tapas restaurants’, borrowing the term for a small-plate bar food from Spanish restaurants. Others call themselves ‘Japanese gastro-pubs’, a concept borrowed from the United Kingdom. Trying to impart to German customers the spirit of the Japanese izakaya, Haruhiko Saeki (who also founded Takumi Ramen) uses the menu at his busy izakaya in Düsseldorf, Kushitei, to encourage diners to drink, share plates, ‘sometimes laugh, and sometimes cry’. In general, East Asian consumers grasp the izakaya concept more readily than Europeans, mainly through their exposure to Japanese food media. Festively decorated izakaya, with screens showing popular Japanese restaurant dramas like ‘Late Night Diner’ and ‘The Solitary Gourmet’, have spread through urban China. In Tianjin, an entire section of Shanxi Road has emerged that is devoted to late-night izakaya, which are especially popular with young Tianjin women. In São Paulo, izakayas are also a major trend. According to the VEJA São Paulo bar rankings, at least ten new izakaya shops are considered top destinations, with Yorimichi being one of them. ‘I make simple food as close to what I learned out there’, explains chef and partner Ken Mizumoto, who has lived for eleven years in Japan and splits his time between the bar and the award-winning 53

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Shin-Zushi restaurant. In São Paulo, it is common for established restaurant owners to open their signature izakayas. Although not yet recognized to the extent of Japanese loan words like sushi or ramen, izakaya is becoming a new global culinary concept. Food media – with some programs originating in Japan – now popularize these restaurant concepts in ways that show not only food items but styles of social interaction associated with the cuisine.

Culinary mobilities and culinary politics This review of the globalization of Japanese cuisine has been a story of multiple mobilities focusing primarily on mobile culinary producers. For the sake of simplicity, we have narrated this in terms of four patterns: Japanese colonialism, Japanese settler migration, Japanese corporate expansion, and ethnic succession mainly by other Asian groups. However, all of these patterns overlap, and none (except the colonial phase) have completely ended. We also emphasize that non-Japanese, both locals and migrants, have always been involved in the globalization of Japanese foodways. Moreover, our concept of culinary mobilities also includes movements of products, ideas, and spaces, usually connected to human mobility. Not everyone is happy with the processes of cultural appropriation involved in culinary mobilities. Some people see this as part of the de-skilling and hollowing out of Japanese culinary traditions. From the point of view of the state, cuisine can be regarded as part of ‘nation branding’ or cultural ‘heritage’. As Japanese cuisine has gone global, some Japanese government and industry groups have tried to ‘re-nationalize’ it through efforts ranging from a certification program by the Organization to Promote Japanese Restaurants Abroad, to the submission of washoku to the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) for certification as an intangible cultural heritage. Critics describe these as futile attempts to halt the processes of culinary glocalization and reclaim Japanese cuisine as the cultural property of the Japanese (Mladenova 2013; Rath 2016; Sakamoto and Allen 2011). Our story supports the critics of simple culinary nationalism. Japanese restaurant cuisine has long belonged to the world, and the best way to promote it would be to facilitate this mobility, rather than tie it more tightly to Japan. Some types of Japanese culinary diplomacy seem to recognize this reality already by including programs that enable chefs to study in Japan or that offer chefs training in Japanese culinary techniques (MAFF 2014). Government- and industry-sponsored efforts such as the Japan Expo in Paris, the Ennichisai Festival in Jakarta, and the Japan House project in São Paulo, London, and Los Angeles also create a lively social context in which local residents learn about Japanese cuisine, including presentations by famous practitioners of fusion cuisine such as Yoshihiro Narisawa. All of these promote the type of culinary mobility that makes for good eating in a globalizing era.

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Japanese culinary mobilities Wank, D. L. and Farrer, J. (2015) ‘Chinese Immigrants and Japanese Cuisine in the United States: A Case of Culinary Glocalization’, in J. Farrer (ed.) Globalization and Asian Cuisines: Transnational Networks and Contact Zones, New York: Palgrave Macmillan pp. 79–100. Washington Post (1934) ‘Kitchen Door of Japan Opens Wide, Discloses Culinary Artists at Work’, Washington Post, June 14, 1934. Yamaguchi, T. (1902) Shinkoku Yūreki Annai [Guide of Tour in Qing China]. Japan: National Diet Library. Zanoni, C. (2013) O mercado de gastronomia de São Paulo: Maximização de valor na gastronomia,o caso de restaurantes de alto padrão em São Paulo [São Paulo’s Gastronomic Market: Maximizing Value in Gastronomy, the Case of High Standard Restaurants in São Paulo], Master thesis, FGV EASP, São Paulo, Brazil.

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5 FOOD AND IDENTITY CONSTRUCTION The impact of colonization in Indonesian society Christina Nope-Williams

This study examines how the legacy of colonization has influenced the construction of identity and gender through the medium of food in Indonesia. Food can be an indicator of a transformation of culinary culture as well as an indicator of social change. To discuss these issues, this study engages with textual and ethnographic analyses, as well as approaching it within a historical context. This chapter will be organized into three sections: food and hybridity issues, food and hierarchy/social class, and food and gender-related issues. Indonesia today consists of numerous formerly self-governed regions, princedoms, and kingdoms that were declared under The Netherlands East Indies administration and the VOC (Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie, the United East Indies Company) before it. During that time, the native rulers were installed with the approval of the colonial authority. The native rulers governed their territories as monarchs but remained subservient to the colonial authority. Indonesia was under Dutch colonial rule for 350 years. Dutch merchant expeditions first set foot on the archipelago in 1596 in Banten, West Java (Ricklefs 1982:24). Indonesia obtained independence from The Netherlands in 1945. However, the length of Dutch occupation varied from region to region. Bali and Aceh fell under Dutch rule only in the early part of the 20th century, while Java had been the subject of Dutch control hundreds of years before (Vickers 2007:10–16). In many ways, the Dutch tightened their grip on the traditional sovereign authorities in order to reinforce their superiority. Often during disputes among the native rulers themselves, one party often invited Dutch interference, leading to agreements or treaties that usually would mean even more concessions from the native rulers (Onghokham 2003). This can be attributed to the degree of Westernization among the various Indonesian regions, to the length of occupation, and to the level of hegemony of the colonialists. The encounter with Western culture is referred to by some as a process of modernization (see Kroef 1952; Fukuyama 2009). Colonial society was stratified into several groups that followed ethnic or race-related lines, with these being the Dutch, other European settlers, other Asian settlers, and then the indigenous natives at the bottom. The natives were also stratified into a further hierarchy. For the Javanese, who were considered the most prominent ethnic group in Indonesia, at the apex was the kings followed by their immediate families, their extended families, and then nobles or the priyayi. The priyayi were those who worked for either the colonial government or the native rulers. Under 58

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them were merchants and artisans, and further below were peasants and other economically disadvantaged groups (Laksono 1985; Kartodirdjo, Sudewo, and Hatmosuprobo 1987:57–79). The highly stratified society meant that strict rules were applied to the various groups throughout the colonial period. There were not only rules on who had access to education and what occupation one could have, but they also strictly applied to individual appearance and personal preferences. These restrictions manifested themselves in various forms, ranging from naming one’s offspring and the dress code to be followed. On the dress code, only individuals of certain birth right were allowed to wear Western clothing and shoes, and commoners or non– noble-born individuals were not allowed to wear a particular style of traditional clothing (Dijk 1997). Significantly, these lines of demarcation existed in food matters as well (Protschky 2008b).

Food and hybridity issues According to Penny Van Esterik, food culture in Southeast Asia could be taken as a reference indicating interaction among cultures and societies leading to cultural acculturation. She maintains that “cuisines often carry with them the traces of their colonized pasts” due to the shared experience of formerly colonized regions in most of Southeast Asia. Interaction between cultures during the colonial era resulted in the adoption of particular eating practices and recipes in the region. Van Esterik points out that “it is useful to identify specific taste transfers and new ingredients because they provide insights into how food cultures in the region change through time” (Van Esterik 2008:12). Unquestionably, the globalization of food in the region, including the Indonesian culinary culture, has been evolving for centuries. The process of globalization of food in Indonesian culinary culture goes back to the indigenous people’s first encounters with foreign merchants, including the Chinese, Arabs, and Indians. Contacts among different communities lay the ground for food acculturation. For example, the renowned Indonesian sate (satay), which originates from the kebab, was introduced by Arab Muslim merchants. Alice Yen Ho claims that the term “satay” is from “the Chinese phonetic transcription of ‘three pieces’ – sa the– in reference to the three strips of meat on each stick” (1995:14). Thus, the enrichment of foods and culinary cultures among societies in Southeast Asia, including Indonesia, was derived from cultural exchange and communication. Ho argues that much of Southeast Asian cuisine is born out of festive meals cooked communally. Rice, an important staple throughout Southeast Asia, has inspired the growth of myths and legends, beliefs, customs, rituals, and proverbs around the region for centuries. Eating with the right hand and from the banana leaf (or any other large leaf or palm sheath) is a common practice shared by many people in Southeast Asia. This practice probably dates back to early Hindu times. Southeast Asians also eschew using knives for eating because they are considered weapons and a sign of aggression (Ho 1995:8, 39, 68, 70). The spice trade influenced Indonesian food culture to some extent. There is compelling evidence to suggest that encounters between Indonesians and Chinese merchants were noted as early as around 200 BC, during the Han Dynasty (circa 206 BC to 220 AD). The Chinese introduced tea, noodles, cabbage, mustard greens, yard-long beans, mung bean sprouts, soybeans, soy sauce, and the use of the wok. Joan Peterson and David Peterson mention that the Indians, who first came in the first century AD, introduced eggplant, onions, mangoes, ginger, coriander, cumin, cardamom, and fennel. The Muslims, who first arrived in approximately 700 AD, introduced goat and lamb dishes into Indonesian’s culinary culture. The Indonesians’ first encounter with Europeans was the arrival of the Portuguese in the early 16th century. They introduced cassava and sweet potatoes to Indonesia. Despite only a brief appearance in the spice trade in the Indonesian 59

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archipelago between 1521 and 1529, the Spanish introduced the local people to chilli peppers, peanuts, tomatoes, and corn (Peterson and Peterson 1997:1–8). With such food exchanges, some of these introduced foods (i.e. chilli peppers and peanuts) later became the centrepiece of Indonesian culinary culture (Foster and Cordell 1992:xiv; Nunn and Qian 2010:183). The long-standing availability of these foods and the existence of the associated food culture up until the present day in Indonesia could be viewed as the result of centuries of culinary assimilation and acculturation between the Indonesians and foreigners. For example, milk was introduced by the Dutch, originally for the colonialists’ consumption; later, it was introduced to high-class natives, and eventually made available to the wider communities. Milk is another example of a globalized food that became part of the Indonesian culinary culture. Previously, dairy produce was not part of the Indonesian diet (Den Hartog 2002). Dairy products such as cheese and butter were imported into Indonesia by ship from The Netherlands during the colonial era (Den Hartog 2002:37). The observation that Indonesians did not consume dairy products was made by Sir Thomas Stamford Raffles (1781–1826) during the time he was governor general of Indonesia (1811–1816). He noted that Indonesians lived principally on vegetables and rice, supplemented with fish, flesh, fowl, buffalo, the ox, deer, goat, poultry, and horses (Raffles 1965 [1817]:96). Cookbooks published during the colonial era in Indonesia are indicative of the wealth and prosperity of a society at the time. According to Appadurai (1988), the cookbook can be utilized as an important cultural artefact in looking at the dynamics of a society at a given time. The distinguished culinary culture of the upper class during the colonial period was evident in the recipe books published during that era, for example, Kitab Masak-Masakan India, Jang Terseboet Bagimana Orang Sadiakan Segala Roepa Makanan, Maniesan Atjaran dan Sambalan (Indische Kookboek, Bevattende De Wijze Waarop Allerlei Soorten Van Spijzen, and Confituren End Ingelegde Zuren Worden Toebereid) (Ukena 1843). This book was published in 1843 (unknown author), and most of the recipes are still followed today. It is especially useful for Javanese culinary delights such as sambal goreng pete (chilli paste with bitter bean), rarawon/rawon (chicken stew in dark broth), sarondeng/serundeng (dish made of shredded coconut), frekedel/perkedel (potato fritter), stoof (stew), and fried duck. Among other recipes listed in this cookbook are: • • • • •

Sop Klientjie (sup kelinci, rabbit soup) Sop Burung Dara (pigeon soup) Lalawar Babie (ingredients include pork, coconut milk, spring onion, chilli, salt, shrimp paste, lime, and shredded mango stone) Sesate Karbo (buffalo satay) Bebek Iesie dengan Oebie (duck with cassava, butter, eggs, and biscuit filling)

The inclusion of pork in recipes is another social and cultural indicator, inferring a barrier between the colonizers – the Dutch, who were typically Christian and consumed pork – and the colonized Muslims, for the majority of whom, pork was haram (forbidden). Another recipe book with a rather long title is Boekoe Masakan Matjem Baroe. Menoendjoekken Bagimana Misti Bikin Segala Roepa Makanan, Koewe, Manisan, Atjar-Atjaran Dan Sambelan Iang Sedep Srenta Enak Rasanja Tjara: Blanda Tjina Djawa dan Laen-Laen Sebaginja Menoeroet Recept Iang Soeda Terkoempoel Sama Sekali, compiled by Mrs. Marie Liuosa (Liuosa 1909), and which was published in Batavia (now Jakarta) and was targeted at the (Indo) Europeans. The term “indo” means mixed race, usually referring to Eurasian. The author included a total of 284 recipes, naming some of the cuisine using old-style Malay terms mixed with Dutch terms. Although the book claimed to be a compilation of Dutch, Chinese, and Javanese cuisines, the composition of 60

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the cuisines presented leaned more towards Dutch (European) culinary menus. This cookbook consisted of twenty-one recipes of soep (soup); seven recipes of pastei (pie); three recipes of kotelet (cutlets);twenty-one recipes of ferkedel; fifteen recipes of stoof (stew); fifteen assorted chicken recipes; three recipes of rice; eight sambal (chilli paste) recipes; twelve pickles recipes, six manisan (dessert) recipes; sixty-five European cake recipes; four iced dessert recipes; and assorted Chinese, Dutch, and European style recipes. Some of the recipes were: • • • • • •

Soep Julienne (soup consisting of chopped carrots, onion, celery, beans, broad beans, and cabbages) Heete Bliksem (stew made of pork, potatoes, bananas, and butter) Zwartzuur Laen Rupa (butter-fried duck) Sambel Pete (chilli paste with bitter bean) Masakan Kodok Tjina (Chinese frog dish) Masakan Tjina dari Boeroeng Dara (Chinese dish made of pigeons)

Another cookbook, Kokkie Jang Pande: Boekoe masakan tiga bangsa. Olanda, Tionghoa dan Djawa, devoid of names of editors or compilers, was published in 1925 (Anonymous). The author wrote in the foreword that the cookbook was essentially for the “njoenja roema” (ladies of the houses), for either daily cooking and/or parties. The author also wrote how the recipes were selected from among the most prominent and favourite available. It claimed to be a compilation of Dutch, Chinese, and Javanese cuisine. However, there is a slight difference in the composition of the recipes compared to those in the cookbook mentioned earlier (i.e., Boekoe Masakan Matjem Baroe. Menoendjoekken Bagimana Misti Bikin Segala Roepa Makanan, Koewe, Manisan, Atjar-Atjaran Dan Sambelan Iang Sedep Srenta Enak Rasnanja Tjara: Blanda Tjina Djawa dan Laen-Laen Sebaginja Menoeroet Recept Iang Soeda Terkoempoel Sama Sekali). This later book included 153 recipes. Using the names of the ingredients in the respective recipes as an indication, there were European menus, followed by Chinese and Javanese cuisines. Included among the Chinese dishes were: • • • •

Poe Yong Hay (the basic ingredients were eggs, ham and pork (sic), and prawns and crabs) Daging Goreng (beef fried in butter) Panggang Kodok (roast frog) Kiemloh (chicken clear soup with mung bean noodles and prawns)

Kokkie Jang Pande: Boekoe masakan tiga bangsa. Olanda, Tionghoa dan Djawa) dedicated a third of the book to “masakan tjara Hindia” (Hindian dishes). The “Hindian” meals were represented through dishes such as Sambel Oedang Pake Peteh (chilli paste with bitter bean/stink bean), Karie Laksa (laksa curry), Ajam Goreng Djawa (Javanese fried chicken), Masakan Kambing (goat dish), Nasi Koening (yellow rice), and Sate Ajam (chicken satay). I assume the term “Hindian” used in the cookbook was to refer the Dutch East Indies or “Hindia Belanda” in Indonesian. The “Olanda”(Dutch) cuisine was represented through Stoof Frekkadel (frekkadel stew; its main ingredient being boiled chicken), Soep Kaki Babi (pork leg soup), Rollade daging sama selei (beef/pork roulade with red wine and other flavours), Biefstuk Goreng (fried beef), and Rundergelhakt (fried minced pork mixed with minced beef, bread, butter, and milk). There are some obvious differences between the recipes in the cookbooks published during the colonial era and today’s cookbooks, as well as everyday cooking recipes. The recipes of these old cookbooks are not illustrated with any images; no cooking steps or precise measurements of the ingredients are given. There was no indication of the use of “non-natural”/ instant food enhancers such as baking powder and chicken powder. The authorship of the 61

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recipes was not emphasized, which shows there was no culture of “celebrity chefs” at that time. Cooking therefore was meant mainly for domestic consumption and feeding family members. Further examination of the recipes presented in the colonial cookbooks reveals that they were meant for the upper echelon of society: the Dutch, the prosperous Chinese, and the native elites. Justus M. van der Kroef argues that efforts to assume Western behaviour and lifestyles by native elites and the intelligentsia in order to fit into Western society could be related to colonization by the Europeans (Kroeft 1952:423–424). There are some examples of this trend. According to Clifford Geertz, “silver wedding anniversaries” or “engagement parties” celebrated by the priyayi actually reflected Dutch colonial influence (Geertz 1976:85). Ann Kumar noted that the Javanese kings were also enthusiastic about adopting Dutch and Western food practices. For example, Javanese rulers held: two kinds of birthday[s], the “big” or annual birthday and the “little” birthday which occurred once every thirty-five days on the occurrence of the particular combination of the five-day Javanese calendar week day and the seven-day-week day on which he was born. (Kumar 1980:12) According to Brakel-Papenhuyzen, Javanese kings held celebrations “more than once a year in accordance with various time cycles” (1998:281). At the end of the 19th century, “the guests [were] served drinks and Dutch-style sandwiches” at Javanese royal birthday parties (1998:289). Another example could be the appearance of American ice cream in Jakarta, Indonesia. Its advertisement appeared on “De Huisvrouw” no. 1/page 8, April 1948. This example echoes Wilk’s (2006:69–70) analysis about the prestige of food culture originating from Europe or North America, especially for nations with a colonization background. Slametan, a particular food ritual, is usually held to sanctify or commemorate events such as “change of residence, change of name, embarking on a journey, bad dreams, prevention or encouragement of rain, anniversaries of clubs and fraternal organizations, sorcery, [and] curing” (C. Geertz 1976:84). During the colonial era, the adjustment of slametan to Dutch culture was manifest in celebrations such as holding a slametan for celebrating a silver wedding anniversary among the Indonesian elites. These celebrations were regarded as part of the Western culture (C. Geertz 1976:84–85). The foods eaten by individuals may reflect the power and privilege attached to said individuals due to particular connotations associated with those foods. In this context, Brillat-Savarin’s idea of “you are what you eat” is not an empty aphorism (Mello 2008:51). According to Protschky, in colonial Indonesia, eating “European” or “Dutch” styles, such as “biefstuk, vegetables and potatoes”, was seen as a symbol of class and identity, and one could thus assume their privileged place as of being “European” (Protschky 2008b:349). After Indonesia gained independence in 1945, in a move to assert equality between Europeans and Indonesians and to cater for the growing appetite for foreign food, publications including the Star Weekly, an urban-oriented newspaper, published recipes for what were called “European cuisines”. This could have been viewed not only as the newly independent nation emulating its colonizers but also as a symbolic break with colonization. During the colonial period, food was used as a boundary marker distinguishing the colonizers from the colonized and the aristocrats from the commoners. In essence, this taste-adopting process was a form of expression of longing for equality. It was like saying: “Look, now I can eat what you eat!” (Julie Sutarjana 1957, 1967; Locher-Scholten 2000). 62

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Food and hierarchy/social class As discussed earlier, throughout the colonial era, there were strict rules in relation to the class structure and the segregation of the classes. Segregation inevitably occurred in food matters as well. Pauline Dublin Milone points to the eating culture of the Europeans and Eurasians living in the Dutch East Indies. This group ate from plates and used cutlery and consumed “bread, pastries, potatoes, and alcoholic beverages” (Milone 1967:414). The use of European eating utensils was once symbolic of high class and social refinement. A museum in Jakarta exhibits “not only cooking and agricultural implements, but . . . of material markers of wealth and power such as prized ritual textiles, knives, and traditional eating utensils specially designed for nobles” (Adams 1995:150). In the colonial Indonesian context, food to some degree functioned as a barrier between the rulers and the ruled (colonial and native). Thus, the attitude that developed through the medium of food was dichotomous: “our food versus their food”. Protschky also observes the existence of taboo foods in colonial times. For example, a Javanese woman working as a servant in a Dutch family recalled how the Dutch children secretly avoided their parents’ admonishments against tempe (or “tempeh”, soy bean cake; typical Indonesian food) by eating it secretly in the kitchen. Dutch children were sometimes forbidden from going to outdoor stalls (warung) or wet markets for snacks because the food was thought to be unsafe and to be unsuitable for Europeans. In another example, a former Dutch naval officer, who loved street food but could not be seen buying it from the street vendors, sampled the delights of stall-holders at his sister-in-law’s home, but must be “careful to eat in the backyard, away from prying eyes” (Protschky 2008b:350). The use of food as a means to assume and suspend identity during colonial Indonesia is also addressed in Daum’s (1999) novel titled Ups and Downs of Life in the Indies, first published in 1892. After reading Protschky’s discussion on Daum’s Ups and Downs of Life in the Indies, I examined this novel to find more supporting information for my own study. The novel focuses on life in the plantations. The main characters are Willem Geber, the plantation owner, and his wife, Rose Uhlstra. Rose is the daughter of an Indisch-Eurasian plantation owner. At the time, the Eurasians in the colony were granted European status if their fathers registered their births. Although these Eurasians were regarded as high-class citizens in the colony, they were regarded as “black creature[s]” in The Netherlands, no matter how wealthy and good-looking they were (Beekman 1999). The uncertainty and discrimination surrounding their status provides an explanation for the attitudes and behaviour patterns adopted by the Eurasians in the colony to enhance their claim to being “European”. In colonial Indonesia, Eurasians born and living in the colony were granted the status of legally European if their fathers registered their births. Living as they did in limbo, it seems reasonable that the Eurasians attempted to assume a status which according to them was superior (European) and to detach themselves from the inferior status (native). Their dilemma may have manifested in their everyday lives in the spheres of culinary culture and eating. This may be assumed from the following quote in Ups and Downs of Life in the Indies: Rose, who had never been to Europe, had to have everything she saw advertised in the newspaper. The price didn’t matter. The house was full of nonsense things that cost thousands and that no one notice anymore. Now that party again, and before long the delivery. He always bought the finest wines and the most expensive cigars, and there were clothes in the latest fashion from the finest tailors, though he only wore them on special occasions. Rose couldn’t see a fashion magazine without writing to Paris for a new outfit, and yet she lived month after month in nothing more than a sarong and 63

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kabaja. It was the same with everything. While she hardly ever ate anything except rice with sambal, some dried meat, and native fruit, her gudang was chockfull with the best quality cans which, stacked up, covered entire walls as if in a toko (Daum 1999:125) Eurasians consumed “wines, cigars, canned food” and wore “clothes from Paris” as a way to disguise their perceived inferior part of their in-between identities. They tried to conceal eating sambal (chilli sauce), dried meat, and native fruit in order to conceal their native identities. Still referring to Daum’s Ups and Downs of Life in the Indies, Rose, the wife, resorted to using commodities that would enhance her European status and conceal any evidence of her being part native and living the native way. The food attitude demonstrated by Rose displays gendered identity construction. During the colonial era, the Dutch rigorously imposed the superiority of masculinity and the dichotomy of male–female. With reference to this practice, Rose’s behaviour could be perceived as both part of her identity construction and a reflection of the cultural and gendered prejudices imposed by the colonial masters that relegated natives and women to a lower rank (Allen and Sachs 2007; Schippers 2007). An example of this imposition was that Eurasian children could be acknowledged as “European” only if their fathers formally registered their births. A consequence of this was that the children would gain their fathers’ legal status but lost their legal relationship with their native mothers. For example, the characters in Pramoedya Ananta Toer’s novel, Bumi Manusia (Toer 2010), Annelies Mellema and Robert Mellema, were the offspring of Herman Mellema and his concubine, Sanikem (Nyai Ontosoroh). Referring to this practice, Rose’s behaviours could be perceived as part of her identity construction, as well as a reflection of the cultural and gendered prejudices imposed by the colonial society on natives and women in the lower rank (see Avakian and Haber 2005; Schippers 2007). The ambivalence of identity association reflected earlier and Bhabha’s (1984:126) theory of “mimicry” in the colonial discourse are useful for discussing the behaviour. From this perspective, the food practices mentioned in the Ups and Downs of Life in the Indies are used effectively to highlight food practices and identity. Food is used as a mask to conceal the performance of “back stage” and “front stage” as in the following citation: The guests should have the impression that they are completely outside and everything should be done to preserve the local colo[u]r. “Why don’t you feed them rice with fish too,” Rose said spitefully. “Well,” he answered dryly, “I know some people who’d like that much better than canned pheasant.” As far as she was concerned she liked it better too, but now she turned up her nose against it. Being the hostess, she did what most of her guests would be doing in a little while: praising expensive dishes that they didn’t like, only because they were expensive! (Daum 1999:127) Drawing on Erving Goffman’s (1973) theory of “back stage”, “front stage”, and image building through the use of food might explain further the authority of identity in his article titled “Regions and Region Behavior”. Goffman explained that “front region” or “front stage” is when one’s aspects of activity are expressively accentuated because other persons are present. Conversely, “back region” or “back stage” is when other aspects (which might discredit the fostered impression are suppressed in the “front stage”) make an appearance (Goffman 1973:111–112). The application of Benedict Anderson’s theory about “mask culture” and power may be useful to comprehend the relationship of Goffman’s theory of back stage and front stage with food culture. Anderson in his chapter titled “The Languages of Indonesian Politics”, part of his 64

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book Language and Power: Exploring Political Cultures in Indonesia, discusses the mask culture in (Javanese-derived) Indonesian socio-cultural and political vernacular (e.g. public mask and private mask). According to Anderson, in Javanese social intercourse, regardless of one’s emotions, one’s face should express “appropriate” feelings of complete impassivity: the face as a kind of built-in mask. The “mask” may express a suppressed emotion, simply be a disguise, or be magnetic. The relationship between the “real” and “really real” is obscure and intricate (Anderson 2006:129–130). The circumstances alluded to in Daum’s novel Ups and Downs of Life in the Indies, which I cited previously, can be interpreted as illustrating that “rice and fish” represent back stage, while “canned pheasant and expensive food” represent front stage. This practice both articulated and reflected the indigenous aspects of the Eurasians. The front stage is the “mask” that can be manifested in any kinds of objects or behaviours. In this case, food can enhance as well as diminish the solidity of identity. In the Indonesian, and in particular the Javanese, socio-cultural ethic, one’s status and position in society bring a particular conventional obligation to perform accordingly; that is, to uphold his or her power among the particular society wherein the individual lived. This power could be political, economic, or cultural. Any effort to maintain one’s social and public appearance might require the good skills and knowledge to differentiate between the private and public appearance. In this context, the characters in the novel use food, including canned pheasant and other expensive foods, as their public mask and means of maintaining their praja (prestige) among their social circles. Consuming foods that could not be consumed by most people made food a language that reflected the status of the consumer. In Javanese, the term “praja” is usually interpreted as prestige, but although there are some similarities, “praja” in the Javanese context does not always equate to prestige in the Western context. People with high social standing, or those who aspire to be regarded as such, are required to maintain their good public image accordingly. Along with this, prestige and social power are retained in order to maintain their political and economic position. Economic considerations are subjugated with all the resulting consequences: living as a priyayicarries the obligation to maintain praja (Kartodirdjo and Sudewo 1987:54). This notion coincides with Protschky’s comment visà-vis relationship between status and food during colonial Indonesia, that: The performance of Europeanness, then, became a crucial indicator of membership in elite colonial society. Being seen to eat the “wrong” kind of food, or in an improper manner, was one of the behaviours that could exclude a colonist from this privileged faction. (Protschky 2008b:348) During the colonial period, food was also used as a political symbol of power and authority. John Pemberton, sourcing his citation from Logan’s Journal of an Excursion to the Province on Java in the Year 1828, During the War with Dipo Negoro, describes a well-ordered food exchange between a Javanese king and the highest local colonial government office thus: According to a long established custom, the Resident is obliged to send every day to the Susuhunan (Pakubuwana VI) a number of dishes, (not less than four) from his kitchen, for the royal dinner, – they usually consist of fowls, prepared in various ways, to which pastry, or fish and vegetables are sometimes added. In return the Susuhunan from time to time sends the Resident onemango, or twooranges of a particular kind*, according to which the value of the gift is estimated, and not the quantity – whatever it may be, it is invariably carried under the gilt Payong or royal Umbrella. (Pemberton 1994:91) 65

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The food sent by the Susuhunan to the Dutch Resident in return carried symbolic meaning. The fact that it was carried under a gilt royal umbrella might have symbolized a defeated power (see also Vickers 2007:16). The native palace, while representing dignity, was at the same time seen as acknowledging that the palace was under Dutch colonial control. In Javanese discourse, the term “nglulu” signals a circumstance wherein people are given something that is superficially exaggerated much higher than their expectations or actual social standing. The food exchange between the Susuhunan and the Dutch officer, with Susuhunan sending one mango that was carried under the gilt royal parasol, carries semantic messages in Javanese cultural discourse. It may indicate the superficial over-exaggeration of honour to the Dutch Resident as the representative of the colonial power; at the same time, it may be an attempt to ridicule the outsider power installed in the native setting. In terms of gender issues, food was utilized to enhance each side’s political status. Following the conventional notion that men were the breadwinners, the food sent from the Resident’s kitchen to the Susuhunan’s royal dinner was an affirmation that the colonial officer was the “head of the family” and obliged to supply food to his (colonized) “family”. This process could also be viewed as the reminder to the Susuhunan that although he was the native ruler, as far as the colonial government was concerned, he was merely a subject of the colonial empire. In other words, this process could be seen as the feminization of the colony (and the colonized) and the hyper-masculinization of the colonizers (see Rachel Alsop et al. [2002] Theorizing Gender; R. W. Connell [1998]“Masculinities and Globalization”, Men and Masculinities; and R. W. Connell and James W. Messerschmidt [2005] Hegemonic Masculinity: Rethinking the Concept, Gender and Society). The feminized colony and its inhabitants had been conquered and were now under the control of and dependent on their masculinized colonizers. In this context, the exchange of food between the royal palace and the house of the colonial Resident became a symbol of power and political positioning.

Food and gender-related issues During the colonial era, the local women indirectly functioned as agents of social and cultural mediation. Many were incorporated into colonial households through marriage, concubinage, slavery, or domestic service. They introduced local foods to their colonial masters and to their Eurasian offspring; as well, those who worked as domestic workers gained knowledge of European eating manners and culinary cultures (Locher-Scholten 1992; Taylor 1992; Vries 1992). Novels by several Dutch authors about life in colonial Indonesia illustrate how gender affects peoples’ everyday lives. Yesterday, written by Maria Dermout and first published in 1951, relates about the life of a colonial family planter in Java. A citation taken from the novel reads: “Or Mama made something in the kitchen, together with Urip [the name of one of their maids] and the old cook. She had brought along a thick cookbook full of handwritten recipes” (Dermout 1959:50). This passage reinforces that during the colonial period, women were expected to uphold the superiority of the Dutch colonialists through their domestic practices. According to Robert Nieuwenhuys (1982), Maria Dermout (1888–1962) was born on a plantation in a town near Pekalongan, Central Java. Her mother died when she was a baby, and she was sent to live in Holland. Before the age of six, she had already travelled to and from Holland to Java twice. On her paternal side, she was from a family who had already settled in Indonesia for several generations; her great-grandfather worked for the Dutch East India Company. Like Maria, her father was also born in Java, as were most of her children and grandchildren. She lived with her father and stepmother on a sugar plantation, Redjosari, near the town of Madiun, East Java, from the age of six to eleven. Then she travelled back to Holland and returned to Java 66

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when she was eighteen. She married in Semarang, a port town of Central Java. She and her husband lived in different parts in Java and then in the Molluccas. She died in 1962 at The Hague, Holland (Nieuwenhuys 1982). According to Ann Laura Stoler, it is frequently argued that the social and political differentiation of the colonized and colonizers intensified following the arrival of European women. Socio-cultural stratifications in the colonial community emerged according to various criteria such as “housing, dress code, transport, food, clubs, conversation, [and] recreation”. Hailed as “custodian[s] of morality”, Dutch women (who were either born in or migrated to Indonesia as part of the colonial ruling class) upheld the “female honour and white prestige” (Stoler 1989:146). They were encouraged to be stay-at-home mothers in order to educate their children and their servants and to play an “important role in the development or the uplifting (opheffing)of the indigenous population in their direct surroundings” (Locher-Scholten 2000:125). The increase in the inclusion of Javanese cuisine in cookbooks, such as Kokkie Jang Pande: Boekoe masakan tiga bangsa. Olanda, Tionghoa dan Djawa (Anonymous 1925), as mentioned earlier, highlights that more indigenous (Javanese) women were becoming educated and more familiar with the Latin alphabet used in Dutch and modern Malay as opposed to the distinct Javanese script. According to my interpretation, the title of this book is roughly translated as The Smart Cook: A Cookbook of Three Nations. Dutch, Chinese, and Javanese. These privileged women usually came from upper-class indigenous families, with an important example being Raden Ajeng Kartini (1879–1904). The daughter of a native regent in Java, Kartini is considered an early Indonesian feminist. Through her social standing, she discussed the importance of education for native girls. She also had great interest in cooking lessons as part of the education for young females. In her letter dated 20 May 1901, she mentioned that “[s]cience, cooking, housekeeping, handiwork, hygiene and vocational training; all must be there!” (Kartini 1976). The goal of educating girls was echoed in a statement by Raden Ayu Siti Sundari, the editor of a women’s magazine titled Wanito Sworo (Women’s Voice). In 1914, she wrote about the importance of the significance of cooking skills as capital and power (Sundari 1983 [1914]:125, 129). Within the capital context, cooking skills and culinary culture became a symbol of class identity in their own right. Cooking skills have become a tool for empowering as well as disenfranchising women. When cooking skills are gained through learning, either formally or informally, the environment in which cooking skills are acquired influences the prestige and value of the cooks and the skills, respectively. For these reasons, cooking skills and food reflect identity and class category; as well, food reflects the symbols of associated individuals, an assumption that might be deduced from Dermout’s novel. Besides Yesterday, Maria Dermout wrote another novel titled The Ten Thousand Things, which was published in 1955. This novel tells about the life of a Dutch female spice grower, her granddaughter (Felicia), and her great-grandson (Himpies). They came from a family that lived on one of the Molluccas Islands at the beginning of the 20th century. Dermout writes: The grandmother decided that this was the moment to stop selling “the other things”: medicine, scents, amber glass . . . And for the rest, they would supply only the town hotels and the military hospital: milk, eggs, fruits and vegetables – no pickles, no mussel sauces, “then we are no longer real tradeswomen, granddaughter, then they can’t tease Himpies about us in school”. (Dermout 2002:76) In this passage, mention of food is placed in two categories. Milk, eggs, fruit, and vegetables are in one group and pickles and mussel sauces in another. The grouping reflects that “milk, eggs, fruits 67

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and vegetables” are considered more prestigious than “pickles and mussel sauces”. By changing the type of foodstuffs, and the place where they supplied the food, this spice grower family sought to avoid embarrassment caused by the social association of the objects they sold only for the great-grandson’s sake. Milk, eggs, fruit, and vegetables represented the class of the consumers. Assuming that they were supplying town hotels (Mrázek 2002:118) and the military hospital (Locher-Scholten 1994:98), the consumers were likely to have been local middle-upper-class Europeans or Eurasians, and therefore, their tastes were considered more “classy” because they were people of high status during the colonial era. Hotels were designed to cater to the colonial Europeans’ “aesthetic and culinary tastes” (Protschky 2008a:25). Dermout’s choice to use a “military hospital” in The Ten Thousand Things doubtless suited the spatial setting of the novel in the Molluccas. Her selection is notable in that many Ambonese were recruited to join the KNIL, the Dutch colonial army. For this reason, the types of food (milk, eggs, fruit, and vegetables) and the selected places (town hotels and the military hospital, considered upper level) are the representative of Himpies’ great-grandmother’s wish to associate herself and her family with the consumers of their commodities and, at the same, to assert their European identity (Hulsbosch 2004; Mrázek 2002). An advertisement for Palmboom Margarine featured affluent Westernized Indonesians during the early years of independent Indonesia, the aim being to demonstrate their being equal with the earlier colonialists. The advertisement consisted of a series of four comic strips. In the first strip, the husband telephones his wife saying that he cannot come home for lunch as he has to be somewhere else with his employer. In the second strip, the wife decides to make a Palmboom sandwich for her husband, as she thinks it improper for him to go without first having lunch. In the third strip, the wife is handing over the sandwiches together with his luggage, which she has packed. The fourth strip shows the husband offering some sandwiches to his employer. Both the males are wearing Western-style clothes and peci (Indonesian black caps). The wife is wearing a traditional outfit, for example, a batik sarong and a kebaya (long sleeved shirt). There were obvious symbols of gender, tradition, modernity, and class in this advertisement. During the 1950s when this advertisement appeared, Indonesia was still in its early days of independence. The advertisement illustrates the display of the idealized behaviours of that era. Women stayed at home and attended to domestic duties. Men usually worked in offices. This can be seen as an aspiration for a modern “priyayi” family, an emulation of the practice of the middleand upper-class Dutch families during late colonial Indonesia (Locher-Scholten 2003; Stoler 1995). The advertisement also shows the complexity of women’s power. The wife is pictured in a domestic situation, but she also represents a broader national agenda. She wears a traditional outfit, displaying her role as tradition preserver and identity maker. On the other hand, she also bridges tradition and modernity, in this case, through the “sandwiches” she prepares. “Sandwiches”, a symbol of modernity, represent an imported food culture. In this sense, modernity refers to the process of Westernization and development, a process that can also be identified from other symbols used in the advertisement such as the Western suits, the telephone, margarine, and sandwiches. During the short period of Japanese occupation (1942–1945), the Japanese introduced their culinary culture into the Indonesian food culture. Indonesian women were mobilized to produce food to cater for Japanese soldiers and administrators. At the time, women’s domestic roles were manipulated and mobilized to promote Japan’s war propaganda. They were recruited to attend cooking courses on Japanese cuisine as well as on utilizing locally available ingredients due to food supply shortages (on magazine Djawa Baroe, No. 11, 1 June 1943 and Djawa Baroe No. 22, 15 November 1943). This encounter with Japan left its mark on Indonesian culinary practices,

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in particular, in the use of monosodium glutamate (MSG), under the brand, AJI-NO-MOTO. This flavour enhancer was distributed in Indonesia before independence in 1945 and has been manufactured locally in Indonesia since 1969. Evidence of the relations between food tradition, gender, and identity construction can be observed across the different cultures in Indonesia, and some of them showcase the degree of influence of colonization or influence from outside directly or indirectly. For example, according to Willemijn de Jong (2007), women are forbidden to assist with planting rice among the people of Central Flores. Again, rice is associated with femaleness and fertility. However, according to De Jong, external factors have changed Northern Lio society (Central Flores). Among them was the conversion of its people to Catholicism in 1910. The Church introduced the culture of first communion and weddings, which encouraged the custom of publicly displaying textiles and giving rice and other foods as marriage gifts. These practices involving the food rituals and fertility symbolism have increased since Indonesian independence in 1945 and more so since the 1980s. After Indonesia gained independence in 1945, its social stratification changed markedly. The spirit to establish a common national culture among Indonesians was reinforced by the political elites. According to Adrian Vickers (2008), the 1950s was a time in which Indonesia made significant steps towards developing its identity as a free nation, during which it spurned the unfairness of the former colonial regime. In the process, the peoples of the newly independent nation started tearing down the fences and borders that differentiated the colonizers from the colonized. In other words, their actions reflected assertions of egalitarianism and being equal. The 1950s were a time coincident with the era of modern technology, or the era of the “atomic age” (Vickers 2007:113–141). Somewhat unexpectedly, it may have inspired the emergence of “kacang atom” (atomic peanut) in Indonesian snack outlets. Each peanut was covered with white oven-cooked wheat dough: this snack has remained popular up to recent times. I assume that there is the connection of “atomic age” with the naming of “katjang atoom” or “kacang atom” (atomic peanut) in its current spelling, supported by an advertisement of “katjang atoom” which could be seen as a cultural artefact of the period. The advertisement appeared in a newspaper called Pikiran Rakjat on 7 August 1954. G. Andika Ariwibowo (2011) observes that nationalism, modern technology, and Westernisation has some influence on food culture among urban families in Indonesia, especially in Java during the 1950s. Media campaigns depicting the ideal woman was popular: she cooked skilfully, managed her time while looking after her family and her work, and pampered her husband. Ariwibowo also notes that the recipes that appeared in the media were not different from those at the end of the colonial era. Exceptions were for the addition of other non-Javanese ethnic culinary cultures through interaction among Indonesians from different backgrounds. The use of cultural artefacts to symbolize nationalism is similar to Guy Redden’s theory that nationalism could be used as a strategy for marketing rhetoric on promoting certain products. By associating the products (cultural artefacts) with nationalism, it may generate the construct of place and ethnic identity. Ultimately, it will become the vehicle “for the transmission of sacralised images of land and the solidarity of ” the people (Redden 1999). To this end, interaction among cultures may result in the adoption of particular eating practices from the different regions. In Indonesia, the availability of introduced foods and the existence of the foreign food cultures can be viewed as the result of culinary assimilation and acculturation between the Indonesians and external influences. The processes of globalization and localization of food have had a significant impact on identity and gender among Indonesians.

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6 SEARCHING FOR CULINARY FOOTPRINTS A question of cultural identity – Kristang foodways and the Portuguese culinary legacy in Melaka Paula Arvela

Introduction European history is a continual reminder of the Eurocentric ways of viewing the world. To date, the European legacy in Asia, Africa and the Americas still finds echoes in these places and their peoples’ own stories, customs and everyday practices. Exploring and evaluating these traces through the lenses of cultural research can provide a greater understanding of the layered narratives, which populated with signs, values and meanings, have become rooted in these people’s ways of life. Scholarly accounts of the Portuguese presence in Africa, Asia and South America are abundant. Research on the Portuguese presence in Melaka provides rich insights into the complex processes of cultural mélange, intergenerational knowledge transmission and the enduring quest for cultural survival. In a hidden corner of the Melaka coastline, a small community claims ties with their Portuguese forebears who first arrived in Melaka in 1511. They called themselves Gente Kristang, or Christian people. To this day, they still assert a strong association with the place and with a culture of an imagined community (Anderson 1983) that most only know through intergenerational storytelling. This study examines and evaluates Kristang foodways. I take foodways as the ‘behaviours and beliefs surrounding the production, distribution, and consumption of food’ (Counihan 1999: 6). Taking into account that ‘food and eating are central to our subjectivity, or sense of self ’ (Lupton 1996: 1), I use foodways as a tool of analysis to tease out how cultural identities are produced and performed through the food Kristang eat and cook and the food narratives they communicate intergenerationally.

Who are the Gente Kristang? In 2014, amongst a total population of approximately 30 million, the official number of Kristang people in Malaysia reached 53,897 (Kawangit 2014: 47). Dispersed throughout Malaysia and Singapore, Gente Kristang call home to the area known as the Portuguese Settlement. They 73

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claim to be of Portuguese descent, and their traditional language is Melaka creole Portuguese, or Papiá Kristang, an endangered language ‘. . . spoken by a small community in the Hilir suburb of Malacca, West Malaysia, and by their descendants elsewhere in Malaysia and Singapore’ (Baxter 2005: 10). Currently, the Malaysian authorities classify Kristang as Portuguese Eurasians, but Malaysians still often refer to them as ‘Portuguese’ (Kawangit 2014: 47). The Kristang pledge allegiance to multiple identification markers. On one hand, they see themselves as Malaysian citizens because they were born in Malaysia. Still, the Malaysian government does not recognise them as an indigenous group and has only granted them partial bumiputera – ‘Sons of the Soil’ in Sanskrit (Fernandis 2000: 263). As an ethnic and religious minority in a Muslim nation-state, their religious allegiance lies with the Roman Catholic faith, the religion they have followed since the Portuguese settled in Melaka in the sixteenth century. Their cultural identity lies in the intersection of the physical place where they were born and live, and the imaginary place to which they pledge loyalty and claim to be the birthplace of their forebears. As such, Gente Kristang are Christian Eurasians of Portuguese heritage. A Kristang is a Eurasian, yet the inverse does not necessarily apply, as there are Eurasians of British and Dutch ancestry and of non-Christian religious affiliation. Jean Duruz has drawn our attention to the complexities associated with ‘being Eurasian’ (2016). To highlight the term’s cultural and conceptual entanglements to which Gente Kristang have added extra layers of religious meanings, I have in this work purposely adopted the use of the term Portuguese-Eurasian and/or Kristang interchangeably. The intricacies of Kristang identity take on many nuances, illustrated in the most various mundane practices of everyday life. My visit to the Portuguese settlement coincided with the 2016 Union of European Football Association (UEFA) Championship Cup. The excitement was tangible throughout the day preceding the grand final match between Portugal and France, and the community was in a state of euphoria the following morning after Portugal won the Cup. I met the community headman, also known as Regedor (Fernandis 2003: 291), outside one of the cafés at the settlement the following day. Our informal conversation covered various aspects related to the Kristang community. Sensing my puzzlement over the community’s enthusiasm over the Portuguese team’s victory, the Regedor justified it on the basis of Gente Kristang’s sense of cultural belonging and their claimed traditional links with Portuguese heritage. As the community leader and a lecturer of Kristang history at the Limkokwing University, he offered his personal views on the ‘politics’ of labelling and belonging. He stated that the community would benefit from calling itself Melaka-Portuguese, rather than Kristang. Without expanding on his argument, the headman did suggest that any disassociation with a religious label would ‘politically’ advance the community stand and further facilitate the community’s integration and sense of belonging to mainstream Malaysia. Scholastic literature expands on the Regedor’s stance. Ema Pires (2012) perceptively notes that the community’s sense of cultural belonging only exists in the Kristang people’s minds and that their claimed traditional links with Portugal are far from being reciprocated by the Portuguese community and authorities in Europe. Similarly, Gerard Fernandis labels the Kristang as ‘the bastards of the Portuguese Empire’ (Fernandis 2000: 288), adding that in Portugal, the Kristang community is seen as an unorthodox vestige of the Portuguese colonial past. These statements illustrate the complexity and multi-layered entanglement of the Kristang experience, which are reflected in my initial approach to this study. When I first started, rather naïvely, I imagined this project would constitute a straightforward examination of the reminiscent legacy of Portuguese foodways in Melaka. Instead, as my understanding of the literature grew deeper, the intricacies of constantly evolving cultural processes highlighted power struggles and the continuous inter-cultural negotiations amongst multiple cultural fields and cultural agents. Further, I became 74

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aware of the persuasive ways in which minority and underprivileged communities use foodways to affirm cultural identity. Thus, using Gente Kristang as a case study, my goal is to establish that foodways as a cultural process will never remain the same; instead, foodways are constantly evolving as the living practices rubber-stamped by the footprints of peoples, cultures and places they transverse.

On methods When I first imagined this study, I envisaged the use of primary resources – cookbooks and digital media outlets (websites and blogs) – would suffice to accomplish it. This assumption soon proved to be inadequate. The need to see with my own eyes, hear with my own ears, taste and smell with my own senses soon moved me away from my initial plan and prompted me to decide to visit the Portuguese settlement in Melaka. There were constraints to my using qualitative methods of research and doing fieldwork, not the least as I self-financed the trip and the time limitation required that ethical approval would have necessitated. I opted to spend one week in Melaka to undertake participant observation of public spaces and interact with the community without undertaking any formal interviews or focus groups. In early July 2016, I arrived in Melaka. I stayed at one of the hotels near the Portuguese settlement with the objective to maximise the next seven days in Melaka. I walked the local streets; I ate at restaurants and roadside stalls; I informally spoke to people at the settlement; I visited the Portuguese Heritage Museum Melaka, and I sat by the seashore enjoying the fresh breeze of the early evenings as visitors and tourists started arriving for dinner at the settlement’s restaurants. In undertaking unobtrusive observation, I gathered valuable ethnographic material. The results of my observations, which I will document here, are complemented with the analysis of cookbooks. Literary resources on Kristang cuisine are scarce. I came across four cookbooks, which became instrumental to my analysis. The 2014 Melba Nunis’ Kristang Family Cookbook, the 2008 Cherie Y. Hamilton’s Cuisines of Portuguese Encounters, Wendy Hutton’s 2003 Eurasian Favourites and finally the 1998 Celine J. Marbeck’s Cuzinhia Cristang. A MalaccaPortuguese Cookbook. The use of these four cookbooks, associated with three unpublished theses and the evaluation of my own ethnographic data, will constitute this analysis. These resources will provide the necessary data that will help me make sense of the historical and cultural links the Kristang community in Melaka claim to maintain with Portuguese culture and foodways. As a final remark, I want to acknowledge that as a Portuguese-born individual, I was from the beginning aware of my cultural background and any potential bias. I have throughout this process aimed to maintain an informed, unbiased viewpoint despite acknowledging that social research can never be neutral. Treading a fine line at times, I am confident that my cultural competencies have also brought enormous advantages to this study. My cultural upbringing, my knowledge of the language and my background in food studies have given me the ‘know-how’ to evaluate names and identify sounds, ingredients and flavours, recognising recipes that could have been otherwise unnoticed had I not benefited from traversing two cultural fields. To make sense of the complex and entangled relationships and narratives which have been produced over the last five centuries, we need to first have a summary overview of the historical background underpinning Kristang culture and foodways.

Historical background The Portuguese arrived in Melaka in 1511. Exploring the expansionist fervour of this small European territory is well beyond the scope of this study. Briefly, to contextualise it historically, in 1415 the Portuguese Crown began its expansion into Africa. By 1488 Portuguese navigators 75

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sailed across the Cape of Good Hope in Africa, and by 1510 Goa had fallen to the Portuguese to be used as a stepping-stone to Melaka. The quest for Melaka stemmed from its strategic geographical position. Having control over the Melaka Straits meant having control over the waterways used by the cargo ships travelling between China and India (Daus 1989). Populating and securing the annexed territories became a strategically troublesome task for the Portuguese administration. According to Godinho (2013: 76), in 1527 the population of Portugal was about 1,400,000, an insufficient number to meet the overseas settlement requirements. Lisbon’s authorities soon recognised that their expansionist aspirations could only be achieved by facilitating social integration and promoting social cohesion in the occupied territories. To achieve such goals, the social policy known as politica dos casamentos (marriages policy) was implemented (Nocentelli 2013) under the leadership of viceroy Afonso d’Albuquerque. The objective was to encourage the settlement of Portuguese men through intermarriage with ‘native’ women. Men accepting these conditions were known as casados (married), and to further boost their numbers, the king of Portugal gave them freeman status, exempted them from Crown taxes and conceded them land rights (Boxer 1975; Nocentelli 2013). Enticed by these privileges, the number of casados in Melaka had a slow but steady increase. From less than one dozen in 1514, numbers had increased to 60 by the end of the 1530s and 100 in 1580. By the end of the Portuguese period (1614) there were around 600 casados (Sousa Pinto 2011: 147). Most of these unions with local women were often de facto relationships, but the children were recognised as Portuguese citizens, a label that conveyed privilege and social capital (Daus 1989; Godinho 2013). Family unity became a significant institutional tool of socialisation and acculturation, strengthening settled communities with families whose children would be Catholic and loyal to the Crown (Kawangit 2014). Intermarriage not only promoted personal emotional ties with the place, it also endorsed cultural exchange. Language proved to be a fundamental tool for integration and empire building. Creole Portuguese became Southeast Asia lingua franca, a status which was maintained even during the 158 years of the Dutch presence in Melaka (Baxter 2005; Daus 1989). For the Melaka-Portuguese, language became a powerful tool to grant social/ cultural capital and access to senior positions in the civil service. Even though intermarriage was initially promoted between Portuguese men and native women, it was in 1543 that arranged marriage between Portuguese women and native men became policy. Known as orfãs do rei (Orphans of the King) (Baxter 2005; Boxer 1975; Kawangit 2014; Sarkissian 2002), this programme was never very successful. The few women who were sent as ‘marriageable white girls . . . to increase the white population in the overseas territories’ (Boxer 1975: 74) were confronted with hard conditions. Not only did they find it difficult to adapt to the new environment, many also died in childbirth. Nonetheless, these women and their daughters – mestiças – became powerful agents of socialisation, acculturation and a robust pillar of empire building within the space of the private sphere (Boileau 2010). Thus, despite Portuguese rule in Melaka lasting only 130 years (1511–1641) compared to the Dutch 158 years (1642–1795; 1818–1823) and English 157 years (1795–1818; 1823–1957) (Baxter 2005: 11), its effects were enduring, as the Kristang community in today’s Malaysia demonstrates. The language – creole Portuguese/Papiá Kristang – spoken at home contributed to give the Melaka-Portuguese an edge in the public sphere. In this, the Eurasian mestiças played a powerful but hardly acknowledged role as agents of acculturation that secured the production, reproduction and exchange of language and cultural mores, including the Melaka-Portuguese foodways. These exchanges of ‘give and take’ (Duruz 2016: 22) remind us of what Duruz refers to as ‘economies of love’. In fact, the physical, emotional and cultural work of women within these intimate relationships could arguably be regarded as representations of what Hutton (2007) and 76

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Duruz (2016) poetically label as ‘Food of love’ and ‘Foodscapes of . . . Intimacy’. After the English took over the Dutch in Melaka, circumstances started to change for the Melaka-Portuguese community. Relegated to the margins of society, the community thus far cohesive and integrated experienced a split (Daus 1989). The educated civil servants became the urban middle class; the illiterate, mainly fishermen, became an economic and social minority group on the fringes of Malay society. Out of necessity, and with little social and cultural capital, they settled along the seashore of the Melaka Straits becoming a peripheral fishing community barred from mainstream society. They were steadfast in maintaining their cultural values, norms and, most of all, their Christian religion. By 1920 the progressive deterioration of their living standards led the Portuguese and French priests to lobby the local British administration to resettle the impoverished fishing community into a newly built housing estate (Baxter 2005; Sarkissian 2002). This is how the Portuguese settlement in Melaka came into being. Also known as Padri sa Chang, or ‘the land of the priests’ in Papiá Kristang (Baxter 2005; Sarkissian 2002), the name acknowledges the active role of the two priests in trying to ameliorate the living conditions of the Kristang community. The official launching of the new residential area coincided with the 1952 visit of the Portuguese minister for foreign affairs (Ministro do Ultramar) to Melaka. A welcome ceremony was organised in which the local Gente Kristang performed Portuguese traditional folk dance and music (Fernandis 2003; Pires 2012; Sarkissian 2002). Under these specific circumstances, a newly ‘invented’ (Hobsbawm and Ranger 1983) tradition of Portuguese folk groups was born in Melaka. The performance of these folk-art forms, analysed in Margaret Sarkissian’s (2005) work, has become a tourist attraction at the festival Festa San Pedro in July each year, and is one of the essentialised markers of Kristang culture. In 2011, the Portuguese settlement celebrated the 500th anniversary of Portuguese arrival in Melaka (The New Eurasian 2011). After five centuries, Kristang people still identify themselves as the ‘D’Albuquerque’s children’ (Sarkissian 2000). The complex Kristang identities and their ways of life illustrate how cultural forms survive and reproduce themselves: always taking on new forms and nuances, adapting themselves to new conditions, becoming mongrelised, hybridised but always re-inventing themselves to prevent fossilisation. Cultural markers such as language, music, folklore and foodways will take new aesthetic forms where only vestiges of the ‘original’ might remain. These new forms might have become discursively mythologised and romanticised but the Kristang who still perform them recognise them as constitutive of their own Kristang and Portuguese-Eurasian cultural heritage. It is in this context that Kristang foodways will be analysed – a significant component of culture that endures the passage of time because of their ability to change and adapt into new forms handed down intergenerationally.

Cookbooks and iconic dishes Literary resources exploring Portuguese-Eurasian cookery are scant (Mamak 2007: 159). Having come across only four cookbooks with reference to Kristang-Melaka cooking, their analysis is mandatory in this study. I use these cookbooks not only as textual description of recipes, ingredients and methods of cooking. I use them also as a tool of analysis in which the authors’ detailed and carefully crafted personal stories and experiences of living as Portuguese-Eurasian Kristangs resemble the personal accounts in diaries used in ethnographic research. These aspects are particularly evident in Melba Nunis’s (2014) and Celina Marbeck’s (1998) cookbooks. Here, narratives are often tinted by a sense of nostalgia and loss of a bygone era; they provide us with rich descriptions that allow us into a world that otherwise would have escaped us; they ‘instil us with a sense of place, belonging and achievement . . . (and become) . . . vehicles [of] the web of flows that is culture’ (Gallegos in Duruz 2016: 18). 77

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The cookbooks’ content was evaluated in sequential stages. On an initial phase, content was assessed searching for clues on how the Kristang culinary field is described and produced. Subsequently, dishes and recipes were cross-checked in search of communalities and/or variations. Next, a short list of the most common dishes was compiled to evaluate how their names, ingredients and methods of cooking have become recognised as a representation of Kristang foodways. Ultimately, the goal is to explore and evaluate the proclaimed cultural and culinary association between Kristang and Portuguese foodways.

Describing culinary Kristang-ness in cookbooks The cookbooks’ titles are the first hint of the association between the two food cultures. Marbeck’s (1998) Cuzinhia Cristang. A Malacca-Portuguese Cookbook clearly states this connection. Not only does the author refer to the word cuzinhia in the title, revealing the linguistic relationship with the Portuguese word cozinha (cuisine in Portuguese), but the subtitle – A MalaccaPortuguese Cookbook – highlights this intertwined association. Marbeck’s first two chapters further enhance this intercultural affiliation by recounting the moments of shared history over the last five centuries. Following on Marbeck’s footsteps, Hamilton (2008) also gives her Cuisines of Portuguese Encounters a cultural contextualisation. Examining the historical and cultural-culinary background in which these encounters took place outside Europe, Hamilton depicts the traces left behind by the Portuguese colonial past. Dedicating each book chapter to the culinary icons of nation-states with Portuguese colonial legacy in Africa, South America and Asia, Hamilton reminds us of a Lusophone commonwealth. Known as Comunidade dos Países de Língua Portuguesa (CPLP), the organisation grants full membership to all nation-states sharing the Portuguese language (CPLP 2016). It is worth noting that Hamilton dedicates two chapters to the food of Kristang-Melaka and Macau, despite their territorial and political integration within Malaysia and China, respectively. In turn, Hutton (2003) states that both territories pertain to a broader Euro-Asian sphere with a specific culinary heritage throughout Southeast Asia – the Eurasian cuisine. Hutton (2003) defines Eurasian cooking as ‘the original East-West cuisine, a blending of European and Asian ingredients and cooking practices, which began four centuries ago when the Portuguese colonised Goa in the India’s coast, and took local women as brides’ (Hutton 2003: 2). When Portuguese boats sailed farther east, first to Melaka (1511) and later to Macau (1555), they took with them the foods that had already been hallmarked by Goan culinary influence. These recipes are Portuguese-Eurasian in that they coalesce European and Asian foodways, yet only the cooking of Portuguese heritage in Melaka is Kristang. Still, as Hutton’s Eurasian Cookbook illustrates, Eurasian cuisine ‘reflects that unique blending of East and West . . . so hard to define, yet so appealing to all’ (Hutton 2003: 2). If Kristang dishes are Eurasian of Portuguese provenance, kedgeree is a Eurasian dish of British and Indian influence, while smoore manifests its Dutch inspiration (Hutton 2003). While Hamilton’s and Hutton’s cookbooks have a macro-level framework, by contrast Nunis (2014) confidently introduces a personal slant into her work promoting narratives of family, friends and what it means ‘to be Kristang’. Nunis’s cookbook heralds intergenerational communication of customs, traditions, foodways and recipes, and signposts it as much in the book’s title – Kristang Family Cookbook – as in the text. Leaving no room for doubt in the reader’s mind, Nunis unequivocally states in her introductory chapter that this book is about her family stories and treasured culinary traditions. Most of Nunis’ recipes are associated with someone in her family, particularly her mother. Nunis lets the reader enter her world of growing up in Melaka in the mid-twentieth century. As a child, an adult, a wife and a mother, food 78

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has always been the centrepiece of her family’s everyday practices. Now a chef and restaurant owner, Nunis spearheads a family business, successfully running since 2011 the only Kristang food restaurant in Kuala-Lumpur – Simply Mel’s. Adding to her list of accolades, Nunis’ book has thus far not just received a series of favourable reviews; it has also recently received the ‘Best in the World’ award in the Woman Chef category at the Gourmand World Cookbook Awards (Lazaroo 2016). This summary review of the four cookbooks presents meticulous accounts of the defining markers of Kristang culture. In particular, Nunis and Marbeck state their clear intention to make their cookbooks more than just a repository of recipes but also an account of Kristang culture and foodways. Importantly, the authors’ detailed personal accounts effectively complement the culinary notes and cultural clues gathered during my week of fieldwork and ethnographic ‘immersion’ into the settlement’s daily life. Overall, these cookbooks are a valuable contribution to our understanding of what constitutes foodways – complex multi-layered narratives of how food is produced, distributed and consumed in ways that are constantly evolving to become something new. The authors have intentionally chosen to give an account of what it means to be Kristang (Marbeck and Nunis) and Eurasian (Hutton and Hamilton) to demonstrate how foodways contribute to the making of these Kristang and Eurasian cultural identities. Whereas Nunis’ and Merback’s recipes clearly work towards the ‘making of ’ a Kristang cuisine, Hamilton and Hutton depict Eurasian cuisine as a ‘melting pot’ of many culinary traditions, ingredients, techniques and foodways. As a cultural-culinary phenomenon, the Eurasian cuisine has evolved over centuries to various degrees of culinary mélange, exchange and adaptation. Hutton (2003) claims that this process has been particularly accelerated in Malaysia and Singapore, where the adaptability of Eurasians has been so robust that culinary fusion has sometimes left very little vestige of any Western influence. Nunis and Merback work hard to illustrate that Kristang cuisine has characteristics of its own. Kristang cuisine is local in its ingredients, methods of preparation and techniques, and is trans-local in its linguistic and culinary affiliations with that of other places, reminding us that ‘all cultural boundaries are potentially “porous”’ (Duruz 2005: 67). Identifying themselves as Kristang, Nunis and Marbeck illustrate how food acts as a powerful identification signifier constituted by the many footprints that uncover as much cultural mélange as the intentional production of a discourse of culinary Kristang-ness. In labelling their food as Kristang, and as spokespersons of an ethnic and religious minority in a predominantly Islamic nation, these authors are using foodways as “culinary soft power” (Farrer 2010) that is, as a discursive tool produced at the grassroots level by the Kristang community to promote their own ethnic cuisine and assert cultural and culinary identities.

Culinary and cultural descriptions of Kristang iconic dishes These four cookbooks have several commonalities. While offering shared narratives of Kristang history, customs and way of life, they also describe common dishes with Kristang names and recipes that vary from author to author. Whereas the former produces a discourse of Kristang-ness, the latter generates ways of talking about Kristang cuisine, highlighting its iconic dishes; recurrence across the four cookbooks gives them culinary validity and cultural legitimacy. Consequently, their iconicity is suggestive of their discursive and culinary representativeness of Kristang foodways and cultural identity. In this section I intend to examine these dishes in two different ways. First, I assess their Kristang names to examine them as strong indicators of their culture-linguistic links with the Portuguese language. Second, I explore each dish’s cultureculinary descriptions to evaluate their alleged connotations with Portuguese foodways. 79

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Dishes, their names, and what they unveil I am able to identify lexical equivalences between the two languages, as Portuguese is my native language. At times, the Kristang nomination of a dish seems unrelated or unfamiliar because the spelling is different; however, by uttering the word, the sound identifies it. Table 6.1 gives a small but representative sample of words’ equivalence. Adding to these lexical resemblances, it is also worth drawing our attention to the words starting with V in Portuguese. In Kristang, these words are spelt and enunciated with a B, a lexical terminology of northern Portugal (Minho) where the letter V is pronounced B (despite its spelling with a V). These linguistic characteristics could arguably be further evidence of the entrenched-ness of the Portuguese language in Papiá Kristang, particularly because, as Kawangit (2014: 47) argues, many of the first Portuguese settlers in Melaka were from Minho, a northern region in Portugal. After a brief reference to the way Kristang dishes and their Kristang names disclose their close and clear linguistic resemblances with the Portuguese language, we now turn to the dishes themselves to explore their cultural-culinary nexus.

The ‘defining’ dishes of Kristang cuisine Belacan – an identity marker Belacan is a quintessential ingredient of Kristang cuisine, as well as of its Malay, Indonesian, Singaporean and more distant Thai sisters. Defined as a ‘dried shrimp paste’, it differs from the oily and garlicky Thai equivalent, in that belacan is a hardened paste made from tiny shrimp mixed with salt, which subsequently undergoes fermentation. Despite the similarities between the Malay,

Table 6.1 Words in Kristang with Portuguese equivalent Word in Kristang

Word in Portuguese

Translation into English

Baca Binhyo Brancu/pretu caldu galinhia Carangezu Casamentu Cebola Enchimentu Figadu Intrude Kambrang Lembransa Mohlyu Rostu bremeilu Pang Pesi assada/pesce assa Tentasung doce

Vaca Vinho Branco/preto Caldo de galinha (canja) Caranguejo Casamento Cebola Enchimento Figado Entrudo Camarão Lembrança Molho Rosto vermelho Pão Peixe assado Tentatação doce

Beef Wine White/black Chicken soup Crab Marriage Onion Filling Liver Mardi Gras Prawn Reminder/gift Sauce Rosy cheeks Bread Baked fish Sweet temptation

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Indonesian and Singaporean belacan, Kristang assert the ‘uniqueness’ of theirs, partly due to their profound knowledge and intimate affiliation with fishing (Fernandis 2003). Today’s Kristang speak of fishing with nostalgia. As a small fishing community, they maintained a thriving cottage industry for centuries. Since the commencement of the controversial land reclamation project along the Melaka coastline, this means of livelihood has been cut short and is no longer viable (Fernandis 2003; Pires 2012; New Straits Times Online 2016; Sarkissian 2005). During my stay in Melaka, I witnessed the effect that this large-scale infrastructure project has had on the seascape and offshore line. I also heard of the impact the development has had on the fishing industry that sustained local communities for centuries. In informal conversations with some of the residents of the Portuguese settlement, I could sense a melancholic frustration and resentment for a ‘stolen’ way of life, a process over which the community had very little control. One resident related to me his memories of growing up and going out to sea after school with his father, a local fisherman. Another resident described with great detail the making of Kristang belacan. No longer a fisherman, he referred to his family recipe, which used exclusively the prawns caught by the local men. This man’s account echoed Marbeck’s description: ‘in the past, Cristang women were famous for making this ingredient from scratch, beginning with the fresh shrimps their menfolk caught daily’ (Marbeck 1998: 39). The fondness with which belacan and its making is described is highly suggestive of how Kristang people see their belacan as a signature ingredient of their foodways. In fact, the association of the Kristang community with fishing is highlighted in the description made by Boileau (2010: 160), who reminds us that Kristang belacan was also known as Portuguese cake. In turn, Kawangit (2014: 46) notes that the Melaka-Portuguese community, traditionally dedicated to shrimp fishing, was often referred to by the derogatory term Gragok, a slang for Portuguese geragau (shrimp). Despite the pejorative characteristics of the term, it does nonetheless flag the traditional association of the Gente Kristang with fishing as a way of life, which to this day still acts as a robust identity signifier of Kristang-ness.

Pang susis Marbeck (1998: 150) describes pang susis as ‘celebration buns’, always served at festive family meals. These ‘. . . sweet buns filled with spiced meat’ (Marbeck 1998: 8) are a must on Easter Sunday when Lent ends and Kristang celebrate the end of the fasting period by eating pang susis with hard-boiled eggs for breakfast. Pang susis takes special place in Hutton’s cookbook, featuring as its first recipe. Despite minor differences between Hutton’s and Marbeck’s recipes, the commonalities not only emphasise the hallmark of this specialty, they also set the Kristang bun apart from other Asian buns – Vietnamese pork buns, the steamed Chinese pork buns or the Chinese steamed lotus leaf bun. As the name indicates, steaming is the preferred cooking method for Asian buns, whereas pang susis is baked. Striking distinctions are also present in the ingredients used in the making of the dough and filling. Traditional Asian buns are made with the basic bread dough ingredients – flour, water, yeast and a small amount of milk. In turn, the dough for pang susis is enriched with butter, eggs and sweet potatoes, reminding us of the European influence in Asian cooking. As Brandes (in Cheung and Chee-Beng 2007: 2) notes, sweet potato (ipomoea batatas) and the common potato are South American indigenous species brought to Asia by the Europeans. Whereas most recipes for the filling of pang susis only include diced onion, garlic, soy sauce, sugar and minced meat (beef or pork), Marbeck’s recipe also includes diced common potatoes and spices – cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg and star anise (Marbeck 1998: 149). 81

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Pang susis unveils some interesting associations with Portuguese foodways. First, the name pang phonetically sounding like pão, bread in Portuguese (Boileau 2010: 217). Additionally, the use of pork meat in the filling provides some curious indicators. Pork meat, a favourite amongst Chinese and other Asian indigenous groups, is also used prevalently in Portuguese cuisine, and as pang susis recipes demonstrate, its use has been preserved in the Kristang foodways. Based on Boileau’s (2010: 229–235) study exploring the role played by the Portuguese in fostering the use of pork meat in Asia, I am of the view that integration of this meat in Kristang food habits is a vestige of the influence of Portuguese eating habits, particularly since the community is a small ethnic and religious minority integrated in a predominantly Muslim nation-state. The popularity of pang susis amongst the Portuguese-Eurasians adds further cultural and culinary nuances worth exploring. Echoing Louis Augustin-Jean’s (2002) study on the Portuguese legacy in Macanese foodways and the widespread consumption of bread in Macau, I, too, find noteworthy the presence of pang susis in Kristang’s foodways as a vestige of Portuguese food habits, where bread is a staple food. From morning toasts to snacks, and an obligatory accompaniment to every meal, bread is as much omnipresent in Portuguese foodways as it is a symbolic food in the Christian Eucharist, symbolising the body of Christ. From a culinary viewpoint, pang susis presents similarities with bola de carne – bread layered with a variety of meats – a traditional delicacy from the northern regions of Portugal. The bola de carne dough is enriched with eggs and olive oil, and the filling is usually pork meat, salami and sausages (Modesto 1982). If the resemblances between bola de carne and pang susis point to culinary hybridity, some particularities found in the latter are indicative of culinary locality. The small buns’ sweet/savoury balance punctuated by the filling’s slight accent of spices hints at the local taste preferences for cinnamon, cloves, star anise and nutmeg. It is this unexpected association of flavours that strikes a pang susis first-time eater like myself. I bought my first pang susis at one of the many small stalls outside the church where I was invited to attend Sunday Mass at the Portuguese settlement. At my first bite, I was pleasantly surprised by the enjoyable flavour in the combination of sweet potato, pork meat, cinnamon and nutmeg. The sweet/savoury combination, accompanied by this mix of spices, reminded me of similar associations frequently used in medieval cuisine, which are clearly illustrated in recipes in Livro de Cozinha da Infanta D. Maria, recognised as the first Portuguese cookbook (Arvela 2014: 95). Endorsing these observations, and demonstrating the extent of East–West culinary exchanges already occurring in the sixteenth century, Boileau notes: The cuisines of the Portuguese colonies were rooted in the gastronomy of late medieval mainland Portugal . . . certain components of the pre-modern Portuguese diet made the transition to Asia and became signifiers of Lusitanian influence upon indigenous cuisines. Many of these elements were transmitted because of their usefulness to seafarers and cultural importance to the Iberians. (Boileau 2010: 43)

Caldu galinhia – canje A dish or a recipe can be evaluated as much by its name as by the ingredients and techniques used in its execution. When comparing Portuguese and Kristang dishes, some of the names are a clear manifestation of linguistic links, while ingredients and cooking techniques reveal local preferences in flavours. For example, the name of the dish caldu galinhia is more revealing of its Kristang-Portuguese linguistic legacy than its culinary likeness with its Portuguese counterpart. A native Portuguese speaker would, without any difficulty, identify the name; directly translated as caldo de galinha, this soup is commonly known in Portugal as canja. 82

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In a recent study on the work of the sixteenth-century pioneer Portuguese physician and herbalist, Garcia da Orta, who worked and lived in Goa, Palmira da Costa (2016) attributes the first description of canja to Orta: Orta can also be credited with the first reference to Indian canje, which later became the Portuguese canja or broth with rice. Introduced for medicinal purposes, it appears in Colloquy Seventeen in relation to cholera. . . . Europeans later added chicken. . . . Nowadays canja is always considered to be chicken soup with rice. (Da Costa 2016: 87) Caldu galinhia is described in Kristang cookbooks as a festive dish that graces wedding meals (Nunis 2014: 60). However, to date, caldu galinhia still holds its restorative attributes described by Orta, being offered as comfort food to the sick or a mother after birth (Marbeck 1998: 77). If caldu’s name and cultural history reveal its hybrid/syncretic qualities, its ingredients denounce its locality. Caldu galinhia provides a good example of a dish with a long historical, cultural and culinary background across different territories. From the Indian canje to the Portuguese canja and the Kristang caldu galinhia, the dish’s cultural meanings have been preserved – its festive, celebratory, restorative and healing characteristics. Yet the dish has also evolved in accordance with local ingredients, thus taking an identity of its own and unveiling the specificities of each place and its people’s tastes preferences: from the medicinal water and rice of the Indian canje, to the restorative and celebratory Portuguese canja to which chicken is added, to the festive Kristang caldu galinhia where the preference for spicy flavours is attained to different degrees and variations in all the recipes. Hamilton’s (2008: 274) and Marbeck’s (1998: 77) recipes include brandy, garlic and a spicy mix made up of coriander, cumin, fennel seeds, cardamom, nutmeg, cinnamon sticks, peppercorns and turmeric. In turn, Nunis’ (2014: 60) caldu galinhia Kristang is a simpler recipe with the use of only one spice – cinnamon. In comparison, Portuguese canja is a chicken stock flavoured with onion and parsley stalks; rice is cooked in the broth and shredded cooked chicken added at the end. A squeeze of lemon to enhance the flavour is the final addition at the table. Caldu galinhia typifies a simple but iconic dish which has been enriched by multiple layers of places, stories and tastes of the people who cook and eat it.

4- Feng Ronald Daus (1989) describes feng as the favourite dish among the Malaccan-Portuguese prepared with ‘minced pork fillet broiled with liver, tongue, heart and belly in a hot spicy sauce’ (Daus 1989: 19). Concurring, Nunis and Marbeck add that feng is a must-have at Christmas and festive dinners. At the same time, Nunis also claims that despite its celebratory character, feng is ‘often said to be a poor’s man dish’ (Nunis 2014: 141) prepared with the cheaper cuts of meat and plentiful use of offal. Whereas Nunis only uses tripe, Marbeck uses ox tongue and liver, and Hutton includes ox tongue, as well as pork liver, kidney and belly. This dish requires lengthy preparation. The complexity of flavours is attained with the addition of rempah (spice mix) and is enhanced by ‘the blending and simmering of different meats over low heat and in allowing the dish to sit overnight before serving’ (Marbeck 1998: 54). Adding that feng is similar to the Goan dish sorpotel, Marbeck suggests associations made elsewhere between sorpotel and the Portuguese dish serrabulho, a traditional recipe from the regions of Minho and Alentejo made with lamb offal and fresh blood to which cumin, cloves and paprika are added (Modesto 1982). Similarly to feng, vindaloo is also a pertinent example of the Portuguese culinary legacy in Southeast Asia. 83

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Vindaloo Vindaloo is usually identified as a Goan curry. There is general consensus in cookbooks and scholarly literature that this Goan dish is based on the Portuguese marinade vinha d’alhos (Boileau 2010: 237). Acknowledging that vindaloo is of ‘Portuguese-Goan origin and was probably brought to Malacca in the sixteenth century by traders from Goa’ (Marbeck 1998: 58), Marbeck provides two versions. One named vindaloo is described as a deliciously pungent curry with a unique blend of spices and a tangy taste imparted by vinegar (Marbeck 1998: 58). The other, vindaloo’s Kristang version – vinhu d’arlu – is made with wine (vinho) and garlic (alhos), and is comparable to a Portuguese marinade vinha d’alhos (Marbeck 1998:137). In any case, the marinade, either with vinegar (Goan version) or wine (Portuguese and Kristang version), acts as a useful meat preservative that extended meat’s shelf life during the long seafaring voyages, before refrigeration. Additionally, the use of wine in vinhu d’arlu reminds us once more that Kristang cooking chooses to maintain its cultural identity by using alcohol in a country with a predominantly Muslim majority. Praising the influence of Portuguese foodways in Southeast Asia, Boileau asserts: Luso-Asian cuisine is heterogeneous, highly syncretic and confident. Bold, exotic dishes such as Malaccan Debal and Goan Vindalho reflect the inventiveness of the Portuguese Eurasians as clearly as kedgeree, a stodgy dish of kippers and rice flavoured with ‘curry powder’, reflects the conservatism and limited culinary imagination of the British Raj, and the formulaic rijstaffell reflects the Dutch need to ‘organise’ the course-less indigenous Indonesian meal. (Boileau 2010: 376)

Kari debal – devil curry Describing the dish by its original name – kari debal – Nunis attributes its name to the ‘fiery heat of the dish’ and recognises that ‘this is an iconic dish of the Kristang people and it used to be eaten only at Christmastime and at weddings’ (Nunis 2014:133). Illustrating the use of bread as an accompaniment to the meal in Kristang foodways, Nunis adds a personal note: ‘I remember my grandfather enjoying it (kari debal) with stuffed chilli pickle and mopping up the sauce with bread’ (Nunis 2014: 133). Whereas Hutton adds that debal was ‘traditionally cooked on Boxing Day to use the leftover meat’ (Hutton 2003 p. 30), Marbeck offers her version of kari debal, which she dedicates to her two sons because ‘debal is their favourite dish’ (Marbeck 1998: 52). Despite the different ingredients and the quantities given by the three authors, there are nonetheless some commonalities – the use of vinegar, candlenuts and chillies in varying proportions.

Pesi assada or pesce assa Any visitor to the Portuguese settlement in Melaka can expect to find Portuguese baked fish on every restaurant menu. As Nunis notes, ‘[M]any people travel specially to Malacca to eat Portuguese baked fish. . . . Every family makes it differently, and my recipe does not resemble the Malacca-style baked fish in any way. I love my family’s recipe’ (Nunis 2014: 93). I chose this dish as my first meal at the settlement. Unsure of what I would be served, the name of the dish enticed my appetite and curiosity. Small whole fish (resembling snapper or bream) were on display near the restaurant front counter. After choosing one, the fish was weighed, a quote for the meal given and, upon my acceptance, the fish was taken away to be cooked. About thirty 84

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minutes later, pesce assa was served – an aluminium foil cartouche was opened in front of me to reveal a highly fragrant butterflied whole fish semi-immersed in a red sauce sitting on a banana leaf and garnished with fresh cucumber and onion slices. It was delicious! Definitely a baked fish with Asian flavours. Both Nunis and Marbeck offer their own version, proudly claiming to be their family recipe. Despite some similarities, there are also differences in the recipes, and these are extended to the name of the dish itself. Although both authors proudly use the Kristang name, they also spell it differently – pesi assada (Nunis) and pesce assa (Marbeck), illustrating the lack of consistency across recipes and cookbooks. It is an elaborate recipe, but no doubt its popularity is well justified. As I savoured the dish, I asked myself – why call this dish ‘Portuguese baked fish’? Whole baked fish is one of my favourite dishes that my mother frequently cooked at home. Using Mediterranean flavours – onion, capsicum, tomato, olive oil, black olives and parsley – this is a quintessential dish of southern Europe, with each country offering their own interpretation and recipe. But the name of the Kristang version is most puzzling, in particular when the dish has become, as Nunis acknowledges, a culinary icon of Kristang cuisine and a favourite amongst tourists visiting the settlement. Corroborating, Gerard Fernandis notes ‘the Portuguese baked fish and the Devil Curry is always a favourite amongst Malaysians’ (Fernandis 2003: 287). In naming this culinary icon Portuguese baked fish, Kristang restaurants catering for a local and tourist clientele are making it a signifier of Kristang-ness, at the same time highlighting a cultural, religious and historical heritage with which they identify. As a minority community, Kristang restaurants in the Portuguese settlement are trying to preserve and promote their cultural heritage and cultural identity. They do so in restaurant banners and on menus, highlighting two qualifiers with which they choose to identify themselves. The signifier Portuguese asserts a cultural heritage they claim as their own and that they make the effort to secure at all costs. Equally, in choosing seafood as the prevalent item on their menus (fish, crabs, prawns, squid, scallops and mussels), they herald a narrative that historically associates them with the sea, fishing and a lost way of life. These markers qualify the Kristang community culturally and culinarily; the former, which speaks of a present they want to construct by asserting their ethnic and religious identity as a minority community in Malaysia, and the latter, which speaks of their choice of a vibrant dish as a culinary marker that represents a resilient community and its foodways rooted in cultural heritage and culinary localism. Many other recipes could have been included in this study. I could have spoken of caldu pescador, figadu temperadu or the Macau egg tarts (usually known as Portuguese custard tarts), but space limitations need to be adhered to. All these dishes illustrate how foodways travel, how they adapt to a culture, echo an environment and take up local characteristics ‘rooted’ in a people’s food habits. To different degrees and in different ways, all these iconic dishes have discursively become powerful identification markers that speak of the Kristang community, its struggles as well as its resilience. They illustrate how food and foodways are forms of “culinary soft power” (Farrer 2010), which as a discursive formation brings Kristang cuisine into being as an object of knowledge.

Discussion and conclusion The iconic dishes representing Kristang cuisine remind us of the entangled cultural associations between two geographically distant continents – Europe and Asia – drawn together by the vagaries of history. This study highlights this enmeshed cultural-culinary relationship, which is underpinned by the Kristang’s willingness to use it as an identification marker associated with an 85

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imaginary place and a cultural heritage with which they feel a deep affinity but are only familiar through intergenerational storytelling. Kristang food is a recast of the food Portuguese sailors transported to Asia in the sixteenth century. Following a stopover in Goa, techniques and cooking practices continued to develop as they first arrived in Melaka and later reached Macau. The dishes and ingredients explored in this study – belacan, vindaloo, feng, caldu galinhia, pang susis, kari debal and pesce assa – are testimonies to these evolving characteristics. In each stopover, they shed some attributes, at the same time acquiring new local characteristics that reflect local ingredients, cooking techniques and people’s taste preferences. Illustrating these complex processes of culinary identification, I paraphrase Chico – the owner of one of the restaurants at the Portuguese settlement – who emphatically stated that the food cooked at the settlement is different from Portuguese food because the distance between the two places (Melaka and Portugal) is vast. Yet Chico affirmed,‘Kristang food is Portuguese, because we are Portuguese, and we choose to call it so’ (quote based on my field notes). This, I note, is where the question should be centred. Kristang people call their food ‘Portuguese’, and they claim the right to name it as such: they cook it, they eat it and that is how they identify it. ‘Portuguese’ is used as a synonym of Kristang. It is a matter of ‘cultural naming’ which ignores culinary technicalities or resemblances with Portuguese food (proper). For Gente Kristang this is their ‘reality’ as they see it, rather than the culinary ‘reality’ that categorises food according to location, methods, ingredients or any other ascribed classificatory system. In naming their food ‘Portuguese’, the Kristang community is performing Kristang-ness with overtones of Portuguese-ness, and the Portuguese settlement is the place they have selected to do so. As such, the Portuguese settlement represents a third space; a physical and a symbolic space of cultural hybridity (Bhabha 2004) where historical, social and cultural interactions take place; a space where Kristang perform identity as a tool of empowerment. The Portuguese settlement is also a space-in-between, that is, ‘space[s] of complicated allegiances, edgy tensions, creative connections’ (Duruz 2005: 68). They perform Kristang-ness as much in the annual celebratory events of São Pedro festivities, as in the routine of everyday practices of cooking. They perform Kristang identity in what they eat and cook in the small stalls at the Portuguese settlement; they perform Kristang identity in the music they play and dance at festivities, which are mostly religious in character. Gente Kristang also perform a Christian identity when they go to Mass on Sunday morning or when they recount the stories of traditional weddings to visitors at their museum. These are the practices that have come to constitute Kristang identity, and their symbolic forbearers are the Portuguese who arrived in Melaka in 1511. As they perform identity, Gente Kristang are as much about embracing the collective identity of a minority group in Malaysia as they are about asserting their individual identity. Expressed in their foodways, the former is illustrated through the local ingredients, flavours and taste preferences; the latter via the Kristang names, stories and customs that they impart to each dish, and are embodied in the family-tailored recipes that both Nunis and Marbeck claim in their cookbooks as part of their family culinary tradition. It is in this sense that foodways – what, how, when and with whom we eat – are intrinsically connected with the way we see ourselves and the ways we want others to see us; that is to say, the way we construct and perform our cultural identities. Sometimes these links are clearer than others. At times, the hints of these relationships are vaguely (but emphatically) given through the sounds produced in uttering dishes’ names – pesce assa; other times, the guiding traces may be some of the foundational ingredients, techniques and, importantly, the stories associated with each dish – vindaloo. In any case, what this study has established is that the Kristang iconic dishes are footprints entangled by robust symbolic qualities and rooted local ingredients that have come to represent Kristang identities and foodways. 86

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Kristang today see their food as ‘Portuguese’. Only time will tell if in the future, they choose to maintain the same marker – Kristang-Portuguese – or to switch to Kristang-Eurasian, as the headman strategically suggested. In any case, the Kristang-Eurasian community of Melaka is using their cultural heritage, religious affiliation and foodways as cultural signifiers and tools of empowerment. By holding tight to the symbols that are meaningful to them and with which they identify, they are persistently making an effort to maintain the ‘difference’ that qualifies their cultural identity as an ethnic and religious minority in Malaysia.

Bibliography Anderson, B. (1983) Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, London: Verso. Arvela, P. (2014) ‘Sitting Around the table of Nation. Narratives of Bacalhau, the Portuguese National Dish’ unpublished thesis, University of Wollongong, Australia. Augustin-Jean, L. (2002) ‘Food Consumption, Food Perception and the Search for a Macanese Identity’ in David Y.H. Wu and Sidney C.H. Cheung (eds) The Globalization od Chinese Food, London: RoutledgeCurzon: 113–127. Baxter, A. N. (2005) ‘Kristang (Malacca Creole Portuguese) – A Long Time Survivor Seriously Endangered’ in Estudios de Sociolingüística, 6(1): 1–37. Bhabha, H. K. (2004) The Location of Culture, Abingdon: Routledge. Boileau, J. (2010) ‘A Culinary History of the Portuguese Eurasians: The Origins of Luso-Asian Cuisine in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries’ unpublished thesis, University of Adelaide, Australia. Boxer, C. R. (1969) Four Centuries of Portuguese Expansion, 1415–1825: A Succinct Survey, Berkeley: University of California Press. Boxer, C. R. (1975) Mary and Misogeny: Women in Iberian Expansion Overseas 1415–1815, London: Duckworth. Cheung, C.H. S. and Chee-Beng, T. (eds) (2007) ‘Introduction’ in Sidney C.H. Cheung and Tan CheeBeng (eds) Food and Foodways in Asia: Resource, Tradition and Cooking, London: Routledge: 1–9. Counihan, C. M. (1999) The Anthropology of Food and Body: Gender, Meaning and Power, New York: Routledge. CPLP-Comunidade dos Países de Língua Portuguesa (2016) ‘Histórico – Como Surgiu?’ Accessed online 23 October 2016 at www.cplp.org/id-2752.aspx Da Costa, P. F. (ed) (2016) Medicine, Trade and Empire. Garcia da Orta’s Colloquies on the Simples and Drugs of India (1563) in Context, Oxon: Routledge. Daus, R. (1989) Portuguese Eurasian Communities in Southeast Asia, Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies. Duruz, J. (2005) ‘Eating at the Border: Culinary Journeys’ Environment and Planning D Society and Space, 23: 51–69. Duruz, J. (2016) ‘Love in a Hot Climate: Foodscapes of Trade, Travel, War and Intimacy’ Gastronomic: The Journal of Critical Food Studies, 16(1): 16–27. Farrer, J. (2010) ‘Eating the West and Beating the Rest: Culinary Occidentalism and Urban Soft Power in Asia’s Global Food Cities’ in J. Farrer (ed) Globalization, Food and Social Identities in the Asia Pacific Region, Tokyo: Sophia University Institute of Comparative Culture. http://icc.fla.sophia.ac.jp/global%20 food%20papers/html/farrer.html Fernandis, G. (2000) ‘Papia, Relijang e Tradisang. The Portuguese Eurasians in Malaysia: Bumiquest, A Search for Self Identity’ in Lusotopie: 261–268. Fernandis, G. (2003) ‘The Portuguese Community at the Periphery: A Minority Report on the Portuguese Quest for Bumieputera Status’ in Kajian Malaysia, XXI(1&2): 285–301. Godinho, V. M. (2013) ‘Portugal and Asia in the 16th Century’ in The East-West Institute of Advanced Studies EWIAS Viewpoints, 1: 75–122. Hamilton, C. Y. (2008) Cuisines of Portuguese Encounters, New York: Hippocrene Books, Inc. Hobsbawm, E. and Ranger, T. O. (eds) (1983) The Invention of Tradition, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hutton, W. (2003) Eurasian Favourites, Hong Kong: Periplus Editions. Hutton, W. (2007) The Food of Love: Four Centuries of East-West Cuisine, Singapore: Marshall Cavendish Cuisine. Kawangit, R. M. (2014) ‘Social Integration of Kristang People in Malysia’ in Global Journal of Human-Social Science: Sociology & Culture, 14(1), Version 1: 45–56 accessed online 11 November 2016 at https:// globaljournals.org/GJHSS_Volume14/6-Social-Integration-of-Kristang-People-in-Malaysia.pdf

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Paula Arvela Lazaroo, S. (2016) ‘Chef Nunis’ Cookbook Wins Prestigious Award’ in The Star Online , accessed online 10 July 2016 at www.thestar.com.my/news/nation/2016/06/01/boost-for-kristang-cuisine-chef-nuniscookbook-wins-prestigious-global-award/ Lupton, D. (1996) Food, the Body and the Self, London: Sage Publications. Mamak, A. (2007) ‘In Search of a Macanese Cookbook’ in Sidney C. H. Cheung and Tan Chee-Beng (eds) Food and Foodways in Asia, Oxon: Routledge: 159–170. Marbeck, C. J. (1998) Cuzinhia Cristang. A Mallaca-Portuguese Cookbook, Kuala Lumpur: Tropical Press SDN. BHD. Modesto, M. L. (1982) Comida Tradicional Portuguesa, Lisboa: Verbo Editora. New Straits Times Online (2016) ‘Excessive land Reclamation Means Smaller Catch for Malacca Fisherman’ accessed online 20 December 2016 at http://fw.to/oQO7B0T Nocentelli, C. (2013) Empires of Love. Europe, Asia, and the Making of Early Modern Identity, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Nunis, M. (2014) Kristang Family Cookbook, Singapore: Marshall Cavendish Cuisine. Pires, E. C. R. (2012) ‘Paraísos Desfocados: Nostalgia Empacotada e Conexões Coloniais em Malaca’ unpublished thesis, Instituto Universitário de Lisboa, Lisboa. Sarkissian, M. (2000) D’Albuquerque’s Children. Performing Tradition on Malaysia’ Portuguese Settlement, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Sarkissian, M. (2002) ‘Playing Portuguese: Constructing Identity in Malaysia’s Portuguese Community’ in Diaspora: A Journal of Transnational Studies, 11(2): 215–232. Sarkissian, M. (2005) ‘Being Portuguese in Malacca: The Politics of Folk Culture in Malaysia’ in Ethnográphica, IX(1): 149–170. Sousa Pinto, J. P. (2011) ‘Os Casados de Malaca, 1511–1641: Estratégias de Adaptação e de Sobrevivência’, Blogue de História Lusófoma, AnoVI. Instituto de Estudos Orientais – Universidade Católica Portuguesa: 141–156. The New Eurasian (2011) ‘500 Years of Portuguese Influence in South-east Asia’ accessed online 28 December 2015 at www.eurasians.org.sg/wp-content/uploads/2016/06/13-July-Sept-2011.pdf

Glossary Belacan Condiment widely used in Southeast Asian cooking. Its main ingredient is dried shrimp. Caldu Galinhia Chicken soup/broth. Canje Indian nomenclature for chicken broth. Kristang cuisine adopts the same name. Feng An emblematic dish of Kristang food culture. Feng is prepared with cheaper cuts of meat and plentiful use of offal. Gente Portuguese word for people. Kari Debal Kristang dish translates to devil’s curry, due to the high amount of chillies used in its confection. Kristang Small ethnic and religious community in the state of Melaka, Malaysia. This ethnic minority claims to be descendants of the Portuguese who first arrived to Melaka in 1511. Pang Susis A small baked bun filled with meat and/or vegetables. The dough is bread-like, sweet and enriched with sweet potato, butter and eggs. Pesi Assada/Pesce Assu A baked fish. This dish’s name highlights its lexical similarity with the Portuguese equivalent – peixe assado. Regedor Portuguese name for community leader. It is still used by Kristang people. Vindaloo A curry-like dish ‘imported’ from Goa into Kristang cuisine. Its confection is based on the Portuguese marinade – vinha-d’alhos – a mix of wine and garlic – vinho e alhos – to which other condiments are added.

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7 COOKING IN THE HMONG CULTURAL KITCHEN Hongyan Yang

Introduction Diasporic migration entails the migration of things, and more importantly, the migration of culturally specific ways of inhabiting and using space. Migrants and refugees are often faced with feelings of displacement, marginalization and particularly an unfamiliarity with the new living environment. Hmong refugees in the United States are one such diasporic group. During the Vietnam War, Hmong tribes in Laos helped the American troops in combating the communist forces. Subsequently, the United States enacted the Indochinese Migration and Refugee Assistance Act Amendments of 1976 and the Refugee Act of 1980 to relocate Hmong from communist-controlled areas of Southeast Asia, from Laos to Thai refugee camps, and finally helped them settle in the United States. Before coming to America, Hmong lived in rural huts in Laos and Thai refugee camps, where the everyday living and cooking conditions were of completely different architectural design compared to the American houses they occupy today. How did they negotiate the changed everyday living environment? To what extent were their culturally specific practices made manifest in the domestic landscape? What are the roles of kitchen space in illustrating their adjustment to life in the United States? This chapter explores the domestic culinary practices of Hmong-American families and their negotiation with the home kitchen environment in the United States. By participating in the 2015 Buildings-Landscapes-Cultures Summer Field School at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, I studied three Hmong-American home kitchens in Milwaukee’s Washington Park neighborhood. I will refer to them, respectively, as “Tommy’s family kitchen,” “Mae’s family kitchen” and “Goeliang’s family kitchen.” In collaboration with my research team of the field school, I documented the sensorial experience and materiality of the three Hmong-American family kitchens through participant observation, architectural plans and sketches as well as photographs. Additionally, I conducted oral history interviews with second-generation Hmong-American residents of each Hmong home – Tommy Yang, Mae Vang and Goeliang Yang – as well as other Hmong community members to record and reflect on the culinary practices and experiences of the Hmong people in the neighborhood.1 My study shows that the Hmong-American families readapted the kitchen spaces to conduct traditional cooking, which has brought a different sensorial experience and an informal materiality to the domestic space. The families utilized new cooking ingredients and cooking techniques to re-create traditional Hmong foods and invent new ones. With a focus on kitchen space, this chapter opens a new corridor to think about the Hmong-American culinary experience. 89

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Transition to the United States The Hmong residents living in the Washington Park area of Milwaukee mostly came during the second wave of Southeast Asian immigration around 1980, under the Refugee Act. Compared to the first wave of Southeast Asian immigrants, who were mainly middle-class, educated Vietnamese who came under the Indochinese Migration and Refugee Assistance Act of 1975, the Hmong from Laos were mainly poorly educated and were unfamiliar with American culture. Local humanitarian agencies, such as the Catholic Charities, Inc., and Lutheran Social Services, helped Hmong refugees resettle in Wisconsin, teaching them basic skills to adjust to the unfamiliar environment (Hannah, 1980). Still, being uprooted from Southeast Asia to urban Milwaukee was not an easy process for the Laotians. The Hmong people’s unfamiliarity with American food products and culinary tradition was a major component of their culture shock. Access to food was a particular struggle for the Hmong in Milwaukee. In the 1980s, Milwaukee was still an Asian food desert. Only a few Asian stores existed, and they mostly targeted the local Chinese-American communities that had been in Milwaukee since the late nineteenth century.2 During an interview with Zongsae Vang, the community organizer at the Hmong American Friendship Association in the Washington Park neighborhood, he expressed his difficulties in navigating the mainstream American grocery stores when he first came to Milwaukee in 1988: At that time there was no Walmart, but we went to Food Mart, that was very popular at the time. . . . It was at the 13th and Mitchell Street. But to be honest with you, to get there I don’t know dog food from human food. I remember my uncle was laughing at me because I bought two pork skin that I thought I could come home and cook. And he said, “hey, that’s dog food.” So, oh okay. (Vang, 2015) While pork skin is a common food ingredient in Laos, it is not that common in American cooking. As culture affects the choices of food ingredients, it took Hmong extra efforts to adjust to the different preferences of food ingredients in America. Besides the cultural shock with food ingredients, another challenge is adjusting to different cooking methods. In Southeast Asia, these Hmong were not used to a modern cooking environment. Instead of cooking food over gas cooktops or electric stoves, they cooked food over open fires that were built on dirt floors (Wysocky, 1986). The cooking and dining spaces were very informal; kitchen implements were simply out in the open rather than stored in drawers, cabinets or pantry spaces. Anthropologist Dia Cha provides a vivid description of the cooking and dining conditions in Thai refugee camps: Kitchen utensils were hung on pegs or placed upon open shelves along the walls; firewood was stored against one wall or stacked in a corner; makeshift family dining tables and wooden, or woven bamboo, stools – ranging from six inches to three feet in height – were also in evidence. (Cha, 2005) In contrast to the cooking conditions in Southeast Asia, American middle-class family houses have provided Hmong people with ample spaces for food and kitchen implement storage. This posed new opportunities as well as challenges for Hmong people. How did they cope with the new and different culinary conditions of American middle-class family kitchens? This chapter aims to examine how three Hmong families make use of their domestic kitchens, especially in relation to their everyday culinary activities. 90

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The American kitchen and challenges for ethnic cooking The philosophy of American multiethnic eating emerged early in the interwar period. Although it took some detours, such as the reformation of foreign foodways in the 1930s because of concerns about national public health, America has established itself as a nation long dedicated to culinary diversity (Gabaccia, 1998). However, this nationwide acceptance of ethnic food overlooks the challenges immigrants have been facing in everyday life, in particular, the navigation of American cooking conditions to conduct traditional culinary practices. Immigrants often struggle in ethnic cooking in standardized American kitchens. For example, sociologist Krishnendu Ray notes the awkwardness and inconvenience of Bengali Americans in navigating the American kitchen. Ray states: The bonti [a special kind of Bengali cutting implement] cannot be used without squatting on the floor, and in most American kitchens, that is awkward and inconvenient. For some Bengalis, the transition from the floor to the countertop is less a sign of willing Americanization than a grudging reorientation to a new domestic architecture. (Ray, 2004) This is just one example of a particular ethnic group struggling with cooking in an American kitchen. Similarly, Tasoulla Hadjiyanni and Kristin Helle (2008) point out that Mexican immigrants also experienced difficulties in cooking traditional food in American kitchens. They encountered challenges such as poor ventilation, limited storage cabinets to put special cooking pots and limited space for socializing. Both studies indicate that the American kitchen environment is not necessarily suitable for immigrants to perform traditional cooking activities. Despite the many different practices among ethnic cuisines and cooking habits, some immigrant groups developed convergent creative ways to accommodate ethnic cooking in the United States. Having a second kitchen is one such practice. Architectural historian Elizabeth Cromley (2010) points out that ethnic cooking practices often contradict the goal of American value of maintaining a pristine kitchen environment. She writes, “[B]ecause particularly messy or intense cooking is characteristic of various ethnic groups, they have preserved the habit of a second kitchen.” Cromley illustrates that the Chinese need to locate the kitchen in the basement or in an outbuilding because Chinese cooking produces smells and splashes from cooking food in hot oil in a wok. Although as Cromley argues, having a second kitchen is a common habit among many ethnic groups, it is also important to recognize that such a practice is new in the American context that immigrants developed to live up to their aspiration of American middle-class family life. In the case of Chinese immigrants, a second kitchen did not exist in their original cultural setting. Similarly, architectural historian Lara Pascali (2006) reveals that in order to accommodate seasonal food productions, the first-generation Italians “construct” a second kitchen in the basement to conduct more practical, convenient and comfortable family cooking such as making tomato sauces. For them, the basement kitchen is a liberating space, which stands in contrast to the upstairs’ kitchen that is kept in pristine condition for only occasional use. Architectural historian Kingston Heath (2001) also mentions that cellar kitchens are common among Portuguese homebuyers in New Bedford in Massachusetts. They prefer having the option to work in private cellar kitchens that are not subject to public display to ensure a presentable public space on the main floor. The possibility of accommodating a cellar kitchen is an important consideration when they make house-purchasing decisions. All of these studies conclude in one way or another that some immigrant groups share a kind of cultural anxiety and feel the need to provide a presentable kitchen space in their houses in America. They illustrate immigrants’ creative practices in transforming the domestic space in order to accommodate traditional ethnic cooking practices. 91

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Immigrants’ remaking of domestic cooking spaces is indeed an implicit statement of their awareness and efforts to conform to the different cultural sensibilities and modalities the American kitchens were built on. Many architectural historians have studied American family kitchens in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. During this period, the design of the American kitchen began to emphasize efficiency with many labor-saving appliances introduced to the domestic sphere (Wright, 1983). However, the emphasis on efficiency and comfort did not necessarily create a flexible space for different cooking practices. Priscilla Brewer (2000) attributes this to the fact that most designers were men, who were concerned most with “fuel economy and warmth rather than the taste of food or the case of its preparation.” The advance of kitchen furnishing was not a priority for American families in the early twentieth century. Ruth Cowan (1983) observes that kitchen storage facilities such as kitchen cabinets were not common and were only beginning to appear in more prosperous homes. She describes: What storage there was might have consisted of a few shelves, some pegs, a box under the bed, perhaps a chest of drawers, perhaps an old trunk. Lacking storage, everything that was needed for living and for working was out in the open nearly all the time. (Cowan, 1983) Olive Graffam (1998) attributes the lack of built-in kitchen storage space to the presence of pantries as well as the households’ priorities on furnishing formal spaces such as the parlor or dining room. While the development of kitchen furnishings was not a priority, the pristine condition of the kitchen environment was important to the gentility of American middle-class families. Cellar kitchens were commonly found in urban houses in the second half of the nineteenth century because householders wanted to separate the dirt and smells of cooking from the rest of the house, despite the inconvenience created as a result of separating food production from food consumption (Cromley, 2010; Herman, 2005). American kitchen designs at this time centered on energy efficiency and pristine environment, rather than cooking practices and convenience. The three domestic kitchens used by the Hmong-American families today were originally built for middle-class European-American families in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. These kitchens did not provide culturally accessible space for Hmong cooking. This research aims to explore how the Hmong-American families navigate the kitchen environment and create culturally unique culinary landscapes based on their culturally specific culinary practices.

The Hmong cultural kitchen The sensorial experience of the Hmong cultural kitchen The particularity of the Hmong cultural kitchen can be sensed even before it is seen. The smells from traditional Hmong food give the kitchen a unique identity. Before walking into Mae’s family kitchen from the back door of the house, the research team was surrounded by the strong fermented smells of dried meat and herbs hanging in the kitchen. This clearly reminded us that it is no longer an American middle-class family kitchen as it used to be. When asked if she sensed the smell of the kitchen, Mae answered, “I do smell it but it’s like a smell I know” (Vang, 2015). Mae explained that she grew up watching her mother cook. Her mother’s cooking is crucial to her sense of home. She mentioned: It’s just a different environment feel, when my mom is not home and when she is home. When she is home, she is usually the one [who] occupies the kitchen . . . when 92

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I come home, she is not home yet, it feels kind of empty, like my mom is not home to cook for me. (Vang, 2015) Unlike many outsiders, who may not be able to get used to the strong smell of the kitchen momentarily, Mae holds onto her mother’s cooking and the smell of it for a sense of comfort and familiarity. Similarly, Tommy’s family kitchen was filled with the smell of herbs that came from the boiled chicken. A moderate smell of Asian cooking brought a sense of home to this house. During the interview, Tommy described: There are some Hmong foods that use a lot of fermented fish and stuff, so it got really bad smell. So usually we don’t do it inside, but outside in the backyard. But talking about just regular Asian food smell and the Hmong food smell, I think it’s fine. It brings in the sense of home to the house. It just makes you feel comfortable because it’s something you eat and grow fond of. (Yang, 2015) Compared with Mae’s family kitchen, Tommy’s family kitchen does not have a very strong fermented smell, which especially troubles Tommy’s cousins. Fish sauce, a common-used sauce in Hmong cooking, is not often used in this house because Tommy’s cousins do not like the fermented fish smell. Tommy attributed this to their more Americanized living styles. Unlike his cousins, who grew up with their parents in a small household, Tommy was brought up in a big traditional Hmong household where the smells of traditional Hmong foods were often present. The more controlled smell in his cousins’ house reflects family members’ compromise based on the preferences of family members. Goeliang’s family kitchen presents a stricter regulation on food smells. Cooking traditional meals, such as boiled chicken and boiled beef, brings strong herbal smells to the kitchen. Goeliang pointed out that her mother did not like food smells lingering in the house and installed a kitchen ventilator two or three years ago (Yang, 2015). Goeliang’s mother’s attempt to regulate the smells from cooking attests to a feature of Hmong cooking, which often produces strong smells. The Hmong cultural kitchen would have been filled with the strong smells from traditional Hmong cooking without special devices like exhaust ventilators.

The materiality of the Hmong cultural kitchen Tommy’s family kitchen Tommy’s house was built for the Reisner family in 1909. The house currently hosts five family members: Tommy, Tommy’s aunt and uncle and their two children. The family kitchen is located at the back of the house on the second floor. Like most of the middle-class family houses in the early twentieth century, the kitchen was not furnished with built-in cabinets for storage. Instead, a connected pantry room was built to function as kitchen storage. The first impression of Tommy’s family kitchen was that it looked very temporary. The kitchen has undergone minimal changes in the last three years since Tommy moved into this house in 2013. Tommy’s aunt and uncle have occupied it for seven years. It is simply furnished with a single cabinet, a kitchen stove, a kitchen table, an open shelf and a refrigerator (Figure 7.1). Things are organized in a seemingly chaotic order with seasonings and spices displayed openly 93

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Figure 7.1 Kitchen plan of Tommy’s house Measured and drawn by Jiajun Yin and author.

on the shelf and others in the pantry room (Figure 7.2 and Figure 7.3). The layout and exposure of many different seasonings and spices can be explained through Hmong culinary practices. Tommy stated: The seasonings outside the pantry room [on the open shelf] [are] more convenient for us when we are cooking. The ones out there are usually like salt and pepper. Everyone in the family, we taste when we cook. It’s like a common sense that keeps tasting it until it tastes good. We do that a lot, so it’s more convenient to have it out there. (Yang, 2015) Unlike American cooking, Hmong cooking does not use measuring implements, which were unavailable in the Hmong kitchens in Laos. While cooking, Hmong people like to keep tasting food to see if the taste is about right and add seasonings when needed (Scripter & Yang, 2009). Having seasonings within easy reach at all times is more convenient for them. The elicitation interview with Shuayee Ly, a Hmong-American student at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, also noted that when Hmong people cook, they like to use many kinds 94

Figure 7.2 Stove and open shelf in Tommy’s family kitchen Drawn by Jiajun Yin.

Figure 7.3 Pantry room in Tommy’s house Drawn by Jiajun Yin.

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of seasonings and they cook multiple times a day; laying them out makes it easy (Ly, 2015). Interestingly, Yee Yang, the son of the owner of the Hmong grocery store C&S in this neighborhood, mentioned: I feel my kitchen is the same as my parents. I mean they have spices lined out you know . . . for whatever you want to cook out, you have spices. It’s not like an American home where they have a spice rack and stuff you know . . . my parents’ kitchen and my kitchen, we have the spices lined out on the table, so it is easy to grab for what we decide to cook. But for like an American home, they would have a spice rack and they would have to go back to a spice rack. You know come in and take it out to cook. So that’s the difference I see from I know a more Americanized kitchen and a more cultural kitchen. (Yang, 2015) Yee recalled that when he was young, his parents built a cabinet in the kitchen, but it was barely used. This again implies that the casual organization of the spices and seasonings in the kitchen is indeed a cultural preference rather than an economic limitation.3 Tommy’s family also stocks a large quantity of big cooking pots, although the pots are no longer needed for supporting the current size of the family, and there are no extended families living nearby. Tommy explained, “So it’s more like a tradition or like a cultural thing to have these kinds of things ready. So when [or] if there are a lot of people coming to your house, then you should be able to feed all of them instead of going crazy or only feed a few at a time” (Yang, 2015). The readiness of Tommy’s family to serve food for more people than actually needed mirrors the life of Hmong in Southeast Asia, where extended families often live close by and share resources (Donnelly, 1994).

Mae’s family kitchen Mae’s house was built in 1909 for the Piepkorn family. Similar to Tommy’s house, the kitchen (Figure 7.4) in this house has a pantry room connected to it and displays a seemingly chaotic pattern. Although this house now has a built-in kitchen cabinet above the kitchen sink, it is not enough for Mae’s family to stock all they have. A free-standing open cabinet was added to the north side of the kitchen (Figure 7.5). This cabinet is used to keep the often-used seasonings and spices on the top platform, a microwave in the middle and some extra stocks of seasonings and plastic bags at the bottom. The pantry room holds many other seasonings, spices, sauces, plates and pots. It is very packed similar to the one in Tommy’s home (see Figure 7.3). When asked about the organization of the kitchen, Mae said, “Most of the sauces we have are on top of the microwave up there. The little sauces are in the pantry. That’s for the big dishes such as pho and chicken curry. Because we only use that once in a while when we do cook the pho” (Vang, 2015). The sauces that are on top of the small cabinet are the ones the family uses more often. Again, culinary practice helps explain the arrangement around the kitchen. In terms of who made order in the kitchen, Mae responded: My mom organizes everything, cause when we try to, we misplace stuff. She gets upset about it. She is like this goes here in a certain spot. Okay. . . . So we just let her reorganize everything. I kind of know where everything goes, and I try my best to not misplace it at a different spot or something. (Vang, 2015) 96

Figure 7.4 Kitchen plan of Mae’s house Measured and drawn by Jiajun Yin and author.

Figure 7.5 Free-standing open cabinet in Mae’s family kitchen Drawn by Jiajun Yin.

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Mae paid extra attention to her mother’s way of organizing the kitchen space and made an effort to arrange the space according to her mother’s arrangements. This makes an interesting connection to the organization of the Hmong grocery store C&S. Yee mentioned: There isn’t a way of organizing things. It’s just a way my parents thought it should be. . . . I can’t make the decision for them. They are the ones who made it. We tried to bring the sauces, cause you guys see the sauce aisle, if I were to bring them back here, I think they would kind of get mad. This wouldn’t be what they see as a sauce aisle. I guess they see it as in the middle. (Yang, 2015) Although the logic of older-generation knowledge in arranging the space is not clear to the second-generation Hmong-American children, nor to outsiders, respect for their parents’ authority overrides their preference.

Goeliang’s family kitchen Goeliang’s home was built in 1896 for the Bow family. It is similar to the other two houses in that the kitchen is located at the back of the house. What is different is that this kitchen does not come with a pantry room, but includes more plentiful built-in kitchen cabinet spaces at the west and south sides of the kitchen (Figure 7.6).

Figure 7.6 Kitchen plan of Goeliang’s house Measured and drawn by Jiajun Yin and author.

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Figure 7.7 A view of Goeliang’s family kitchen Drawn by Jiajun Yin.

The kitchen in Goeliang’s house presents a tidier order compared to the other two households (Figure 7.7). This is the biggest household with fourteen family members. Providing sustenance could have been very difficult. It is evident that Goeliang’s mother made a lot of effort in regulating the space in the kitchen. Goeliang explained that the refrigerator that stopped working a couple years ago was saved by her mother. She used it for storage, as there was insufficient cabinet space. When asked about the neat organization of the kitchen, Goeliang explained: Because my mom doesn’t like a lot of things out, so we usually just keep them in the cabinets because she will get mad if it is out there. So we usually just put it back. She really doesn’t like a lot of things being [exposed] anyway. We usually just keep it in the cabinet to make it easier, more space to look kind of clean. It makes our [lives] easier, than complicated. Although this kitchen represents a quite different order compared with the other two family kitchens, it again proves the authority of the first generation in regulating the kitchen space.

Cooking in the Hmong cultural kitchen Rice “To be Hmong is to eat rice” (Scripter & Yang, 2009). Rice is the most important staple in the Hmong diet. A newspaper article entitled “A New Home, A New Life” profiled a Hmong family that refused to abandon the habit of eating rice, which was among the few items they carried 99

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with them from overseas (Dennis, 1979). The traditional Hmong way of cooking rice is through steaming. Scripter and Yang (2009) note that in Laos, Hmong people cook rice using a Thai steamer that consists of “a cone-shaped woven basket and an aluminum hourglass-shaped pot and a lid.” Goeliang’s family continues this traditional way of cooking rice, and Goeliang explained: We don’t really have a common dish besides rice. Rice everyday. I don’t really know why we did that. We don’t really use electrical rice cooker cause my mom or me, we are not big fans of it, so we usually just cook our rice on the stove. . . . It [using the rice cooker to cook rice] is easy, but maybe the texture or the smell of it. I don’t know. We just don’t. We just kind of growing up just want to steam rice. (Yang, 2015) The preference for steaming rice was passed down to the second generation, who became accustomed to it without consciously knowing the origin of this cooking tradition. Goeliang’s family usually steams rice on the stove by using a big pot to hold water and a plastic strainer to hold the rice. Rice is cooked by the hot steam rising from the pot of water through the plastic strainer above. According to Goeliang, the cooking process also demands a longer preparation time, starting from soaking the rice overnight or a couple of hours in advance before cooking it on the stove. Cooking rice on the stove usually takes another hour and half. Although it is very time consuming, the rice cooker is rarely used by Goeliang’s family, only in rare cases when the family needs rice right away. The soaked rice on the kitchen counter brings a unique culinary landscape into this family kitchen (Figure 7.8).

Figure 7.8 Soaking the rice Photograph by author, June 2015.

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Boiled meats Boiled meats, such as boiled chicken, boiled beef and boiled pork, are important traditional Hmong dishes. Tommy explained, “Because traditionally Hmong people . . . all they had was water, salt and meat, so all they had to eat was boiled chicken, boiled pork and they had rice.” Tommy’s description of the availability of ingredients in Laos may be a little exaggerated, but he nevertheless implies the nature of traditional Hmong cooking – that is, Hmong people like cooking with what they have (Scripter & Yang, 2009). To add different flavors, herbs are added to the boiling of meat. Cooking meat by boiling remains the principal method of traditional Hmong cooking. Tommy stated, “[In Laos] Hmong didn’t have stuff to fry or roast, so it was a lot of boiling” (Yang, 2015). In Laos, where ovens were uncommon and oil was unavailable except rarely from animal sources, food was usually boiled and steamed over clay stoves (Scripter & Yang, 2009). The simplicity of ingredients and cooking techniques makes boiled meat one of the typical Hmong dishes in Laos. Besides practical reasons, boiled meats are crucial meals for Hmong people because they symbolize a way of life. Hmong consider that food should contribute to the healing process of the human body and spirit (Scripter & Yang, 2009). These boiled dishes often contain a variety of herbs, such as lemongrass, which are considered crucial to healing. Many Hmong families, like Mae’s family, grow herbs in planters, in their backyards and community gardens. Hmong families usually process the herbs through pounding them in a mortar with a pestle, an indispensable implement in the Hmong kitchen. In their book Cooking from the Heart: The Hmong Kitchen in America, Script and Yang (2009) share the experience of Sheng – a person of Hmong origin – in cooking in Sami’s American kitchen. They note that Sami, a Caucasian American, whose kitchen is not equipped with the ingredients and tools needed to prepare traditional Hmong foods. Sheng was looking for a tais tshuaj khib – a stone mortar and pestle – to pound carrots with garlic. According to Script and Yang, pounding the herbs and other ingredients together is important in creating an authentic Hmong taste. The presence of a mortar and pestle in the three Hmong kitchens gives the kitchens a clear Hmong identity. Today, the three Hmong-American families cook the typical boiled dishes in an effort to maintain health and preserve cultural memories. Tommy said, “Boiled chicken is a common dish in our home and in a lot of Hmong homes . . . it is something the Hmong cherish a lot. In our family, we boil a whole chicken for four to five people. We eat for one to two days.” Boiled chicken reminds Tommy of women in pregnancy. In Laos, Hmong served boiled chicken to women after childbirth for about a month to help them recover (Yang, 2015). A pot of boiled chicken was sitting on the stove of Tommy’s family kitchen during our visit (Figure 7.9). Tommy said that the herbs in the soup prevent the chicken from going bad. Thus, even though it was a hot summer day, Tommy’s family kept the boiled chicken on the stovetop, instead of putting it in the refrigerator. In fact, leaving perishable food outside the refrigerator is common among Hmong-American households, as Hmong in Southeast Asia typically do not have access to refrigerators. This frequently increases food spoilage (Mary Jo, 1988). The placement of cooked food and food ingredients on the kitchen countertops and stovetops has reshaped the landscape of domestic kitchens. Boiling meats are common dishes of Goeliang’s family as well. Goeliang said, “We usually cook a lot of beefs and chickens. Vegetables, we usually just use whatever we have in the fridge. It’s usually different everyday. We usually stock green onions and cilantros. Those probably are the daily stuff we use” (Yang, 2015). This reflects the flexibility Goeliang’s family has with the ingredients for the dishes, connecting to the Hmong cooking tradition of using what is available. Herbs are crucial in most Hmong dishes in addition to vegetables. Goeliang’s family wrap the 101

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Figure 7.9 Boiled chicken Photograph by author, June 2015.

herbs they obtain from other friends and ethnic grocery stores in foil paper and store them in the freezer. These are taken out whenever they need to cook boiled meats. The importance of herbs in Hmong meals has increased the family’s attention to their perishability, thus making extra effort to preserve them. Boiled chicken is also a common dish in Mae’s family. They consider chicken important to the family’s health. Chicken is also crucial to the Hmong traditional way of life and has many symbolic meanings. These cultural meanings include using chicken to “heal the sick, divine providence, and guarantee good fortune. . . . Chickens have an important part in birth, soul-calling, naming, marriage, and death rituals” (Scripter & Yang, 2009). Boiled chicken is considered by the Hmong to be their favorite dish. Instead of consuming chickens that are available in mainstream grocery stores, Mae’s family prefer hand-raised chickens and butchering them in a particular way to ensure the taste they desire. Mae mentioned that they bought live chickens from the farm on the south side of Milwaukee and brought them home for butchering (Mae, 2015). This preference for purchasing live chickens is common among the Hmong community in the United States.

New cooking techniques Besides the traditional culinary practices brought in by the older generation, Hmong-American families also started to embrace new culinary practices with the availability of new resources and means for cooking. Recently embraced frying and baking cooking techniques were found in the Hmong-American households I studied. 102

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Back in Laos, oil was expensive for most Hmong families. Sometimes they were able to obtain fat from butchering pigs. But in general, oil was out of reach for most Hmong families. Pan-frying, deep-frying, and broiling are cooking techniques Hmong recently adopted after they came to America, where oil is more affordable (Scripter & Yang, 2009). However, their previous conceptualization of the high economic value of oil influences how they use it today. Usually, oil for deep-frying is used for four or five times before it gets thrown away. Tommy’s family uses oil to deep-fry bread or chicken and pan-fry broccoli and beef (Yang, 2015). Tommy’s family kitchen displayed the used oil on the upper-left corner of the stovetop (see Figure 7.9). The family saved it to reuse for the next deep-fried meal. Similarly, Goeliang’s family also left the saved oil on the kitchen countertop for next-time usage (see Figure 7.8). So leaving used oil by the stove or on the countertop together with other food ingredients that are normally stored in the refrigerator adds to the distinctive landscape in Hmong cultural kitchens. The wide availability of kitchen ovens also enabled Hmong families to start baking foods. As ovens were unavailable to most Hmong families in Laos, baking was not a traditional cooking technique for Hmong families (Scripter & Yang, 2009). Tommy’s aunt, who was born in Laos, nowadays frequently bakes the dish the family calls “Hmong bread.” Tommy said, “It’s a common food; tastes like a lot like American bakery. Aunt made it a Hmong style” (Yang, 2015). The ingredients of this dish include gluten flour, yeast, sugar and eggs, which are often obtained from Asian grocery stores. According to Tommy, her aunt uses noodle flours to make the bread, creating a different texture of the bread but tasting similar to breads in an American bakery in some ways. Tommy’s aunt has adopted the practice of baking in America but uses traditional Hmong ingredients to give it a distinctive taste.

Conclusion This chapter has considered the articulation of the diasporic experience in relation to domestic culinary space. My case studies reveal that the Hmong cultural kitchens offer a culturally specific experience through the smells of the food, the arrangement of the kitchen and traditional Hmong diets. The seemingly chaotic materiality of the kitchens is actually in their cultural order, which is shaped by their everyday traditional and innovative culinary practices, as well as the authority of first-generation Hmong parents in regulating the space. Influenced by their traditional practices in Southeast Asia, the Hmong-American families have brought a sense of informality and casualness to the domestic kitchens. They seek to consume familiar food or use traditional cooking techniques to maintain cultural continuity and search for cultural comfort. At the same time, they also learned to re-create traditional dishes and invented new dishes using readily available new ingredients and cooking techniques in the United States. Previous studies on Hmong culinary practices have noted the specificity of their cooking techniques and equipment, particularly the cultural meanings of their traditional food and the sensorial experiences of their cooking environment (Scripter & Yang, 2009; Hadjiyanni, 2009). However, these studies underplay the significance of kitchen space in illuminating Hmong-American experiences. Studies on other racial and ethnic groups have demonstrated that kitchen environments in immigrant homes are important in understanding the adjustment process of immigrant groups (Hadjiyanni & Helle, 2008; Ray, 2004; Cromley, 2010; Pascali, 2006; Heath, 2001; Pader, 1993). This study sheds light on the materiality of Hmong kitchen environments and how they shape and are shaped by Hmong everyday culinary practices. It is not only a simple presentation of the physical culinary conditions of Hmong cultural kitchens but more importantly a presentation of the Hmong’s particular ways of inhabiting the physical spaces that were built for earlier European Americans. While most diasporas like the Hmong are faced 103

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with difficulties in adapting to the different environments during resettlement, this research also demonstrates the power of culturally specific culinary practices in reshaping the sensorial experience and physical conditions of space and bringing the space a new cultural identity.

Acknowledgement The author is indebted to the Buildings-Landscapes-Cultures Field School of the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, in particular, the field-school instructor Arijit Sen, for opening the doors of the Hmong homes to conduct this research project. Special thanks should be given to my group member Jiajun Yin, who provided indispensable help during field measurement and drawing. My appreciation also goes to Jasmine Benyamin, who provided precise and helpful editorial suggestions. In addition, I am extremely thankful for Elizabeth Cromley’s invaluable suggestions on researching small culinary spaces. Finally, the author is profoundly grateful for the many Hmong-American residents who participated in the oral history interviews and provided such rich ethnographic sources.

Notes 1 University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee IRB Approval date: March 14, 2014. IRB Protocol Number: 14.307. 2 The 1980 Milwaukee City Directory listed only few Asian stores, including Hong Fat Co., Asian Mart and Wing Fat Co Chinese provisions & sup. (1980). Wright’s Milwaukee City Directories, Kansas City, MO: Wright Directory Co. 3 This is similar to Pader’s argument about the sleeping quarters in Mexican homes: when a family had a chance to separate sleeping quarters they didn’t do so because they prefer the company. E. Pader (1993), Spatiality and Social Change: Domestic Space Use in Mexico and the United States, American Ethnologist 20 (1), 114–37.

Bibliography Brewer, P. (2000). From Fireplace to Cookstove: Technology and the Domestic Ideal in America. Syracuse: Syracuse University Press. Cha, D. (2005). Hmong and Lao Refugee Women: Reflections of a Hmong-American Woman. Hmong Studies Journal, 6, 1–35. Cowan, R. (1983). More Work for Mother: The Ironies of Household Technology from the Open Hearth to the Microwave. New York: Basic Books. Cromley, E. (2010). The Food Axis. Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press. Dennis, C. (1979, February 5). A New Home, A New Life. The Milwaukee Journal. Retrieved from http://infoweb. newsbank.com/resources/doc/nb/image/v2:1477BB DEA50EB75C @EANX-156EA6090259547A @2443910156EA22B64D5F85B @12?p=EANX-NB. Donnelly, N. (1994). Changing Lives of Refugee Hmong Women. Seattle and London: University of Washington Press. Gabaccia, D. (1998). We Are What We Eat: Ethnic Food and the Making of Americans. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Graffam, O. (1998). “They Are Very Handy”: Kitchen Furnishings, 1875–1920. In E. Thompson (Ed.), The American Home: Material Culture, Domestic Space and Family Life (pp. 217–40). Winterthur: Henry Francis du Pont Winterthur Museum. Hadjiyanni, T. (2009). Aesthetics in Displacement: Hmong, Somali and Mexican Home-Making Practices in Minnesota. International Journal of Consumer Studies, 33 (5), 541–9. Hadjiyanni, T., & Helle, K. (2008). Kitchen as Cultural Mediums: The Food Experiences of Mexican Immigrants in Minnesota. Housing and Society, 35 (2), 97–116. Hannah, S. (1980, July 20). Resettlement Brings Peace, Fear. Milwaukee Journal Sentinel. Retrieved from http://infoweb.newsbank.com/resources/doc/nb/image/page/v2: 1477BBDEA5 0EB75C@EANX 16087D7C97F0C54E@244444116087C50F 8466A12@0?p=WORLDNEWS.

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Cooking in the Hmong cultural kitchen Heath, K. (2001). The Patina of Place. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press. Herman, B. (2005). Town House: Architecture and Material Life in the American City: 1780–1830. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Ly, S. (2015, June 2). Personal interview with author. Mary Jo, B. (1988, March). Hmong Refugees and the US Health System. Cultural Survival Quarterly Magazine. Retrieved from www.culturalsurvival.org/ publications/ cultural-survival-quarterly/12–1health-and-healing. Pader, E. (1993). Spatiality and Social Change: Domestic Space Use in Mexico and the United States. American Ethnologist, 20 (1), 114–37. Pascali, L. (2006). Two Stove, Two Refrigerators, Due Cucine: The Italian Immigrant Home with Two Kitchens. Gender, Place and Culture, 13 (6), 685–95. Ray, K. (2004). The Migrant’s Table: Meals and Memories in Bengali-American Households. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Scripter, S., & Yang, S. (2009). Cooking from the Heart: The Hmong Kitchen in America. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Vang, M. (2015, July 27). Personal interview with author. Vang, Z. (2015, June 18). Personal interview with author. Wright, G. (1983). Building the Dream: A Social History of Housing in America. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Wysocky, K. (1986, July 14). Hmong Must Combat Harassment While Adjusting to an Alien Culture. Milwaukee Sentinel. Box1, folder 13. Ethnic Collection. Milwaukee County Historical Society, Milwaukee, WI. Yang, G. (2015, July 20). Personal interview with author. Yang, T. (2015, July 10). Personal interview with author. Yang, Y. (2015, June 17). Personal interview with author. Yang, Y. (2015, July 6). Personal interview with author.

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PART 2

Food rites and rituals

8 EATING OF WOOD The practice of mokujiki in Japan Jon Morris

Mokujiki 木食 (“eating of trees/wood”) practices typically involve the abstention from cereals and cooked foods and the consumption of foods available in a mountain forest, such as nuts, berries and tree bark. As a diet, it is intended to provide the best possible nutrition to both spirit and body by abandoning worldly staples in favour of the more spiritual foodstuffs of the mountains. Mokujiki practice is particularly associated with Shugendō 修験道 and esoteric Buddhist traditions, and is linked to certain traditions of Buddhist statuary and mummification in Japan. Forms of mokujiki were practised in ancient, medieval, early modern and modern Japan, often within the more institutionally marginal Buddhist religious groups. It continues to be practised today, practically always as an aspect of “mountain religion” (sangaku shinkō 山岳信仰). Mokujiki was a practice undertaken in some cases for life through the taking of vows, but it was and is much more usually practised for a fixed period. The difference between the positive (actively eating nuts, pine cones and other foods distinctive to this ascetic diet) and negative elements (avoiding certain foods, mainly cereals) of mokujiki is not always easy to distinguish in usage. Though ancient examples can be found which suggest the practice of one without the other (see for example the discussion of Kūkai 空海 774–835 in this chapter), some scholars use the terms mokujiki and kokudachi 穀断ち (abstention from cereals) interchangeably. The proper usage, then, varies in accordance with source materials. This study approaches mokujiki as a single mode of dietary practice, but the institutional affiliations and religious goals of its practitioners vary considerably. Some practitioners were officially ordained monks, predominantly of the Shingon sect. Others took mokujiki vows and lived as itinerant ascetics with or without official ordination, often devoted to the Buddha Amida. Some practitioners aimed to become sokushinbutsu 即身仏, “buddhas in this very body”. This meant practising mokujiki and fasting until the point of death, after which the enlightened monk would be hailed a buddha and his mummified body venerated. Mokujiki and fasting were necessary for a long process of reducing body fat to the point that the body could be preserved with limited use of artificial means. The practical link between mokujiki and sokushinbutsu has been discussed at length in previous research (e.g. Matsumoto 1985: 50–53; Nihon Miira Kenkyū Guru-pu 1993: 268–278). Arguably, diet was the most accurate indicator of social distinction in pre-modern Japan. Mokujiki practitioners are set apart from other people, including other ascetics and religious, by their diet. Despite a growing interest in the topic of religion and food in recent years, research on 109

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mokujiki has mainly been concerned with the practice as an aspect of Buddhist mummification, Buddhist art or Buddhist history in Japan. Having introduced some core aspects of the intellectual history of mokujiki, this chapter presents problematic examples of its diversity in dietary practice.

Mokujiki and theory Small wonder too that voluntary starvation, deliberate and extreme renunciation of food and drink, seemed to medieval people the most basic asceticism, requiring the kind of courage and holy foolishness that marked the saints. (Bynum 1985: 2)

Thanks to the work of scholars such as Bynum, studies of medieval and early modern Christianity focusing on food are now in the mainstream. This transition has yet to occur in religious studies and intellectual history on and in Japan, although studies under the headings of religion and food are now emerging. For example, the September 2016 issue of the main journal of the Japanese Association for Religious Studies, the Journal of Religious Studies (Shūkyō Kenkyū 宗教研 究 Vol. XC-2 No 386), was a special issue on food and religion. Diet and food events themselves, however, often receive little attention relative to exclusively doctrinal or institutional concerns. The food culture approach to mokujiki deserves more attention from scholars of Japanese religions, and the ways in which food culture theory may be applied to it would be of interest to many of those working in that developing field. Mokujiki is a prime example of a phenomenon best explained by the theories scholars such as Mary Douglas have offered: food culture as a key factor in separating types of behaviour, projecting social realities and organizing symbolic worlds. Mokujiki food events are highly structured by a close and (to those involved) necessary association between certain foodstuffs, a significant aspect of food culture theory as put forward by Douglas (Douglas 1982: 82–124). She also suggests food events are composed according to an accepted structure following rules similar to those used for writing poetry (Douglas 1997: 36–54). Mokujiki is a food-centred practice in which the rules for eating and the significance of the eating have often been reflected in artistic output, particularly poetry, statuary and written iconography. This significance received and expressed through food is a prerequisite for the realization of more “practical” concerns, such as the blessings received and transmitted by practitioners. A very useful theoretical framework for Japanese models of buddhahood through dietary asceticism can be found in a recent monograph by Tullio Lobetti (Lobetti 2013: 131–136). He devotes several pages to the sokushinbutsu, characterizing their practice as “corporis ascensus”. This means a bodily ascension to a sublime or transcendental physical state in which the normal paradigms of physicality no longer apply, death is wholly rationalized and the power to help others is generated in abundance. This ascension is typically one that is characterized by a physical progression through a series of Shugendō rituals and ascetic practices, and has a grounding in the esoteric Buddhist paradigm of achieving buddhahood in this very body, sokushinjōbutsu 即身 成仏. Though not all mokujiki practitioners actively aspired to being sokushinbutsu, the corporis ascensus paradigm may be understood to apply to mokujiki even where it is not taken to the point of bodily realization of buddhahood. Mokujiki has also been practised within generally nonesoteric paradigms of Buddhist practice, even in Amidist traditions. Its essential purpose even in these traditions is to allow the body to ascend toward the buddhas by abandoning a secular diet in favour of a diet that brings spiritual power and bodily purity. “Corporis ascensus” understood as bodily realization of faith through diet encompasses all mokujiki practitioners. 110

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The roots of mokujiki Taoist and Buddhist thought and institutions The word mokujiki literally means “eating wood” and therefore particularly implies the active consumption of wood and tree-related foods in addition to indicating the practice as a whole, particularly when used as a proper noun for its practitioners. Kokudachi implies abstinence from five or ten staple cereals: rice, barley, soybeans, red beans, sesame seeds, millet, broomcorn, panic grass seeds, buckwheat and wheat. The term “five cereals” (Jp. Gokoku Ch. Wuˇguˇ 五穀) in particular has long been a synecdoche for the common agricultural cereals of East Asia and is often used in this way. From the earliest to the latest instantiations, there is variation in the lists of cereals that make up the five and the ten. The abstention from cereals is a direct import from China, where it is still practised today as bìguˇ 辟穀. Campany’s research tells us that abstaining from grains was common among Chinese ascetics seeking long life and transcendence by the late second and first centuries BCE (Campany 2005: 37). Bìguˇ, read Jp. hekikoku 辟穀, came to be practised in Japan for the same medicinal purposes of developing health and long life in the Taoist mode (Shimode 1975: 38ff, 124ff). Though there came to be some degree of crossover between the Buddhist and Taoist ideals of the holy being in Japanese thought and culture, this diet has definite roots in Taoist thought and practice. One aspect of Taoist influence on mokujiki was the concept of the “three worms” (三虫; Ch. Sānchóng, Jp. sanchū or sanshi 三尸 three corpses) which dwell in the human body and speed its degeneration and death, especially if fed with cereals. The limited diet to which the aspiring Taoist immortal in the mountains would adhere was precisely that which was guaranteed to fend off the depredations of the three worms and bring the practitioner closer to spiritual power and immortality. In Edo-period Japan, many ordinary people would observe the Kōshin 庚 申 day. This was the fifty-seventh day of each sixty-day cycle in the Taoist calendar when the three worms ascend to Heaven and report their host’s transgressions during the previous cycle to the Emperor of Heaven. On that evening, believers would gather and pray to the Kōshin deity for protection, staying awake to prevent the three worms leaving the body to make their report (Yanagita 1951: 196–197). Thus, there was an implicit connection between accountability, punishment and diet, which makes considerable sense if the rigidly controlled production and consumption of cereals are the dominant social imperatives. Largely due to the influence of the Taoist cultural milieu, the consumption of tree-based foods such as wood, leaves, pine needles and nuts came to be seen in East Asian asceticism and folk religion as contributing to the development of longevity and spiritual powers. Numerous Chinese works, such as the Lúshān Jì 廬山記 (1072), extol the spiritual and physical benefits of consuming parts of trees, especially the long-lived pine (de Groot 1969: 295–300; Matsumoto 1985: 53–56). Carmen Blacker quotes a Mr. Mizoguchi on Mt. Yudono 湯殿 as having lived “many days . . . on pine needles” which were “unexpectedly nourishing, and conducive to the development of second sight and clairaudient hearing” (Blacker 1986: 88). In recent years I have met mokujiki practitioners affiliated with the Mt. Yudono tradition who make similar claims. The purifying effects of the Taoist mountain diet were surely fundamental to its adoption within Chinese Buddhist practices of bodily perfection and immolation. Benn’s work on selfimmolation in Chinese Buddhism introduces the monk Huìyì 慧益 (d. 463 CE) as an example of Taoist grain abstention in preparation for his immolation by fire (Benn 2007: 36–37). Mokujiki has a definite place in esoteric Buddhist culture, though it is not a practice found in the esoteric Buddhist canon. The Mikkyō Jiten 密教辞典 (Dictionary of Esoteric Buddhism) tells us that there is no canonical basis for the practice (Sawa 1983: 671) but states that it is mentioned in 111

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the Sòng Gāosēng Zhuàn 宋高僧伝 (Song Lives of Eminent Monks). In the eighth volume of the Song Lives of Eminent Monks, in the life of Shìzhì Fēng 釈智封 we read that this monk took up “wood eating and moist food” (木食澗飯).1 Perhaps “moist food” meant consuming cloud and moisture in the manner of a mountain-dwelling Taoist immortal. Perhaps it implies dew-soaked berries, fungi and such-like. Conceivably, the term might refer to the flour of wild oats mixed into a paste with water, in the manner adopted by many Japanese practitioners of later periods. There are a considerable number of other references to the practice of mokujiki in the Chinese Buddhist canon and sufficient usage of the characters 木 and 食 together to demonstrate that this was a distinct verb/noun in itself, not merely the noun “wood/tree” used in conjunction with the verb “to eat”. The earliest usage in the Chinese Tripitaka is in the Zhōng Āhán Jīng 中阿 含經, the Chinese translation of the Madhyamâgama Middle Length Āgama Sutras.2 It appears in key Chinese sutras, such as the Púsà Běnshēngmán Lùn 菩薩本生鬘論, Dàfāngguaˇng Fó Huāyánjīng Suíshū Yaˇnyì Chāo 大方廣佛華嚴經隨疏演義鈔 and Shì Mén Zhāng Fú Yí 釋門章服儀.3 It also appears in Chinese Zen texts, including the Réntiān Yaˇnmù 人天眼目, Huángbòshān Duànjì Chánshī Chuánxīn Faˇyào 黄檗山斷際禪師傳心法要 and Chánlín Baˇoxùn 禅林宝訓.4 Further examples appear in Buddhist biographical and historical works such as the Fózuˇ Lìdài Tōngzài 佛祖歷 代通載, Shìshì Jīguˇlüè 釋氏稽古略, Gāosēng Zhuàn 高僧傳 and Xù Gāosēng Zhuàn 續高僧傳.5 We can only speculate as to the influence of any of these canonical instantiations on mokujiki in Japan. In contrast, devotion to Kūkai (Kōbō Daishi 弘法大師), the founder of the Japanese Shingon sect, is an element that appears recurrently and almost constantly in the overlapping traditions of mokujiki and the sokushinbutsu practice. The notion that Kūkai entered eternal meditation and remains alive in this world even today is a foundation of Kōbō Daishi faith. The aspect of the Daishi legendarium that is of greatest relevance to the practice of mokujiki per se is the account given in Kūkai’s “Testament” (Goyuigō 御遺告 835) of his practice of kokudachi. This source tells us that Kūkai “abstained from cereals in the extreme heat of a blazing summer” (炎夏 極熱斷絶穀。 ) of austerities in his younger days (Miyasaka 1985: 40). A later section recounting his last days tells us that at this time he “deeply disdained all taste of cereals and savoured only seated meditation” (深厭穀味專好坐禪。Miyasaka 1985: 48). The latter section in particular is significant for practitioners of mokujiki who, emulating Kūkai, aimed to become sokushinbutsu in eternal meditation. In his semi-autobiographical work, the Sangōshiki 三教指帰 (797), Kūkai mentions the consumption of “soft vegetables” (including mushrooms) kusabira 蔬, a “meal of Japanese horse chestnut” tochi no ii 橡飯 and “bitter vegetables” to no na 茶菜 (Watanabe 1965: 118). The fact that he mentions this implies this dietary choice was significant to his practice, and perhaps the interest of his imagined reader regarding how one sustains oneself in sacred practice in mountain environments. Abstention from the five cereals is also mentioned in the work (Watanabe 1965: 20, 140). The scholar of Japanese folklore Gorai Shigeru 五来重 has argued that the original meaning and context of mokujiki were the abstention from the cereals produced by men; those that formed the basis of agricultural societies. With the devotion of most mokujiki practitioners to Kūkai surely an influence on his thinking, Gorai also argued that the final and proper aim of the mokujiki practice (in Japan) was achieving an end to this life by entering into meditative stillness after a period of complete fast followed by abstention from fluids (Gorai 1981: 24–33). This was the typical practice of mokujiki as carried out by those ascetics who aimed to become sokushinbutsu. Their practice always involved the negative (abstention from five then ten cereals) and positive (consumption of tree-based foods) aspects of mokujiki followed by fasting and entering into meditative stillness (nyūjō 入定). Though mokujiki and kokudachi were both established within Chinese Buddhism, this association with Buddhist mummies is entirely Japanese (Faure 1991: 157). The abstention from five or ten cereals was sometimes practised as a precursor to a 112

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further period of practice of “wood eating” involving a diet based on pine needles, pine cones, kernels and the like. This was often the manner of kokudachi/mokujiki practised by the sokushinbutsu. Demiéville, who coined a pithy French term for mokujiki: “alimentation dendrique”, gives the example of the sokushinbutsu Honmyōkai 本明海 (1623–1683) abstaining from five types of grain for 1,000 days, then ten types of grain for 1,000 days before entering a five-month period of pure mokujiki during which he ate only pine bark (Demiéville 1965: 164). I presume that this and all recorded cases of mokujiki practitioners eating “pine bark” involve the consumption of the inner bark, which consists of the phloem, cambium and outer secondary xylem tubes, probably made into a meal to aid digestion. The strongest evidence for Gorai’s view is perhaps the fact that there were those mokujiki practitioners, such as the famous sculptor Enkū 円空 (1632–1695) who aspired to forms of self-immolating nyūjō other than becoming a sokushinbutsu (Gorai 1995(a): 158ff, 188ff). Ōkubo Kenji 大久保憲次 takes a similar view to Gorai and suggests that mokujiki involves the abstention from all cultivated foods, cooked foods and salt. He also mentions the consumption of lacquer (a tree-based product) as part of a dehydration of the body while still alive, though there is insufficient evidence to suggest this was widely practised (Ōkubo and Kojima eds. 2008: 163). Gorai’s claim that Japanese mokujiki was originally linked to self-immolation or self-mummification is also supported by some of the earliest historical materials on mokujiki. One such example is given by another important scholar of Japanese folklore, Hori Ichirō 堀一郎, who suggests that a Mt. Kōya mokujiki practitioner who appears in the 1184 section of the Gyokuyō 玉葉 (the diary of Japanese courtier Kujō Kanezane 九条兼実 1149–1207) was a possible sokushinbutsu aspirant (Hori 1962: 240). One famous and extremely early recorded example of mokujiki is an 854 account included in the Nihon Montoku Tennō Jitsuroku 日本文徳天皇実録, one of Japan’s “Six Official Histories” (Rikkokushi 六国史) completed in 879. Volume six of this work mentions a holy man given the moniker Beifun Hijiri 米糞聖, who ate pine needles and claimed to abstain from rice but was exposed as a fraud in an amusing manner (Kuroita and Kokushi Taikei Henshūkai eds. 1966: 63). A similar tale (Kokudachi no Hijiri, Fujitsu Roken no Koto 穀断聖、不実露 顕事 A Cereal-Abstaining Ascetic: The Exposure of His Dishonesty) appears in the early thirteenth-century work Uji Shūi Monogatari 宇治拾遺物語 (Minamoto et al. eds. 1965: 219–220). Perhaps the best-known medieval mokujiki practitioner was Gyōshō 行勝 (1130–1217), who studied esoteric Buddhism at the major Shingon sect temple Ninnaji 仁和寺 then practised mokujiki as part of a life of itinerant mountain asceticism. In a paper on the Edo-period ascetic Mokujiki Sankyo 木食山居 (1655–1724), Sasaki Kōshō 佐々木考正 suggests we could understand Sankyo as having “inherited the tradition” of the medieval jūkoku hijiri 十穀聖 (holy men who abstain from the ten cereals), which appear sporadically in Buddhist materials. Sasaki has pointed out a particular example in the Sōrinshū 叢林集, where one of the immediate disciples of Hōnen 法然 (1133–1212) is identified as a “ten cereals holy man” jūkoku hijiri 十穀聖 (Sasaki ed. 1979: 504). Here we see an early association of mokujiki practice with Pure Land traditions. Scholars recognize the continuity of that tradition, but its lack of prominence in extant materials can only indicate its marginality. Mokujiki continued to be practised on Mt. Kōya, and in the late sixteenth century one such practitioner, Mokujiki Ōgo 木食応其 (1536–1608), made an appearance on the centre stage of Japanese history. Ōgo was a fully ordained Shingon monk, having left his life as a warrior and received Buddhist precepts from Seihen 政遍 (1534–1614) on Mt. Kōya in 1573. He nevertheless did not affiliate to either of the two main factions in the Mt. Kōya institution, which left him freer to take up mokujiki, a practice more typical of itinerant holy men such as Kōya hijiri 高野聖. Itō Masatoshi 伊藤正敏 begins his book on muen 無縁 (a term which implies a lack of fixed social affiliation) with a discussion of Mokujiki Ōgo. It was Ōgo’s ambiguous social affiliations 113

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that made him the ideal peace broker during the military subjugation of Mt. Kōya by Toyotomi Hideyoshi 豊臣秀吉 (1537–1598), and years later at the battle of Sekigahara (Itō 2010: 15–18). The practice of mokujiki as it developed among itinerant holy men associated with Mt. Kōya was in itself a separation from the cereal-fed monks and offered a distinct identity, ascetic path and social role to those who lacked the background or connections to gain an elite clerical post. It was not a diet, such as the traditional Buddhist vegetarian diet shōjin ryōri 精進料理, that practitioners would generally recommend to others. Food was a more important matter to the pre-modern man of letters than it is today, and perhaps Ōgo’s practice of mokujiki was not his only dietary concern. His personal notebooks and letters to his daughter mention soba and other grains, fried rice and a wide range of foodstuffs (Tokunaga 2007: buckwheat 316, various grains 314, fried rice 298). Ōgo was eventually given responsibilities for oversight on the newly demilitarized Mt. Kōya by Hideyoshi, and is even credited with developing the now-famous tradition of tofu and cold-dried tofu production on the mountain (for more on this monk, see Wakayama Prefectural Museum 2008). Dried tofu became a major solution to the problem of how to store sufficient food on the mountain to sustain it through the winter. For this same purpose, the mokujiki staples of nuts and berries were also gathered as a supplementary food around the mountain complex. Ichikawa Takeo 市川健 夫 has commented on the remarkable numbers of Japanese beech trees that grow there even today, thriving at 800 m above sea level, far above what he calls “the laurel forests of the secular world” below (Ichikawa 1987: 148–149). The Edo-period essayist Amano Sadakage 天野信景 (1661–1733) tells us that on Mt. Kōya there grows a certain hardy leaf vegetable, unremarkable raw but wholesome when stewed. Kūkai himself is said to have planted it there and ordered that it be maintained for all generations to provide food where growing other vegetables was difficult (Nihon Zuihitsu Taisei Henshūbu eds. 1996: 355). Mokujiki has a natural affiliation with life on the margins of (once) isolated mountain temples. This association with sacred peaks is surely the thread of commonality running from ancient Taoist practices to Buddhist institutions of early modern Japan.

A varied diet Pre-modern mountain ascetic diets were an aspect of secret practice, so little was recorded of them firsthand. There is enough evidence, however, to confirm the preference for nuts and mountain vegetables in both ancient and medieval Japan. Gorai quotes mid-Heian–period materials which describe a nut and mountain vegetable diet eaten by mountain ascetics, such as the Utsuho Monogatari 宇津保物語, Tsutsumi Chūnagon Monogatari 堤中納言物語 and the Ryōjin Hishō 梁塵秘抄 (Gorai 1995(b): 164). The term mokujiki is not used there, however. He also makes a strong argument that the consumption of pine needles also existed as a separate practice, giving several ancient and medieval Japanese sources for the consumption of pine needles outside of anything resembling mokujiki (Gorai 1995(c): 130). We must make a clear distinction between mokujiki and “any food used by mountain ascetics during periods of mountain practice”. From early times, mountain ascetics have used cereal-based foods, particularly rice and rice cakes. The first tale of the third volume of the Nihon Ryōiki 日本霊異記 (completed before 822), for example, tells us of ascetics being given dried boiled glutinous rice mochigome no hoshiii 糯の干飯 to take with them on a period of mountain austerities (Izumoji ed. 1996: 129–130). The actual foods eaten and avoided by mokujiki practitioners varied quite considerably. The foods abstained from, however, are always staples: cereals and pseudocereals (non-grasses that are used in much the same way as cereals, such as beans and buckwheat). Mokujiki has never been an alternative to generally observed Buddhist dietary restrictions, and these are sometimes 114

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specifically demanded of those about to take up the practice. Some practitioners found reasons to eat buckwheat. Many Japanese practitioners would avoid all cooked foods, and many also abstained from consuming that other staple necessity of pre-refrigeration food culture: salt. Though only a minority of historical materials relating to mokujiki record the abstention from salt, it is generally presented as a natural element of mokujiki. Eichō 永昶 (1680–1754), a monk of the Shingon temple Chūzenji 中禅寺 in Fukushima Prefecture, abstained from all foods grown in fields and paid particular attention to avoiding salt, even abstaining from seaweed for that purpose. According to Fujita’s research, Eichō’s diet typically consisted of pine needles and the leaves of the fiveleaf aralia (Acanthopanax spinosus, an edible leaf sometimes served mixed into boiled rice) and what he could get from all other grasses and trees. He continued this practice throughout his life, except for a period in which the lord of the domain had him return to a normal menu. In contrast to the charlatan Beifun Hijiri, Eichō apparently passed only urine (Fujita 1979: 542–543). The problem one encounters again and again if one tries to typify the mokujiki diet is that some practitioners avoided cereals but used pseudocereals. For example, according to the first fascicle of the Tokuhon Gyoja Den 徳本行者伝 the Jodo sect monk Tokuhon 徳本 (1758–1818) gave up the five cereals and all salty foods but would take a serving (gō 合, 180.4 ml) of powdered broad beans for his daily meal.6 Keeping a powdered staple which could be easily carried and simply mixed with water to eat was clearly practical for the mountain ascetic or itinerant holy man who needed to keep up his strength. Some, at least, seem to have achieved this within the obvious bounds of mokujiki. Tanzei 弾誓 (1552–1613) would hull out and powder pine seeds (endocarps) in a stone mortar, mix in incense, roll the powder into balls and eat it (Gorai 1995(a): 154). Many others have used buckwheat. Perhaps the seasonality of pine seeds prevented their more general uptake.

Mokujiki practice in the Edo period In terms of the historical record at least, the heyday for both mokujiki practice and the sokushinbutsu was the Edo period. The sphere of activity for both these practices was typically eastern Japan, though some mokujiki practitioners did travel the entire country, even deep into Kyushu. Most seem to have been born in eastern Japan, and the religious milieu that fostered them in practice could be plotted on a map by drawing a circle around a straight line drawn from the western approaches of Mt. Fuji to the eastern approaches of Dewa Sanzan 出羽三山. Many extant texts relating to itinerant mokujiki practitioners are short records of their visits to houses, hamlets and temples. These are typically inscriptions on paper iconography, letters, carved Buddhist statuary or commemorative stelae. Some of those who practised mokujiki, however, became well known throughout the country. The importance of the sokushinbutsu practice during the Edo period is demonstrated by the Mt. Yudono temple Dainichibō 大日坊, home to one of the most widely known sokushinbutsu Shinnyokai 真如海 (1687–1783), being a prayer temple of the Tokugawa shogunate. Likewise, Enmanji 円満寺, better known as Yushima 湯島 mokujiki temple, was founded in 1710 by Mokujiki Gikō 木食義高 (1624–1718) with the patronage of Tokugawa Ienobu 徳川家宣 (1662–1712), the sixth shogun, and under the direct control of the magistrate of shrines and temples (jisha bugyō 寺社奉行). Gikō was a son of the Ashikaga 足利 and disciple of ordained imperial prince Kakujin 覚深 (1588–1648), who had held senior clerical posts at Ninnaji. This demonstrates a breadth of charismatic and spiritual appeal in these ascetics that was recognized in Japan’s urban centres and some cases at the very highest levels of Edo-period society. There are also examples of disdain for degenerate mokujiki ascetics who misled the common folk, or 115

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perhaps their rascally appearance alone leading to some of the more educated members of society taking a dim view. Shiojiri 塩尻 (1697) tells of a “spurious ascetic” who claimed to abstain from (cereal-based) sauces and cereals and ate buckwheat and vegetables, but “deceived the unlettered faithful” with charlatanry (Nihon Zuihitsu Taisei Henshūbu eds. 1996: 191–192). Mokujiki practitioners were part of a culture of religious itinerancy which filled a certain gap in religious charisma often left open by the incumbent monks of local temples. The archetypal itinerant possessed keyaku 化益, the power to inspire people, lead them on the path of the Buddha and provide this-worldly benefits. The most quintessential of these was good, or even abundant, harvests. Everyday food itself had a spiritual quality in that period; the voluntary limitation of food intake also had a spiritual quality, and many of the deities favoured by the itinerants were closely associated with food production. Jikigyō Miroku 食行身禄 (1671–1733), who died by voluntary starvation, and the beliefs of the Mt. Fuji cult groups known as Fujikō 富士講 are prime examples of this (Matsumoto 1985: 186–195 and Sakurai ed. 2000: 292ff). The political food culture of the early Edo period was one characterized by the suffering of rural peasants and the imposition of highly controlled production and consumption by both shogunate and domain authorities. In 1641 and 1642, crop failures caused famine, and thousands of peasants flowed into the castle towns pleading for aid. The authorities cut back on the nonfood use of crops, restricting sake and noodle making. Regulations enforced on the peasantry in 1643 stated that cereals other than rice were to be used as daily staples and rice was not to be eaten without special reason. Foods requiring large amounts of grain or beans such as tofu were deemed luxuries which were not to be sold in farm villages. Even travelling to markets or towns to drink sake was banned. Peasants would save rice to use as tax and currency. When they did eat rice, they would make it go further by mixing in barnyard millet (echinochloa esculenta), barley and common millet (panicum miliaceum), even vegetable leaves. Some scholars have suggested sumptuary laws were not strictly enforced in many parts of Japan due to local land qualities (Ishige 1986: 10–26). However, the harshness of rural life in northeastern Japan, the heartland of the mokujiki practice, is indisputable. Furthermore, the contrast between rural and urban diets was huge. Commoners in seventeenth-century Edo ate rice, miso and pickles daily. By the late eighteenth century there were eating contests in Edo, and huge premiums were paid there for seasonal firsts and other delicacies. I suggest that part of the broad appeal of the mokujiki holy men of the Edo period was the fact that they made a virtue of transcending the dietary and production strictures experienced in rural Japan and the highly diversified early modern urban lifestyle built on production of rice. Their proximity to the rural poor and deep awareness of their food culture stood in contrast to the attitudes of Edo’s urban elite as introduced in studies by Harada Nobuo 原田信男. The Edo-period source Rō no Nagabanashi 老の長咄, he explains, records a certain high-ranking monk claiming during the Tenmei 天明 famine of 1782–1788 that it would be a good thing for the famine to continue for a number of years to combat the dissolute “luxury” into which the peasantry had fallen. There was a world of difference, argues Harada, between the views held by urban elites and the reality of the rural poor who produced their food (Harada 1995: 3ff). A further link between mokujiki practice and the lives, needs and food culture of the people is pointed out by Naitō Masatoshi 内藤正敏: the mokujiki diet, at least in some cases, included the consumption of foods kept in case of famine. He gives the example of Honmyōkai having consumed a diet based on young pine cones for five months before his death. These were stewed in a wood ash and water mix until they were soft, then washed off in cold water and crushed in a mortar. Horse chestnuts were also consumed by mokujiki practitioners. These contain saponin and tannin, but they could be heated (though the heating of food per se has generally been 116

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avoided in mokujiki) in a wood–ash water mix to remove the starch. Horse chestnuts were often ground and stored in communal areas and distributed as an easily preserved food to keep against famine. Naitō suggests that the main reason for ascetics setting out to become sokushinbutsu was to relieve famine by achieving spiritual powers and to actually overcome famine by starving their bodies and eating the foods and quasi-foods such as tree bark that people turned to in time of famine (Naitō 1999: 133–155). Naitō has a strong argument in some cases at least. The crop failure and famine of 1675 in Shōnai 庄内 (the western district of modern-day Yamagata Prefecture) led to thousands of starvations, insolvencies and many thousands more forced to beg for food, and it was indeed around this time that Honmyōkai began his abstention from five cereals. Chūkai 忠海 (1697–1755) and Shinnyokai are also examples of sokushinbutsu whose practice coincides with severe famines in Tohoku. The fact that they successfully achieved mummification (though over the years large numbers failed in the attempt) at these times may well indicate that their practice was given special importance by those who oversaw their final days and the preservation of their bodies. At Kinryūji 金龍寺 in Kanbayashi 上林, temple legends tell that the Shingon monk Zōben 増弁 (1672–1734) was inspired to help his famine-stricken community by becoming a sokushinbutsu, though his mummy is yet to be confirmed extant.7 There is no obvious link, however, between famine and many of those who aspired to become sokushinbutsu, so Naitō’s line of reasoning ought to be nuanced accordingly. It seems reasonable to assume that mokujiki spread from esoteric Buddhism directly to itinerants in Pure Land traditions, particularly considering the importance of nenbutsu practices among early modern Shingon itinerants (Miyashima 1983) and the fact that all Buddhist wanderers belonged, in a sense, to the same social category. The archetypal early modern Pure Land itinerant Tanzei was hugely influential in establishing mokujiki outside of the Mt. Kōya institution (Nishigai 1986: 73ff, 95). For brief lives of Tanzei and other mokujiki practitioners, see Nishigai (2008) and Oda (1971: 100ff). Another lineage of mokujiki practitioners affiliated with the Tendai sect began with Tanzei’s disciple Mokujiki Tanshō 木喰但唱 (1579–1636) and continued with Mokujiki Yōa 木食養阿 (1687–1763) and others active in the Nagano area (Kinoshita 1990: 28–31). There is also an instance of a Soto monk Zen Mokujiki Ryōten 禅木食遼天 (1735– 1803) who went beyond the normal bounds of his own sect to take up the practice (Tsushima and Kumagai 1992: 44–45, 48–54). Over the history of mokujiki, many members of other sects have also taken up the practice during periods of mountain austerity. Many scholars make regular reference to the mokujiki precepts (mokujikikai 木食戒), of which Gorai mentions thirteen in total (Gorai 1983: 53–54 and for his views on the mokujiki precepts in detail see Gorai 2009: 215ff). These precepts do not include sokushinbutsu/nyūjō practice and thus distinguish mokujiki as a separate institution. However, Gorai’s thirteen “precepts” are reconstructed from practices attributed to early modern mokujiki practitioners in historical materials. The best firsthand primary evidence for their existence I have seen is in the sixth section of Tanzei’s own handwritten Dharma transmission lineage document (fumyaku 譜脈) published by Miyashima. Though the character jiki 食 is ellipted, Tanzei writes to the effect of: “All those who aspire to the name of Mokujiki hold to these secret and true precepts” (志甚探授木　名(各) 一心之正戒秘持 Miyashima 1983: 220). We cannot infer that all practitioners vowed to follow the same precepts as Tanzei. However, we may certainly infer that there were certain modes of practice that those who took up mokujiki were expected to adhere to, both from historical materials and the fact that initiates took up the practice under the guidance of a senior practitioner, effectively a mokujiki preceptor. Admitting the considerable diversity in the practice, we may say with reasonable certainty that the basic principles (precepts) to be adhered to by mokujiki itinerants in the Edo period were abstaining from the five cereals either permanently or for fixed 117

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periods, to travel between sacred peaks, to read and write Sanskrit characters and interpret their meanings, to sculpt in wood and stone, to create and perform waka poetry and to perform daily devotion and labour. Some surely saw this in terms of receiving precepts. We must distinguish, however, between this form of sacred mendicancy and mokujiki on sacred mountains, where the practice was certainly not limited to itinerants. The “mokujiki precepts”, then, related to lifestyle and artistic output in popular Buddhist modes. They were entirely independent of the precepts for monks and laypeople, though they were not in conflict with them. They were a means to mark out the itinerant practitioner as different from those he would meet on his travels and a means for him to interact with those others in a positive way. Practitioners would typically stay in temples and private houses and be given bed and board until they continued their pilgrimage or while they were producing their statues. The “give and take” or “transactional” aspect of Japanese religions discussed by scholars such as Ian Reader is very much at the fore here (Reader and Tanabe 1998). The practitioner would produce Buddhist statuary and poetry for the people who put him up and supported him, and he could explain iconography such as the Sanskrit characters representing major Buddhist holy beings. In many cases, mokujiki itinerants not only ate of wood but also ate because of their work with wood. Some earned a degree of notoriety among layfolk by involving themselves in the frequent temple fundraising campaigns of the time, not all of which were models of financial probity (Gorai 1998: 256–259).

Buckwheat and the boundaries of early modern and modern mokujiki practice Gorai presents us with an early modern definition of mokujiki found in the eighteenth-century Mokujiki Yōa Shōnin Eden 木食養阿上人絵伝: That which is called mokujiki is to abstain from ten cereals and to eat of raw kernels from trees. This is called the great mokujiki. Abstention from five cereals and not eating cooked vegetables or fruits: that is called the lesser mokujiki. 木食と伝は、十穀を断じ、木顆の生目味を食す。是を大木食と伝。亦五穀 を断じ、火製の菜果を食ず。これを小木食と伝り。 (Gorai 2009: 217; Shibata 1955: 25–86) This shows us that even at the most basic level, mokujiki was indeed a varied practice, albeit with some definite rules. In many cases, the abstention from five cereals preceded the abstention from ten, but the two were also practised independently. The most important distinction, however, between forms of mokujiki practice relates to the confusing fact that important instantiations thereof involve the consumption of buckwheat. Given the isolation and changeability of the mountain environment, there was surely a need for an easily digestible, portable food that would keep for extended periods of practice and could be eaten at practically any time of the year without cooking or other treatments. The foods naturally available at altitude, such as wild berries, are often those most vulnerable to frost damage. Mokujiki in modern and contemporary mountain religion often involves the consumption of buckwheat paste (basically equivalent to soba dough balls or possibly sobagaki 蕎麦がき). A reason sometimes offered for this apparent inconsistency is that buckwheat was originally a wild mountain plant and not among the cultivated “cereals” forbidden in mokujiki. This view seems to have established itself at least by the early Edo period. The Shugen Shinan Shō 修験指南鈔 (1693), for example, suggests the mokujiki practitioner take 118

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a serving of “wild oats” karasumugi 烏麦 (Gorai 2009: 217).8 This foodstuff is similar to wild buckwheat. The perceived need for a staple cereal, despite the obvious conflict with the principles of mokujiki, is of interest from the food studies perspective. Though the authority of traditions developed over time is paramount, the influence of a wider food culture based on a “filler” cereal served with side dishes should be recognized, along with the practical concerns of extended stays in the mountains. Furthermore, though buckwheat is often included among the ten staple cereals, it stands out somewhat from the others. Buckwheat is related to sorrel, knotweed and rhubarb. It is not a grass and is therefore not actually related to wheat. It is known as a pseudocereal because of the use of its fruit seeds as a staple. Buckwheat looks very much like a wild flower when seen growing by the roadside, and even when cultivated grows quickly and is an ideal cover crop. This hardy plant certainly seems to be of a different order from the other cultivated staples. The following sections pay special attention to its usage in mokujiki practice.

Mokujiki Shōnin Thanks in large part to the work of Yanagi Muneyoshi (Sōetsu) 柳宗悦, Mokujiki Shōnin 木喰上人 (1718–1810; also known as Mokujiki Gogyō 木喰五行 and Mokujiki Myōman 木喰明満) is by far the best-known practitioner of mokujiki and is now known throughout Japan and internationally for his art, which includes over 1,000 uniquely carved Buddhist statues (Yanagi 1972). His practice of mokujiki is of great interest within the food studies context; he records his struggles with dietary practice and works its ambiguities into his religious and artistic output. The Jūroku Rakan Yūraiki 十六羅漢由来記 (Record of the Origin of the Sixteen Arhats) records Mokujiki’s appearance at Seigenji 清源寺 temple near Kyoto late in 1806, where he was invited to sojourn. His extraordinarily dishevelled appearance was such that he: Resembled a monk but was not a monk, resembled a layman but was not a layman; one might think him a holy being manifest in human form, or ask oneself if he is a madman gone astray. 実ニ僧ニ似テ僧ニ非ズ、俗二似テ俗ニ非ズ、変化ノ人カト思ヒ、狂者ノ惑 フカト疑フ。 (Tanahashi 1973: 203) The victim of much private tragedy, he had little interest in seeming the venerable monk. A self-abasing Mokujiki Shōnin with a strong tariki faith emerges in his poetry, much of which focuses on Amida and the nenbutsu (Oda 1971: 175–180). Many modern writers have been eager to laud Mokujiki for unshakeable piety. Tanahashi Kazuaki 棚橋一晃 writes: “At the age of forty five . . . he received the mokujiki precepts. The mokujiki precepts are the abstention from cooked food, not taking meat as food, and to withdraw from all worldly desires. He kept these precepts without fail until his death” (四十五歳 . . . 木 食戒を受けた。木食戒とは火食をさけ、肉食をとらず、一切の世欲から離れること である。それから終生、この戒を守って乱れなかった Tanahashi 1973: 102). He was a far more complex person than this, however, and his dietary practice was evidently a source of internal struggle for him. One source of that struggle, Gorai informs us, was his love of boiled soba (buckwheat) noodles despite the prohibition both of soba and of cooking within mokujiki as it was commonly understood at the time (Gorai 2009: 218). 119

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Even Mokujiki is fooled by the buckwheat flours Still thrown into confusion by the floating world. 木喰も　そばのこどもに　だまされて まだもうきよに　うろたへておる (Gorai 2009: 368) “Floating world” is a Buddhist term meaning this transient life characterized by sorrow, or, very commonly, the transient world epitomized by the Edo pleasure quarters. I cannot help but see double entendres in this poem. For example, I translate kodomo こども as “flours” (bearing the origin of the English word in mind), but it might also be a term for young ladies of the floating world used by their patrons. I will leave the rest of the poem, and its interpretation, to the reader’s discretion. Let us consider the work a lovable confessional on Mokujiki’s feelings toward buckwheat noodles floating in broth. The poem goes on to discuss his patronage of a Kendon’ya けむどんや, a cheap and cheerless noodle joint. Kendon 慳貪 now implies speaking in a snappish and unpleasant tone, but in the Edo period the term particularly implied penny-pinching mean-spiritedness. When not mass produced, buckwheat noodles now tend to be a rather more refined dining choice which hearkens “back” to a rustic idyll. Mokujiki was writing about a street corner urban staple, comparable to the suspiciously cheap meat pies of old London. He confesses to indulging in kendon sobagiri けんどんそば切り, which is boiled soba noodles, not soba flour mixed into a paste using cold water. Gorai suggests, persuasively, that this material is reason enough to abandon the notion put forward by Yanagi and others that he only mixed his soba with cold water and thus abstained from cooked food (Gorai 2009: 369). We find him attempting to explain the situation to himself in a further poem: Even Mokujiki is fooled by the buckwheat flours Still thrown into confusion by the floating world See Aji . . . in Aji there is Aji If it is the Aji . . . there is no salt miso For the Aji of Kūkai . . . Namu Amida. 木喰も　そばの子供に　だまされて まだも浮世に　うろたへておる　 阿字をみる　阿字に阿字ある　 阿字ならば　しをみそなしに　 くづかひの阿字　なむあみた (Kiyoyoshi 1987: 2) Unadulterated by salt or miso flavouring, boiled noodles could reflect devotion to Amida through taste, as we see from his play on the homonyms Aji 阿字 (the Sanskrit character representing Amida) and aji 味, meaning taste. Kuzukai くづかひ is a play on “Kūkai”, and kū 食う (eat) on Kai 甲斐, Kai being a district a little to the north of Mt. Fuji that is famous for its buckwheat. Mokujiki’s buckwheat is given significance by its origins in the hinterland of the sacred mountain, a pilgrimage route for many mokujiki practitioners over the years. Even today, some buckwheat noodle establishments will advertise the origin of the flour they are using that day, or even offer customers a choice of two or three terroir. Mokujiki adds the “taste” of Kūkai, the archetypal living buddha and wandering ascetic, to his poem. The final Namu Amida, however, 120

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reminds us that he was a tariki practitioner, a fact which may explain his openness regarding his dietary foibles. In his later years, Mokujiki was invited to sumptuous dinners by various lay hosts (Makino 1981: 42). It appears he may have eaten the same food as the other guests. The transcendence of precepts and vows through a relationship with a holy being that eats or drinks in place of the practitioner was a discernible feature of popular asceticism at the time, and conceivably this was the case with Mokujiki. He left us the following verses written after a feast. This bonito soup, too flavoursome to taste the Aji. . . . Such are the feasts of the worldly folk. At New Year’s there are rice cakes, rice wine and side dishes aplenty, one eats so much one cannot even move. うますぎて　あじもわからぬ　かつふじる　衆生の人の　ちそふなりけり 正月は　もち酒さかな　ととのへて　あまりくろふて　うごかれもせず (Makino 1981: 43) From this a picture emerges of an extremely human Mokujiki Shōnin, a man who had a closeness to his fellow man defined in large part by diet and food events. He had made his devotion to Amida a vehicle for the most fundamental things in his life.

Mokujiki on Mt. Ontake As part of reminiscences on her father’s travels exploring Japan’s mountain diets, Murai Yoneko 村井米子 narrates their 1918 trip to Mt. Ontake 御嶽, a centre of Shugendō mokujiki practitioners located in Kiso Fukushima 木曽福島, Nagano Prefecture. Her father (Murai Gensai 村井 弦斎 1864–1927, author of the bestselling novel Kuidō Raku 食道楽 (first serialized in 1903), seems to have been very free with his nutritional advice to the practitioners, but the key point of interest for this study is the record Murai provides of dietary diversity and autonomy in mokujiki rules. Their main informant was the aged poet and shrine priest Mr. Fujie 藤江, who told them of a person who practised mokujiki for three years and lived for a very long time on kuma bamboo shoots alone. Fujie based many of his own dietary practices and experiments on the mokujiki traditions (Murai 1984: 116). “Old man Fujie”, then seventy, said that he had completely fasted for one or two weeks of every month since he was fifty, and this had made his mind and body vigorous (sōkai 爽快). He had begun mokujiki at age forty, giving up rice in favour of buckwheat flour and raw vegetables. For one whole year he had eaten nothing but fruit, for another he ate a single serving (gō) of black sesame each day. Somewhat confusingly, he even tried going a whole year eating nothing but half a block (a “block” presumably being the standard fist-sized cut of about a pound in weight) of tofu every day. He returned to buckwheat flour at age fifty-nine, eating half a pound in a single daily meal and drinking only water. When travelling to other areas, he would eat noodles if he could not obtain buckwheat flour, and also sometimes resort to cucumbers. Murai advised him to eat some nuts to address the lack of fat in his diet, and Fujie dutifully wrote to say that he was now taking five walnuts a day (Murai 1984: 117). Murai goes on to describe the mokujiki practice of a Nichiren devotee at Mt. Shichimen 七面, Yamanashi Prefecture (Murai 1984: 118–122). We also learn that her father himself took up mokujiki for a year, eating a single serving (gō) of buckwheat flour each day, shredded kombu, walnuts, Japanese nutmegs, pine cones, pine needles, bamboo leaves, sesame, Japanese yam, 121

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cucumber, rape seedlings and fruits such as satsumas and apples. He would eat this uncooked diet at the same table as his family, who ate as normal (Murai 1984: 122). Murai ends her reminiscences on her father’s exploration of mokujiki with a number of recipes for serving buckwheat paste (Murai 1984: 122–130). The Murai narrative gives the impression of small numbers of specialists whose long-term mokujiki diets differed from those of short-term practitioners and pilgrims. Here we find the clearest example of individual choice and personal vows to eat a certain food as defining mokujiki diets. Murai the father’s work reflects a putative interest in Japanese foodways and folk religions, but his focus on nutrition is of a time when limiting diets and miracle foods had become the stuff of newspaper advertisements more than of precepts. Indeed, by this time, mokujiki beyond the areas in which the mountain religion was practised had faded from history.

Mokujiki on Mt. Hakkai Finally, let us turn to a contemporary study of mokujiki practice. The most significant founding figure of the (Niigata Prefecture) Mt. Hakkai 八海 tradition of mokujiki is Mokujiki Taiken 木 食泰賢 (1775–1805). Successive disciples in his lineage all bore the name of the practice, and it continues to survive there today. This is a tradition of mokujiki that is not based on the mokujiki precepts, Pure Land Buddhism, aspiration for nyūjō or becoming a sokushinbutsu. Though the sokushinjōbutsu and corporis ascensus paradigms apply, gaining a divine appellation (reishingō 霊神 号) is the stated aim of the Mt. Hakkai programmes of practice in which mokujiki plays a part. Mt. Hakkai mokujiki practitioners undergo fasting and abstain from salt and usually five cereals. Research by Suzuki Shōei 鈴木昭英 informs us that, atypically, the “five cereals” on Mt. Hakkai are rice, wheat, soybeans, adzuki beans and sesame. The “five pungent roots” (goshin 五辛; leeks, scallions, garlic, onions and ginger, thought to stimulate the passions) proscribed by the Sutra of Brahmā’s Net, are also still avoided there today (Suzuki 1988: 336). Cold buckwheat paste is consumed as the staple food of mokujiki practitioners on Mt. Hakkai. An interesting explanation for that was offered by Suzuki’s informant, Mr. Yamada, a religious leader of the tradition. He identifies the five cereals and the ten as those made by men for men and used as currency and property, thus being an obstacle to purity of heart. He states that the meaning of consumption of buckwheat within his tradition is not entirely clear, but perhaps the fact that in times gone by it was to be found in uncultivated mountain areas and that it was not one of the five cereals were the reasons for its use in mokujiki practice. Furthermore, it is of practical benefit to the mountain ascetic in that it is easy to digest and to carry (Suzuki 1988: 348). Again, one possibility with regard to this question is that buckwheat, a pseudocereal that often grows wild, was at some point conflated with wild oats. Oats are, after all, the major cereal that ripens in cold highland climates. In addition to listing the various rituals during which mokujiki is practised on Mt. Hakkai, Suzuki gives many interesting details concerning the vegetables and roots, fungi and leaves served during the practice (Suzuki 1988: 330ff). Among these, potatoes are used. These are permitted under the rules of mokujiki, but perhaps past limits to availability prevented them from becoming a staple in the practice or even specifically excluded them from it as a cultivated staple. On the mountain, mokujiki becomes an established means for the practitioner to ritually experience the realm of hungry ghosts as part of a journey through the various realms of rebirth. In ordinary society far below the realm of mountain asceticism, the Colombian exchange and globalization of food means a good supermarket offers all manner of pseudocereals and staples, and the traditional lists of five and ten cereals seem more arbitrary than fundamental. My informant Mr. Hayashi 林 explained in 2017 that the person put in charge of preparing the food for the group undergoing mountain austerities will prepare soba paste for all the 122

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members, taking the group’s preferences for its consistency into account. They will add other foods to the paste according to what is permitted, available and to their taste. They often add banana or vegetables. Nutrition and flavour are taken into account, and there is no effort made to emulate a pre-war Japanese menu. Buckwheat mixes well with many other flavours, and its portability, utility and flexibility make it an obvious choice, he told me. We may also note that Niigata is known for its hegi へぎ soba: buckwheat noodles made with a type of seaweed called glueplant (gloiopeltis, funori 布海苔) usually making up two-tenths of the mix. This particular foodway of mixing soba with a non-cereal adds to the context of the mokujiki menu on Mt. Hakkai.

Mokujiki: a diverse practice The imposition of ever-stricter government controls on itinerants during the Edo and Meiji periods, the abundance of modern agriculture, the universalisation of a cash economy and other forms of progress surely removed a great deal of the potency and purpose of the mokujiki diet in the eyes of the population at large. Mokujiki was always a practice for the legendary or the marginal, but its power to meet the needs of individuals in towns and villages and society more generally perhaps became overly marginal in comparison to that of new religious movements. The practice is now limited to sacred mountains where it makes sense in terms of the logic of corporis ascensus. From its ancient Chinese origins to its ongoing practice today, the single unifying factor in all mokujiki practice is a diet consisting of the food available on sacred mountains, which are above the human world. That aside, we must acknowledge a great deal of variety in both the social and the doctrinal concerns that gave it purpose and the dietary practices it involved. Perhaps more than any other East Asian religious practice, the various forms of mokujiki, from origins in Chinese Taoism to devotion to Amida and other Buddhist paths, demonstrate food choices and food culture as a foundation for every expression of religious practice.

Notes 1 Taishō Shinshū Daizōkyō 大正新修大蔵経 (Newly Revised Tripitaka of the Taisho Era), ed. Takakusu Junjirō 高楠順次郎, Watanabe Kaikyoku 渡辺海旭, and Ono Genmyō 小野玄妙, Daizō Shuppan, Tokyo 1924–32, 85 vols. Vol. 50 (1927) p. 759, p. 763, p. 895. Hereafter citations from the Taisho Tripitaka will be abbreviated as follows: T. Vol. # (year) and page number. 2 Translated between 397 and 398 CE. T. Vol. 1 (1924) p/. 761 3 T. Vol. 3 1924: 337, T. Vol. 36 1927: 114, 602 and T. Vol. 45 1927: 835, respectively. 4 T. Vol. 48 (1928) p. 321, p. 383 and p. 386, p. 1030. 5 T. vol. 49 (1927) p. 695, p. 706 and p. 784, respectively. T. Vol. 50 (1927) p. 352 (Gāosēng Zhuàn) p. 498, p. 551, p. 557, p. 579 (Xù Gāosēng Zhuàn), respectively. 6 Jōdoshū Zensho 浄土宗全書 Vol.18 (No.275) 8,382b33–18,383a02, www.jozensearch.jp/pc/index/ chapter#vol18 (last accessed June 3, 2018). 7 http://matyachiyo.web.fc2.com/roots/zoben.html 8 Shugen Shinan Shō is available online at the Mountains Archive of Early Modern Japan www-moaej. shinshu-u.ac.jp/?p=137 (last accessed June 11, 2018).

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Eating of wood Murai, Yoneko 村井米子 (1984) Matagi Shokuden マタギ食伝 Tokyo: Shunjusha. Naitō, Masatoshi 内藤正敏 (1999) Nihon no Miira Shinkō 日本のミイラ信仰 Kyoto: Hōzōkan. Nihon Miira Kenkyū Guru-pu 日本ミイラ研究グルプ (Japanese Mummy Research Group) (1993) Nihon Miira no Kenkyū 日本ミイラの研究 Tokyo: Heibonsha. Nihon Zuihitsu Taisei Henshūbu 日本随筆大成編輯部 (eds.) (1996) Amano Sadakage 天野信景 Shiojiri 塩尻 Vol. 3 Revised Edition, Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kobunkan. Nishigai, Kenji 西海賢二 (1986) Mokujikisō no Keifū – Kankai, Gyōdō Kanshō 木食僧の系譜－観海・ 行道・観正 in Bukkyō Minzoku Taikei 2 Hijiri to Minshū 仏教民俗体系二 聖と民衆 Tokyo: Meicho Shuppan. Nishigai, Kenji 西海賢二 (2007) Kinsei no Yugyō to Mokujiki Kanshō 近世の遊行聖と木食観正 Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kobunkan. Nishigai, Kenji 西海賢二 (2008) Edo no Hyōhaku Hijiritachi 江戸の漂白聖たち Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kobunkan. Oda, Suekichi 小田季吉 (1971) Sado no Mokujiki Shōnin 佐渡の木食上人 Sado: Sado Jiji Shinbunsha. Ōkubo, Kenji 大久保憲次, Kojima, Teiji 小島梯次 (eds.) (2008) Mokujiki, Shomin Shinkō no Mishōbutsu Seitan Nihyakukyūjūnen 木喰、庶民信仰の微笑仏:生誕二九〇年 Kobe: Kobe Shinbunsha. Reader, I., Tanabe G. (1998) Practically Religious: Worldly Benefits and the Common Religion of Japan Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press. Sakurai, Tokutarō 桜井徳太郎 (ed.) (2000) Sangaku Shūkyōshi Kenkyū Sōsho 山岳宗教史研究叢書 6 Sangaku Shūkyō to Minkan Shinkō no Kenkyū 山岳宗教と民間信仰の研究 Tokyo: Meicho Shuppan. Sasaki, Kōshō 佐々木考正 (1979) Mokujiki Sankyo to sono Shūhen 木食山居とその周辺 in Ōtani Daigaku Kokushigakkai 大谷大学国史学会 (eds.) Nihonjin no Seikatsu to Shinkō 日本人の生活と信仰 Kyoto: Dohosha. Sawa, Ryūken 佐和隆研 (1983) Mikkyō Jiten 密教辞典 Kyoto: Hōzōkan. Shibata, Minoru 柴田実 (1955) Anshōin to Mokujiki Yōa Shōnin 安祥院と木食養阿上人 Kyoto: Higiri Anshōin. Shimode, Sekiyo 下出積與 (1975) Doˉkyoˉ to Nihonjin 道敎と日本人 Tokyo: Kōdansha. Suzuki, Shōei 鈴木昭英 (1988) Hakkaisan Shugen no Mokujiki/Danjiki 八海山修験の木食・断食 in Komagata Sensei Taishoku Kinen Jigyōkai 駒形先生退職記念事業会 (eds.) Niigata Ken no Rekishi to Minzoku 新潟県の歴史と民俗 Tokyo: Sakaiya Tosho. Takakusu, Junjirō 高楠順次郎, Watanabe Kaikyoku 渡辺海旭, Ono Genmyō 小野玄妙 (eds.) (1924–32, 85 vols.) Taishō Shinshū Daizōkyō 大正新修大蔵経 (Newly Revised Tripitaka of the Taisho Era) Tokyo: Daizō Shuppan. Tanahashi, Kazuaki 棚橋一晃 (ed.) (1973) Mokujiki Butsu 木喰佛 Tokyo: Kajima Kenkyūjo Shuppankai. Tokunaga, Yoshitsugu 徳永良次 (2007) Wakayama Momoyama-chō Kōzanji Shozō no Mokujiki-Ōgo Shōnin Kankei Shiryō 和歌山・桃山町 興山寺所蔵の木食應其上人関係資料 Hokkai-gakuen Daigaku Jinbun Ronshū 北海学園大学人文論集 36. Tsushima, Hisako 津島久子, Kumagai, Mikio 熊谷幹男 (1992) Miyagi Ken oyobi Kyū Sendaihan Ryōnai ni okeru Mokujiki Shōnin no Chōsa Gaiyō 宮城県および旧仙台藩領内における木食上人の調査概要 in Ashimoto kara miru Minzoku 足元からみる民俗 2 No. 12 (Sendaishi Rekishi Minzoku Shiryōkan 仙 台市歴史民俗資料館). Wakayama Prefectural Museum (2008) Mokujiki Ōgo-Hideyoshi kara Kōyasan o Tsukutta Sō 木食応其－秀 吉から高野山を救った僧 Wakayama: Wakayama Prefectural Museum. Watanabe, Shōkō 渡邊照宏, Miyasaka, Yushō 宮坂宥勝 (1965) Sangōshiki; Shōryōshū 三教指歸; 性靈集 (Nihon Koten Bungaku Taikei 日本古典文學大系 71) Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Yanagi, Muneyoshi 柳宗悦 (1972) Mokujiki Shōnin 木喰上人 Yanagi Muneyoshi Senshū 柳宗悦選集 Vol. 9, Tokyo: Shunjusha. Yanagita, Kunio 柳田國男, Minzokugaku Kenkyūjo 民俗學研究所 (eds.) (1951) Minzokugaku Jiten 民俗 學辭典 Tokyo: Gotoshoin.

Glossary Amida 阿弥陀 Amitābha, the principal buddha of Pure Land Buddhism. Bìguˇ 辟穀 Chinese word meaning the Taoist practice of abstention from cereals. Edo period The Tokugawa period of Japanese history from 1603 to 1868.

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Fujikō 富士講 Religious groups that venerate Mt. Fuji. The height of their influence was in the Edo period. Gō 合 A traditional measure often used for servings of food or drink: 180.4 ml. Goshin 五辛 “Five pungent roots”: leeks, scallions, garlic, onions and ginger. In East Asian Buddhism these are commonly thought to stimulate the physical passions. Hekikoku 辟穀 Japanese word meaning the Taoist practice of abstention from cereals. Hōnen 法然 Buddhist monk and founder of the Jodo sect in Japan (1133–1212). Hungry ghosts Skt. Preta; one of the three evil destinies (realms of rebirth) in Buddhist cosmology. Hungry ghosts have distended bellies and tiny mouths: they constantly crave food but are unable to achieve satiety. Jisha bugyō 寺社奉行 The magistrate of shrines and temples; a high-ranking official of the shogunate responsible for the oversight of religious institutions. Keyaku 化益 Power to inspire people, lead them on the path of the Buddha and also provide this-worldly benefits. Kokudachi 穀断ち Abstention from cereals. Kōya hijiri 高野聖 Itinerant holy men of pre-modern Japan, affiliated with the Shingon sect and its most sacred mountain, Mt. Kōya. Kūkai 空海 Lived 774–835, commonly known by his posthumous title Kōbō-Daishi 弘法大 師. Kūkai is the preeminent figure in esoteric Buddhist traditions and founder of the Shingon sect in Japan. Mokujiki 木食 Eating a diet typified by foods taken from trees; primarily nuts, seeds, leaves and bark. The term basically also implies the abstention from cereals. Muen 無縁 The state of being without an official social affiliation. Nenbutsu 念仏 The Buddhist practice of contemplating the Buddha, in many cases by chanting “Homage to Amida Buddha” (Namu Amida Butsu 南無阿弥陀仏). Ninnaji 仁和寺 One of Kyoto’s major Shingon temples, founded in 888. Nyūjō 入定 “Entering meditative stillness”; implying the death of a venerable monk characterized by passing into a deep meditative state. Pure Land The celestial realm of a buddha or bodhisattva and the traditions of Buddhist practice in which devotees aspire to be reborn there. Reishingō 霊神号 A divine title given in some kami worship traditions after death or the completion of an important ascetic practice. Sangaku shinkō 山岳信仰 The general term for “mountain religion”, belief and practice centred on sacred peaks. Shingon 真言 One of the major sects of Buddhism in Japan, practicing esoteric traditions introduced by Kūkai, its founder. Shōjin ryōri 精進料理 The traditional East Asian Buddhist vegetarian diet. Shugendō 修験道 Japan’s archetypal mountain religion, which evolved during the seventh century and incorporates elements of pre-Buddhist mountain practice, Shinto, Taoism and esoteric Buddhism. Sokushinbutsu 即身仏 “Buddhas in this very body”. Ascetics who became mummified after a period of austerities which included mokujiki. Sokushinjōbutsu 即身成仏 The esoteric Buddhist paradigm of achieving buddhahood “in this very body”; that is, during this lifetime. Tariki 他力 The Pure Land Buddhist principle of relying on the saving power of a buddha or bodhisattva such as Amida rather than on one’s own efforts. Tendai 天台 Major Buddhist sect established in Japan in 806 by the monk Saichō 最澄 767–822. It considers the Lotus Sutra to be the highest teaching in Buddhism. 126

9 COOKING FOR DEMONS, SOLDIERS, AND COMMONERS History of a ritual meal in Java Jiri Jakl

This chapter takes a close look at the history of Javanese slametan, a communal ritual meal that brings neighbours, families, and communities together to restore balance and harmony (slamet) between the seen and unseen spheres of the Javanese world.1 More specifically, I trace the culinary history of this complex phenomenon, which represents one of the defining features of Javanese culture. Until recently, the food history of Java has attracted only limited scholarly attention, and there has been little effort to study the history of culinary aspects of Javanese slametan; most scholars restrict their assessment on a rather general statement that many elements have their origin in the Hindu-Buddhist period of Javanese history (hence before 1500 CE).2 Though scholars differ in their interpretations of Javanese slametan as either pre-Islamic or Islamic religious phenomenon, there seems to be an agreement that the imprint of specifically Islamic food culture on the culinary tradition of slametan has until recently been minimal. Moving toward a diachronic perspective, I will demonstrate that we may get new insights into the origins of slametan by comparing Javanese and Balinese ritual meals and by using textual evidence of kakavins, epic poems composed at the Hindu and Buddhist courts of Java between the ninth and fifteenth centuries CE, in t he l it er ary r egist er of Ol d Javanese. Kakavin court epics represent a rich and until now mostly untapped source for the study of Indonesian food history before ca. 1500 CE, when the process of Islamization started to change the ways food was prepared, consumed, and talked about (Lombard 1990). Reading anthropological evidence against the Old Javanese textual sources, I argue that the origins of Javanese slametan can be traced to the pre-Islamic participatory animal sacrifice. Though Indian influences had changed some of the Javanese culinary preferences, their ritual cooking has more in common with East Asian rather than South Asian culinary tradition. I elaborate on an interesting thesis advanced recently by Fuller and Rowlands (2011) about the symbolic meanings of sticky (glutinous) rice in ritual in East and Southeast Asia. I will demonstrate that similar symbolic qualities pertaining to sticky rice are prominent as well in pre-Islamic Javanese and modern Balinese ritual dishes prepared from meat.

Javanese slametan: binding neighbours, ancestors, and sponsors together A slametan can be organized to mark almost any social and/or ritual event: birth, circumcision, death, moving to a new house, departing for a journey, etc. Bianca Smith (2008: 107) points to the fact that in the community in the south part of central Java where she conducted her 127

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research, slametan refers exclusively to the meal that accompanies rituals at times of death and anniversaries of death, while other ceremonies centred upon a common ritual meal are denoted as syukuran. Prominent elements of a slametan include the ritual meal, sajen offerings, incense burning, and accompaniment of a gamelan percussion ensemble. The food prepared by women is blessed by men and distributed among the members of the participating community. Invitations to neighbours and close kin are delivered through young people and are often accompanied by a box of food, an act aptly called by Newberry (2006: 15) the ‘pre-exchange of food’. The people attending are male heads of households. Typically, the ceremony begins with a formal speech in high (formal) Javanese delivered by the host. The speech thanks the attendees for coming and presents the reasons for the slametan. Finally, the host apologizes for the humble inadequacy of the food served. At last, the food is served. It is typically, though not obligatory, much fancier than the daily fare. The food usually consists of a cone of yellow sticky (glutinous) rice and side dishes of fish, eggs, meat, vegetables, and fruits. Each variety has a symbolic meaning, which is sometimes explained by the host in his speech. The host himself does not eat, nor does he serve the food, which one or two of the guests does. The guests eat quickly, without speaking much. After a few minutes, and before eating much of the food, the guests excuse themselves and finish the meal in their own homes, sharing it with their wives and children. The origins of Javanese slametan, studied mostly by ethnographers and anthropologists, have been the subject of much speculation. Most scholars have examined religious complexities of the slametan, asking to what extent it is Islamic and how much pre-Islamic (or non-Islamic) influences went into the ritual event. Despite the long debate, however, the results remain inconclusive; it is obvious that different types of Javanese Muslims practice slametan differently and ascribe it different meanings. In his seminal account of Javanese religion, Clifford Geertz (1960: 10–15) introduced a taxonomy according to which Javanese were classified either as ‘nominal’ Muslims (abangan), ‘pious’ Muslims (santri), or adherents of ‘mystical’ court Islamic practices ( priyayi).3 Slametan was understood by Geertz as a ritual in which pre-Islamic sacrificial elements of ancestor worship and Hindu cultic practices were reconfigured in terms of Islamic identity. Since the 1980s, Geertz’s influential views were increasingly under criticism of anthropologists who challenged the taxonomy introduced by Geertz, pointing out that abangan do not consider themselves non-devout, ‘nominal’ Muslims, but rather practitioners of Javanese Islam, kejawen (Smith 2008: 105). Recently, Woodward (2010: 113) has argued that Javanese slametan is essentially a locally defined Muslim rite. In line with the ‘Islamization of Indonesian studies’, a trend visible during the last two decades, Woodward contends that Javanese slametan can only be accurately interpreted through a hermeneutics combining anthropology with an analysis of the relevant Islamic text traditions. The slametan is seen as an example of a ritual complex that links blessing (barakah) and food and extends from Arabia to Southeast Asia. More specifically, Woodward defines slametan as ‘a ritual meal at which Arabic prayers are recited and food is offered to the Prophet Muhammad, saints, and ancestors, who are implored to shower blessings on the community’ (Woodward 2010: 113). One point developed by Woodward to support his justification of slametan as being essentially Islamic is that the significance of the slametan is found in the ritual distribution of blessed food, which in Islam is in line with the giving of alms (sadekah) to the people in need (Woodward 1988: 81). Refuting Geertz’s view that slametan is predominantly a ritual event associated with the kejawen traditionalists, Woodward (2010: 117) contends that slametans are performed in mosques, at pesantren (religious boarding schools), at the graves of saints, and in the homes of traditional santris. These ‘santri slametans’ make more extensive use of Qur’an recitation, and prayers rather than food are its most important element. Furthermore, Woodward (2010: 117) claims that the haul ceremonies conducted at the tombs of major saints to commemorate the anniversaries of their deaths are also slametans, some of which 128

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are attended by tens of thousands of people: ‘At the annual haul for Sunan Kudus meat from as many as fourteen water buffalo and numerous goats and literally tons of cooked and uncooked rice are distributed’ (Woodward 2010: 117). Though it is undeniable that slametan in modern Java has been increasingly influenced by Islamic reformist views that emphasize the importance of textual aspects of ritual blessing and prayers delivered by male participants, it is obvious that it was the ritualized sharing of food prepared by women, and the complex symbolism of dishes, that was traditionally at the centre of Javanese slametan.

Javanese slametan and ritual cooking in Hindu-Buddhist society Recently, Smith (2008: 106–107) has pointed out that the way we understand slametan is based almost completely on male religious practice, while the crucial role of women in cooking the ritual food and preparing the accompanying offerings has been grossly under-represented in virtually all scholarly studies of slametan. In other words, in male ethnographies slametan is reduced to a male ceremony called kenduren, originally a concept introduced from the Indo-Persian Muslim civilization. In Shafi’ite legal texts Urdu kanduri refers to feasts held in honour of the Prophet Muhammad and Muslim saints (Woodward 1988: 64). As we have seen, it involves male members of the community who gather at the host’s house under the leadership of a religious official. It consists of brief prayers to Allah, protective spirits of the community, and ancestors. Unlike this all-male and mostly brief formal part of slametan, there is the all-female, much longer phase, called réwang.4 Javanese slametan is thus better seen as a ritual event covering several days, commencing at the moment women start to prepare ritual food, and culminating in the all-male ceremony of blessing the food and communal eating, as suggested already by Sullivan (1987: 264–265). Probably unsurprisingly, Smith (2008: 113) finds that different women emphasize different religious and spiritual dimensions of réwang. Sajen offerings, in particular, are viewed in a different way by kejawen traditionalists and by Muslim modernists, who tend to shun it, as it engages the spirit world through prayer. Strict adherents of Islam, in fact, often insist that food be kept in the kitchen until the completion of all prayers, thereby avoiding any suggestion that the slametan foods are offerings for the spirits (Hefner 1985: 108). These anxieties indicate that spiritual aspects of ancestor worship are, and always were, an integral part of the Javanese communal meal. An important question that has rarely been raised is whether there exists any relationship between the Javanese culinary preferences and ritual aspects of slametan and how they have changed. The most common food provided during the slametan, sticky yellow rice (sega kuning) cooked by steaming, was consumed in Java even before 1500 CE (Jákl 2015: 35). In some regions, such as in Banyuwangi, porridge of different colours is one of the most common elements of the food served at slametan (Beatty 1996: 274). This practice reflects the importance of colour symbolism in the Javanese ritual meal, a topic discussed in some detail later. In many regions, rice flour cakes (apam) are another very common element of slametan, often associated with death. Woodward (1988: 73) has singled out apam as linking Javanese slametan food with Indian and Middle Eastern Muslim food cultures. The history of apam in Java, however, seems to be more complex than envisaged by Woodward. The Javanese apem, as well as Malay apam, are loanwords from Tamil appam (Hoogervorst 2015: 78), and as such may have entered the Indo-Malay world as early as in the eleventh century CE when the presence of Tamil traders is documented in Sumatra (Wisseman Christie 1998; Karashima 2009).5 But similar rice cakes made from flour are also a fundamental element of Hindu offerings in Bali, an island which has a distinct culinary tradition of ritual dishes, largely free of Islamic influences (Hinzler 2000). We would wish to have much more comparative evidence to draw more solid conclusions 129

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about the Middle Eastern and Indian Islamic influences on Javanese slametan (Eiseman 1990: 316; Brinkgrave 2003: 325). In my view, an analysis of cooking techniques used in ritual meat dishes can give us novel insight into the origins of Javanese slametan. In his influential study Anthony Reid (1988: 32) has posited that the eating of meat and drinking of alcoholic beverages in pre-modern Southeast Asia always had a ritual character because of its close association with the sacrifice of an animal life. Though it is highly improbable that all kinds of meat had sacrificial quality (fish?, snails?), the slaughter, distribution, and especially consumption of meat constituted a powerful element of social and religious cohesion, a desired result of any slametan. Even though today most of the meat dishes served at slametan do not differ significantly from typical festive dishes, it was not the case in Java before 1500 CE, when the style of a number of ritual dishes seems to have been similar to modern Balinese festive cooking, based strongly on the concept of animal sacrifice and its religious meanings. Most interestingly, Old Javanese literature suggests that the Hindu-Buddhist Javanese perceived sacrifice in terms of cuisine. This concept is attested to in Indian Hinduism as well and seems to have reached Java and Bali around the ninth century CE when it is attested to in the Kakavin Rāmāyan ․a (Jákl 2015). In his study on Vedic and Hindu sacrifice, Charles Malamoud (1996) has argued that sacrifice was understood in pre-modern India mainly through the metaphor of cuisine. The importance of this metaphor in Hindu sacrifice remained strong in India until the modern period (Olivelle 2002), and it is still known in Bali, though it was lost in Java sometime after 1500 CE. A look at the modern Balinese ceremonial dishes will help us to appreciate the character of Javanese ritual cooking documented in Old Javanese texts. Made mostly for important religious events, such as Galungan or the anniversary of the local temple, the preparation of Balinese ceremonial dishes is a truly Herculean task, often involving dozens of men (Krüger 2014). Unlike the simple daily meals that are always cooked by women, communal ritual meat dishes are cooked almost exclusively by men (Eiseman 1990: 311).6 The most important feature of the Balinese ritual cooking is the process in which meat is chopped up, sliced, and often pulverized in mortar. In many cases, it is in fact reduced to a kind of paste, from which a dish is ‘reconstituted’. Take, for example, the dish called ebat (‘chopped up’). Made either from the meat of sea turtles or pigs in inland regions, the most important phase of the preparation of ebat has been described in some detail by Eiseman: The blood is carefully saved and kept from coagulating with a little lime. In a huge, steaming cauldron the liver, intestines, stomach, lungs, and cartilage of the turtle are boiled. The meat is used raw, but first it must be ‘mebatted’ and then pounded in a large mortar, like that used for pounding rice, until it is reduced to almost a paste.7 Next, tens of kilograms of spices are prepared and a large amount of coconut must be grated; some of it is used to make coconut milk, and some coarser pieces are used in one of the five dishes which constitute the complete ebat. After many hours of slicing, chopping, grating, pounding, and boiling, the men put the mix in big baskets from which the chief cook takes great handfuls and assembles each of the five main dishes. Colour symbolism, linked with the veneration of guardian spirits, is important in making these dishes. Lawar, for example, is a dish that contains a substance cut into long, thin slivers, called tataban, and usually mixed with uncooked blood, making it red (Eiseman 1990: 313). One of the most conspicuous dishes used in the complete ebat is sate lembat, skewers of grilled meat paste. Apart from the use of meat paste, the use of blood, intestines, cartilage, and skin is the defining feature of Balinese ceremonial cooking. Similar culinary preferences have been documented from many parts of Southeast Asia, especially in 130

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the Philippines, Laos, and Thailand (Esterik van 2008: 31). Intriguingly, a very similar method of making festive dishes is documented in Old Javanese texts. I have argued elsewhere that participatory animal sacrifice was practised in Java before 1500 CE in a number of contexts, including that of pre-battle festivities (Jákl 2015). Mostly lost in modern Java dominated by Islamic dietary prohibitions and sensitivities, the tradition of using blood and meat reduced to paste as one of the main ingredients in ritual dishes has survived until now only in Hindu Bali. In the next section I will demonstrate that in Old Javanese literary and epigraphical records we encounter a number of dishes consumed in the ritual context which show a remarkable similarity to their modern Balinese counterparts and which share the same symbolic meaning.

Participatory animal sacrifice and the communal meal in pre-Islamic Java Before 1500 CE, Javanese cuisine was strongly influenced by the Indian culture and Indian religious streams, especially Tantric Śaivism and Tantric Buddhism. Java and Bali were by then part of the ‘Sanskrit Cosmopolis’, a trans-regional cultural formation that extended from the Indian subcontinent to as far as Central and Southeast Asia (Pollock 1996: 168, 197). A number of new elements of the diet, new cooking techniques, and novel styles of cooking preparations, such as curry-style dishes, were introduced, in addition to novel ways in how food was perceived and evaluated. The communal ritual meal, however, seems to have been only influenced a little by these novel ways. The most detailed literary account of a communal meal is found in the Bhomāntaka, a text composed by an anonymous author around 1200 CE in East Java (Zoetmulder 1974; Teeuw and Robson 2005). While in most texts the literary diners give us small snippets discretely dropped here and there, in Bhomāntaka 81.34–49, a scene of pre-battle feasting is described in an impressive sequence of sixteen stanzas. The author calls the feast a ‘drinking party’ (aṅinum-inum), and the term tambul, denoting in the Old Javanese language the dishes consumed as accompaniment to alcoholic beverages, further emphasizes the ritual context of this meal. Alcoholic drinks, especially palm wine, were associated in pre-Islamic Java, as well as in many other parts of pre-modern Southeast Asia, with ancestor propitiation and communal meals (Reid 1988: 32). In the whole ‘feasting passage’, at least ninety-eight dishes are enumerated. It is significant that there are hardly any vegetable dishes in the list. On the other hand, we are given an incredibly rich account of dishes prepared from lungs, hearts, intestines, tripe, marrow, and coagulated blood. Many, if not most, of the named dishes contain meat chopped into small morsels mixed with blood, fat, and marrow. This culinary preference is detailed, for example, in Canto 81 stanzas 35–6: The dishes consisted of salted eggs, pork necks in small cuts, And paběkan in hot sauce, licin chopped to small morsels, Bloody mince of tripe with diverse red salads, Heart, its drops not cold, and sizzling, drippling of turtle. And their stews consisted of lan˙suban with marrow and tongue in rolls, In addition with steamed mushrooms and crisp flakes of jelly fish, Liver with rump accompanied by roasted lungs, Breastbone, intestines on skewers, and hot fatty kebabs.8 Long lost in Java, in Bali langsuban still refers to the festive dish described in the late nineteenth century CE by Van der Tuuk as ‘a delicacy consisting of ěmba, limo, and santěn in a cobek to which the blood of [the] animal being slaughtered is added, eaten raw’ (Zoetmulder 1982: 983).9 131

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Balinese and Old Javanese terminology pertaining to food shares a great number of named dishes and other culinary terms, and we must assume that before 1500 CE the ritual dishes known in Java and Bali, two societies which shared a similar culture, were based on the same or similar principles of ‘ritual efficacy’. We have already seen that the blood is the major ingredient of many Balinese festive and ritual dishes, such as lavar and langsuban, and the same culinary preference seems to have prevailed in Java before the introduction of Islam. The ‘bloody mince of tripe’ (rumbah abā˙n babat), as well as various ‘red salads’ (lalab nikana mira-mirah), certainly point to this.10 Scholars of Balinese culture have only rarely studied the bloody animal sacrifice as a phenomenon of Balinese Hinduism, and its importance in Hindu-Buddhist Java has been recognized only recently. Available evidence suggests that in certain segments of Javanese life, such as in the context of warfare, participatory animal sacrifice was practised throughout the HinduBuddhist period and in certain parts of Java, and in certain social and religious milieus, it may have been strongly influenced by Tantric streams of Javanese Śaivism. Though Islam has transformed the way animal sacrifice was perceived and interpreted in early modern Java, its ‘performative’ aspects have remained much the same. Participatory animal sacrifice was still conducted in the context of warfare by the late eighteenth century CE: in 1780s, slametan was held for the soldiers of Mangkunegara I, as we gather from a diary written by an anonymous member of the female corps (prajurit stri) of the ruler (Kumar 1980: 14). Interestingly, in the dedications of the slametan following the Friday prayer, Mangkunegara I himself is most frequently named, followed by the independent nomination of his army’s welfare. Next in order of frequency come the ancestors, while the different nominations of nabis and walis (founders of Javanese Islam) are mentioned markedly less often (Kumar 1980: 15–16). It seems that the participatory sacrifice in pre-Islamic Java and modern Hindu Bali share not only the same culinary elements but also the same symbolic meanings of a social cohesion demonstrated in the common ritual meal and, rather surprisingly, through the symbolism of the cooking techniques. In my view, one of the aspects that informed modern Javanese slametan was the animal participatory sacrifice and ritual consumption of animal blood and raw meat, with the practice still widespread in modern Hindu Bali. Sacrificial meat dishes and meals based on meat and coagulated blood are, in fact, a surprisingly prominent feature of Balinese ritual cuisine; contrary to the popular views that flesh is offered by the Balinese only to demonic forces, pigs, chicken, and ducks figure prominently in elaborate offerings aimed to appease and propitiate divine beings (Hooykaas 1973; Eiseman 1990). Javanese and Balinese Hinduism has historically developed as an amalgam of a number of religious traditions of both local and Indian origin, among which Tantric streams seem to have been particularly prominent.11 Sacrifice, including its bloody form, remained an integral and important element of Balinese Hinduism until modern times, and the same seems to have been true for Java before 1500 CE. Old Javanese epigraphical evidence suggests that animal sacrifice was a common, and in many cases central, part of a number of ceremonies in pre-Islamic Java. The most fully documented ritual event which entailed the bloody sacrifice and an ensuing ritual meal is the ceremony of the establishment of the so-called ‘sīma freeholds’, which is described in dozens of Old Javanese inscriptions issued between the ninth and fourteenth centuries CE (Schrieke 1919; Barret Jones 1984). The sīma freehold was basically an area, usually a village or its part, whose tax status was changed on the authority of the king or a high-ranking taxing authority. Although the taxes and dues were upheld, their beneficiary was not the king or local lord, but a religious institution, in most cases, a temple (Schrieke 1919: 393). The ceremony was centred upon an animal sacrifice, oftentimes large scale, and propitiation of local guarding deities and other spirits.12 The ensuing ritual meal, accompanied in many cases by theatrical and other performances, started after the officiant called makudur cut off the head of a cock and placed it on the consecration stone called 132

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vatu kalumpan˙. A chicken egg was smashed on the kalumpan˙ stone, and curses were pronounced against trespassers of the rights of the newly established freehold. The ritualized feast thus served to seal the oaths taken by all participants, officials and villagers alike, to respect the rights of the sīma. It is specifically stated that all of the villagers, regardless of social standing, participated in the communal meal (van Naerssen 1937: 458). To get an idea of the scope of the food provided at the feast, the Taji inscription (901 CE), by way of example, lists fifty-seven bags of rice, six buffaloes, 100 chicken, and a variety of other meat and vegetables consumed by 392 participants listed by name (Rahardjo Supratikno 2011: 306). Most importantly for my arguments advanced here, many of the named dishes, such as rumbah, gulay, and rujak, consisted of chopped meat mixed with coagulated blood (Barret Jones 1984: 48). In my view, this particular style of ritual cooking, in which meat was crushed to paste and mixed with the blood, was closely associated with communal oaths and was perceived as binding the community together. This style of ritual cooking, documented from Java before 1500 CE and still known in modern Hindu Bali, represents, in fact, a very ancient way of preparing ritual dishes, and certainly predates any Indian influences in Southeast Asia. Due to the Hindu and Buddhist influences in Java which introduced the concept of the ritual purity of food, Javanese ritual dishes consisting of meat chopped up in small morsels and mixed with blood, and most probably prepared by men, were over time identified with non-civilized ways of ritual cooking and were associated with ‘demonic food-ways’ of Old Javanese poetry (Jákl 2015). Yet this ancient tradition of sharing the meat, originally sourced from the participatory animal sacrifice, underlies the concept of the Javanese communal slametan. Old Javanese sīma charters also disclose that one of the most important aspects of modern Javanese slametan, a colour symbolism of ritual dishes, can be traced to pre-Islamic Java. The colour symbolism seems to have been prominent both in the dishes and alcoholic beverages consumed at the sīma feast. The colours relate to particular deities and guardian spirits propitiated at the ceremony. This colour symbolism has immense importance in Balinese Hinduism, where, in most complex rituals, libations consist of five different kinds of liquids, associated with the points of the compass and certain colours (Eiseman 1990: 234).13 Old Javanese epigraphical evidence suggests that several types of alcoholic beverages were consumed by participants of the sīma ritual meal, including several kinds of palm wine (tuak), fermented juice of the sugarcane (kilan˙), and drinks consumed at greater strengths, such as sīdhu, māstava, and kiñca (Hinzler 2010). In my view, different colours inherent or imparted to these alcoholic beverages, and the fact that they are often listed in what seems to be a customary order, indicate that they were offered to the five (or nine) guardians of the cosmos, a religious concept attested to in Old Javanese Śaiva literature. Acri and Jordaan (2012: 307) have recently demonstrated that the series of sixteen Śaiva Digbandhas (direction guardians) and eight Brahmanic Lokapālas had in the ninth century CE merged into one complex system, which is reflected in the iconographic programme of twenty-four directional deities on the Śiva temple of the Loro Jonggrang complex (Prambanan) in Central Java. The system seems to have been well-established in Javanese religion since then. Apart from the colour symbolism, protective qualities of the directional guardians were embedded in other aspects of Javanese culture too. For example, Griffiths and Lunsingh Scheurleer (2014: 131) have noted recently that in pre-Islamic Java, the protective qualities of the nine guardians of the cosmos were invoked by beating bronze bells, thereby awakening the guardians and calling them to witness ritual acts carried out in the shrines where the bells were struck. The practice of invoking these protectors has been continued in modern Java in offerings to village guardian spirits (roh bau rekso), who are invoked by juru kunci (‘keeper of the keys’, guardian and officiant at the village shrine) to enjoy the sajen offerings. Hefner (1985: 120–121) reports that among the Tenggers, the non-Islamized inhabitants of Java’s mountainous Bromo region, sajenan offerings to the guardian spirits are still commonly prepared.14 133

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Sticky rice, ‘red salads’, and ritual efficacy in (pre)modern Java Recently, Fuller and Rowlands (2011) have argued that there is a deep level of conservative tastes that link basic ideas of feeding the body (taking or ingesting food) to notions of ritual efficacy, that is, ‘feeding’ the invisible (ancestors/gods) and to long-term patterns of culinary practices. Fuller and Rowlands (2011) ascribe this stability to the ritual sphere and in particular to the forms of offerings and libations. They argue that there is a straightforward contrast between a nexus in East and Southeast Asia between sticky rice, ancestor worship, and food shared within familial groups, and another nexus in western Asia to north India – of sacrifice to ‘remoter deities in which roasting and baking of foods separate odours/smoke that constitute offerings from the material substances of meat and bread that are consumed by the devotees who are themselves drawn from across a community’ (Fuller and Rowlands 2011: 53). In East and Southeast Asia there is a metaphorical sense in which sticky and cohesive foods hold together society and make the ancestors ‘stick around’. The long-term connections between food and religious traditions, argue Fuller and Rowlands, have contributed to macro-geographical patterning in material culture. In East and Southeast Asia, techniques of boiling, eventually turning into steaming, were long fundamental to cuisine and linked with commensality and regimes of feeding the ancestors by living descendants. Perforated bowls which can fit over the tops of vessels for steaming are associated with the Peiliang culture of the middle Yellow River Valley (7000–6000 BC), with two distinct regional traditions of boiling and steaming ceramic kits developing in subsequent cultures: one in the Yangtze and eastern China and the other in the Middle and Upper Yellow River region (Fuller and Rowlands 2011: 48). Boiling technologies in eastern Eurasia were the first step in alcohol production or were used to produce soft and cohesive foods (Anderson 1988). Foods produced through these cooking methods introduced types of food that people preferred and valued, and which were then embedded in symbolism, feasting, and sacrifice. Among these foods, sticky cereals were by far the most important. The most widespread glutinous cereal is rice: sticky rice is common from south China through Southeast Asia in japonica and related javanica rice. This mutation may have its origin in mainland Southeast Asia (Fuller and Rowlands 2011: 49). Available evidence suggests that the preference developed early among rice consumers and Austronesian settlers of Indonesia most probably carried their cultural preference for sticky rice with them from south China. Intriguingly, sticky varieties of other crops, such as sorghum, foxtail millet, and barley, were gradually adapted to a culturally conditioned taste (Fuller and Rowlands 2011: 50). It is widely acknowledged that in most parts of Southeast Asia sticky cereals have significant cultural importance (Krüger 2014). Though some groups, such as the hill tribes in Vietnam and Laos, consume them as daily staples, in most parts of Southeast Asia they are more often regarded as foods with special status and eaten during feasts, holidays, and religious festivals (Janowski 2007). In Java and Bali, rice is synonymous with food, and its importance in the ritual sphere cannot be overestimated. Rice used in offerings is, with some important exceptions, of the sticky variety and it is almost always cooked, mostly by steaming. Especially for death rituals, rice is cooked as a kind of porridge (bubur), and special offerings may contain rice processed by frying uncooked grains in a pan without the use of oil. Another way in which rice is prepared for ritual purposes takes the form of cakes, made always from sticky rice. Especially in Bali, the category encompasses an immensely wide range of cakes, called jaja, eaten as ordinary sweets, but also used in offerings, as well as cakes that are never eaten on an everyday basis but only as leftovers from offerings. There is also a category of ritual cakes that are used exclusively in offerings, in which the symbolic aspects of colour and shape are more important than flavour. The Balinese very carefully distinguish between the jaja prepared by simple boiling (‘wet cakes’) and those made by 134

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the method of deep-frying dough in coconut oil (‘dry cakes’), for different ritual requirements call for different ways of preparation. In Bali, women typically prepare rice and rice cakes for offerings, while men are entrusted with the communal cooking of meat dishes; in modern Java, on the other hand, women are entrusted with the preparation of rice as well as meat dishes. This gendered aspect of cooking ritual meals seems to be an important marker of local practices, and it is certainly worth exploring the culinary tradition of pre-modern Java from the point of gender; it is possible, but far from certain, that cooking of the ritual meat dishes by women may not predate the early modern period in Java, and may be, in one way or another, related to Islamization.

Conclusion The origins of Javanese slametan, a ritual communal meal which represents one of the defining features of Javanese culture, have been discussed. A desired result of a slametan is a state of well-being and harmony bestowed upon its sponsor(s) and participants. Though the religious meanings ascribed to the slametan are increasingly informed by Islamic modernism in which textual, male-dominated aspects are prominent, the communal sharing of ritual dishes has its origin in pre-Islamic participatory animal sacrifice. I have demonstrated that in Java before 1500 CE, the sharing of meat dishes (and alcoholic beverages) was crucial in binding community members together and sealing oaths between them and protective guardian spirits. Recently, Fuller and Rowlands (2011) have suggested that there is a deep level of conservative tastes that link sticky rice – a common element of Javanese diet – with the basic ideas of feeding the body and ‘feeding’ the invisible ancestor spirits/gods. I have elaborated upon this idea, arguing that a particular type of meat preparations, dishes consisting mostly of chopped morsels mixed with blood, are based on the same notions of ritual efficacy. Consumed in the context of participatory animal sacrifice, such meat dishes represented an important element of Javanese ritual cooking in the pre-Islamic period and continue to be important in modern Hindu Bali.

Notes 1 I wish to thank two anonymous reviewers on providing numerous comments on the first draft of this chapter. I am also grateful to Tom Hoogervorst (KITLV, Leiden) for his valuable insights and comments. 2 For the specific studies on the food history of Java in the pre-Islamic period, see Ratnawati (1992), Hinzler (2000, 2010), and Jákl (2015). 3 In modern Indonesia the term santri is used to refer to observant Muslims in a general sense, while its core meaning is Muslim student (Smith and Woodward 2014: 4). 4 Less specifically, réwang denotes in modern Javanese ‘servant, (domestic) helper, companion,’ and as a verb form means ‘to help s.o., esp with preparations for a celebration’ (Robson and Singgih Wibisono 2002: 628). 5 Malay apam seems to be mentioned for the first time in Hikayat Amir Hamzah (201.17), a Malay text composed at the end of the fourteenth century CE (Samad Ahmad 1987; Braginsky 2004). 6 Fox (2015: 40, n. 16) observes that despite the ideal division of labour according to which women cook rice, while men chop meat and spices (Balinese: mébat), these tasks can be taken on to a small degree by men and women alike when circumstances arise. 7 Eiseman (1990: 311–312). 8 Bhomāntaka 81.35–6. The Old Javanese text, taken from Teeuw and Robson (2005: 443), reads, tambul ikāntigāgarəm ikan˙ katupan˙ ayun˙-ayun˙ / mvaṅ pabəkan pəcəl-pəcəl ikan˙ licin acəka-cəkah / rumbah abān˙ babat saha lalab nikana mira-mirah / tvas tan atis titisnya pələm in˙ barabas an˙ən˙əsi / len kulubanya laṅsuban asumsum ilat asuhunan / membuh atumtumañ jamu-jamur kurupuk uvur-uvur / limpa lavan lamuṅsir adulur paru-paru sinan˙a / tan˙kar usus tinunduk avuduk jata-jatahan an˙öt. 9 Limo in the text refers to a kind of citrus fruit, and santěn denotes coconut milk. 10 I render lalab mira-mirah as ‘red salads’, but note that Old Javanese mirah refers to ‘brown’ and ‘pink’ as well. Tom Hoogervorst (Leiden) informs me that merah in pre-colonial Malay covers other colours as well: brown and pink (email November 8, 2016).

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Jiri Jakl 11 Significantly, Balinese strict ritualism is mostly free of the influences of the late medieval Indian bhakti movements, known for their emphasis on non-violence and vegetarianism, and the same paradigm seems to have been prominent in Javanese Hinduism before 1500 CE. This strictly ritualistic pattern may be explained by an archaic scriptural base of Javano-Balinese Hinduism. Acri (2011: 155) has argued recently that the scriptural basis of Balinese Śaivism was based on a core of Sanskrit texts composed in South Asia from the seventh to thirteenth centuries CE, and as a consequence of this ‘archaic scriptural base,’ a great emphasis is put in Balinese Hinduism on ritualism. Though our textual evidence for Javanese Hinduism before 1500 CE is much more limited, we may assume that the same ritual-oriented pattern of local Hinduism was dominant in Java too. 12 The land was ritually marked out with border stones (vatu sīma) to show its changed status. This change of status was accompanied by the presentation of gifts to witnesses and other participants, typically in the form of pieces of cloth, gold, and other valuables, and the names of participants and gifts exchanged were recorded, often in remarkable detail (Barret Jones 1984: 59). 13 In Old Javanese Koravāśrama 38.29, a prose text composed in the fifteenth century CE, the word form pinakakośika in the phrase amuru de nin˙ madya sumpagəh de nin˙ caru pinakakośika refers, according to Zoetmulder (1982: 1265), either to the caru ritual dishes and madya alcoholic drinks ‘put into five vessels or to ‘five different sorts of drinks’. 14 Hefner (1985: 120–121) says that during the ‘all-souls festival’ a piece of cloth from each of one’s family ancestors who are still in living memory is wrapped around a small flower effigy (puspa petra). The full group of these effigies is then placed on a long pillow above a table of offerings set out for the family spirits and guardian deities. The colour symbolism of the offerings is very important in this ritual act. Then the guardian and ancestor spirits are invited to eat and drink. Hefner (1985: 121) also points out that this ‘all-souls festival’ shows some striking parallels with the description of the ritual invocation of Majapahit, queen mother to a flower effigy in the Deśavarnana, a kakavin composed by Mpu Prapañca in 1365 CE. Obviously, the colour symbolism associated with˙ the protectors of directions and ritual dishes offered to them still survives in parts of Java.

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10 ENJOYING A DANGEROUS PLEASURE The evolution of pufferfish consumption in modern Japan Chunghao Pio Kuo

Introduction: why does the pufferfish matter? On April 17, 1895, Lee Hongzhang (李鴻章, 1823–1901), the chief representative of the Qing Empire, and Itō Hirobumi (伊藤博文, 1841–1909), Japan’s prime minister, met at Shunpanrō (春帆樓), a well-known pufferfish-serving restaurant in Shimonoseki in Japan’s Yamaguchi Prefecture. The men were there to sign the Shimonoseki Treaty, which played a crucial role in the evolution of modern East Asia. The background of the Shimonoseki Treaty is rooted in the countless challenges that the Qing Empire encountered domestically and internationally, while Japan, with the success of the Meiji Restoration, evolved from a traditional society into an extraordinarily powerful modern country. It is interesting to note that Itō was the crucial figure who lifted the prohibition of pufferfish consumption in Japan in 1888, and subsequently Shunpanrō was the first restaurant to receive a pufferfish license in Japan. More important, Shimonoseki is the best-known place for pufferfish consumption. Itō Hirobumi, Shunpanrō, and Shimonoseki are closely associated with pufferfish consumption in modern Japan, and my chapter starts from this background. Aquatic foodstuffs have played a crucial role in Japanese cuisine since ancient times. Interestingly in traditional Japan people seldom considered the pufferfish a precious culinary ingredient, not least because, when eaten, it often caused paralysis and even death. However, by the late Meiji era, scientists had identified the pufferfish’s toxin and even learned how to detoxify the fish. Under this circumstance, pufferfish attracted attention from such prominent figures as Itō Hirobumi and became the representative cuisine in Shimonoseki. The topic of Japanese cuisine has recently drawn much attention from English-language scholars. Eric C. Rath, for example, explores the significance of Japanese cuisine from medieval to early modern eras, which are closely associated with ceremonial expressions, perceptions of cuisine, and European foodways (Rath, 2010). Also regarding early modern Japan, Rebecca Corbett argues that, from the Edo to the Meiji eras, tea culture (chanoyu) shaped Japanese women’s femininity (Corbett, 2018). By the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Japan was dedicated to expanding its industrial and economic development. Katarzyna J. Cwiertka argues that, at this point, the emergence of modern Japanese cuisine was associated with wars, 139

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food industry, and nutritional knowledge (Cwiertka, 2006). George Solt explores the evolution of ramen in post-war Japan and argues that despite deriving from China, ramen has become a global Japanese cuisine (Solt, 2014). In short, recent English-language scholarship has shed light on the transformation of Japanese cuisine (Ohnuki-Tierney, 1994; Bestor, 2004; Rath & Assmann, 2010; Rath, 2016; Stalker, 2018). The first part of the chapter explores how Japanese consumed pufferfish prior to the mastery of detoxification. The second part focuses on the process of detoxifying pufferfish, which consisted of medical experiments, accumulated knowledge, and medical application. The last part discusses the consumption of pufferfish in modern Japan, specifically focusing on the culinary characteristics and the societal perceptions of the fish.

The consumption of pufferfish in Japan prior to developments in detoxification In terms of its natural environment, Japan’s hilly and mountainous terrain surrounded by ocean hindered Japan’s development of widespread animal husbandry and meat consumption. Rather, Japanese people relied largely on fish and seafood for protein. Migratory pufferfish, though easy to catch, contain toxins that can paralyze an eater’s nervous system, leading to death. As early as the eighth century, the character ‘鰒’, literally meaning pufferfish, had been recorded in the Taihō Code (大寶令), a classic Japanese administrative work (Mizuo, 1941: 3–6). Traditional Japan’s insufficient knowledge of the pufferfish’s toxicity meant that cases of poisoning were frequent. In 1592, during the Warring States Period (1467–1615), the well-known daimyō Toyotomi Hideyoshi (豐臣秀吉, 1537–1598) embarked on the “Japanese invasions of Korea” (1592–1598). Many of his soldiers who had gathered in Shimonoseki and were bound for the Korean peninsula ate pufferfish and died from its paralyzing effects. To prevent his soldiers from falling prey to the pufferfish’s toxin, Hideyoshi prohibited his soldiers from eating the fish. This order is perhaps the earliest record in Japanese history of a prohibition on eating pufferfish (Fujii, 1978: 2). During the Tokugawa period (1603–1868) and Meiji period (1868–1912), the prohibition on pufferfish consumption was widely evident in diverse domains, specifically with strict enforcement in the Chōshū Domain (長州藩), located in Yamaguchi Prefecture’s Shimonoseki area, and the Owari Domain (尾張藩), located in the Nagoya area. In the Chōshū Domain, a law declared that if vassals died from consuming pufferfish, the domain would confiscate their wealth (Yoshikawa, 1938: 390). In the Owari Domain, a law declared that people who worked as brokers in the sale or purchase of pufferfish would serve a five-day detention and people who were caught purchasing pufferfish would serve a three-day detention (Itō, 1935: 3). In 1882 (Meiji 15), the Meiji government declared a law that those who ate pufferfish would serve detention and pay a fine (Fujii, 1978: 2). The prohibition on pufferfish, however, dramatically changed by the late Meiji era. In 1887 (Meiji 20), Itō Hirobumi, as prime minister of Japan, visited Shimonoseki and stayed at Shunpanrō. At that time, a storm had recently hit the area, drastically reducing fish catches. After finding no fish to serve the prominent guest, the hostess of Shunpanrō had no choice but to plan a pufferfish meal for Itō. Interestingly, after eating the pufferfish, Itō declared approvingly, “How delicious the pufferfish was! Why did you prohibit it?” Itō commanded the governor of Yamaguchi, Hara Tasutaro (原保太郎, 1847–1936), to lift the prohibition on pufferfish consumption. In 1888 (Meiji 21), Yamaguchi Prefecture became the first place to lift the prohibition on pufferfish consumption in Japan, and specifically, Shunpanrō became the first restaurant to receive a pufferfish license in Japan (Fujii, 1978: 3). Afterward, other places in Japan successively lifted their own prohibitions on this type of consumption. For example, in 1918 (Taisho 7), 30 years 140

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after Yamaguchi Prefecture’s lifting of its own ban, Hyōgo Prefecture became only the second place to do likewise. The third place was Ōsaka Prefecture, which lifted the prohibition in 1941 (Mochizuki, 1997: 332–333). Prior to detoxifying pufferfish, Japan enforced the prohibition on pufferfish consumption, but as one can imagine, some people considered pufferfish a delicious fish and argued that their consumption of it represented their courageous spirit. At this point, there were three sorts of perspectives on the issue, summed up in the literary musings of three Haiku writers. The first perspective derives from Yosa Buson (與謝蕪村, 1716–1784), who, aware of the fish’s dangerousness, anxiously recollected that his consumption of pufferfish had made him fall asleep – a sleep from which he had felt fortunate to awaken (Iso, 2006: 134). The second perspective derives from Matsuo Bashō (松尾芭蕉, 1644–1694), who stated that both pufferfish and bream were identical to each other in terms of flavors. For Bashō, the consumption of pufferfish was nothing special, and it was foolhardy to run so deadly a risk in consuming pufferfish. The third perspective derives from Kobayashi Issa (小林一茶, 1763–1828), who stressed that “if people had no courage to consume pufferfish, they were unqualified to enjoy the brilliance and beauty of Mount Fuji.” In other words, Issa adopted a positive perspective of pufferfish consumption (Kitahama, 1975: 73–79). However, the consumption of pufferfish in Japan evolved not independently but in association with imperial China’s norms governing pufferfish consumption. The topic of pufferfish consumption in imperial China attracted the attention in particular of two Song-era literati, who played a crucial role in promoting Japan’s eventual embrace of the fish. The first figure is Mei Shenyu (梅聖俞, 1002–1060), who composed a verse describing the pufferfish’s grotesque appearance and demonstrated that the creature’s toxin is so strong that eaters will likely die upon ingesting the poison (Kakehi, 1962: 17–19). The second figure is Su Dongpo (蘇東坡, 1037–1101), who composed verses praising the flavor of pufferfish (Kyōgawa, 1927: 55–61). These and other Chinese literati promoted pufferfish consumption in Chinese history first in the Song era (960–1279) and later in the Ming and Qing eras (1368–1911) (Kuo, 2003: 189–207; Xie, 2013: 179–208). Japanese sinologists, with their admiration for Chinese culture (including culinary culture), studied these Chinese texts and translated them into Japanese. Hence, knowledge of pufferfish consumption extended from China to Japan, influencing the island-nation’s views on the matter.

Research on pufferfish toxicity in modern Japan The Meiji era was a watershed in pufferfish consumption. In 1888, following the aforementioned unexpected dining experience, Itō Hirobumi lifted Yamaguchi Prefecture’s prohibition on pufferfish consumption, and afterward, other prefectures successively lifted their own such prohibitions. Though no longer illegal, pufferfish consumption in Japan still had to overcome an enormous hurdle: the fish’s toxicity. Motivated by the modernizing effects of the Meiji Restoration, Japanese medical researchers launched into a systematic effort to understand the fish’s deadly effects. The end result was that these researchers gradually came to understand the source of the problem: tetrodotoxin.

Experiments in detoxifying pufferfish Prior to the emergence of precise knowledge of how to prevent and treat pufferfish poisoning, Japanese researchers took cues from imperial China, adopting methods to those advocated by Chinese experts. Basically, traditional detoxification methods relied on herbs and plants that, when ingested by a victim of food poisoning, would induce vomiting, which would expel the 141

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harmful substances from the body. These “recipes” include granulated sugar dissolved in water; the powder of water buffalo horn dissolved in boiling water; a mixture of indigo leaves, lime, and fermented indigo; dried fish mixed with boiling water; mashed octopus; Chinese berry soap dissolved in boiling water; peaches prepared in boiling water; and even excrement (Yakushiji, 1912: 251–252; Tani, 1948: 120–127; Yasuda, 1884: 3). These treatments are well documented in historical Chinese texts. In contrast to this traditional approach, a growing number of medical researchers were using experimental modern methods to develop treatments for pufferfish poisoning. After all, the Meiji Restoration was, in essence, a massive campaign promoting Japan’s modernity, which naturally benefited the efforts of many Western-influenced Japanese medical researchers to study pufferfish toxicity. In 1880 (Meiji 13), a military doctor named Akashi Taizō (明石退藏, 1837–1905) collected extant research on the subject, addressing which sorts of pufferfish had lethal toxins, the symptoms of pufferfish poisoning, appropriate methods for treating pufferfish poisoning, and the possible medical uses of pufferfish toxins (Akashi, 1880: 19–25). In 1892 (Meiji 25), in Tokushima City, two medical researchers by the names of Chiba Eitarō (千葉榮太郎) and Kagawa Ichiro (賀川一郎, 1865–1941) conducted research on the toxins by enlisting six people suffering from accidental pufferfish poisoning. The researchers analyzed the symptoms corresponding to the different stages at which the body absorbed the toxins (Chiba & Kagawa, 1892: 17–20). During the Meiji era, five medical researchers played pivotal roles in honing the scientific community’s knowledge of pufferfish poisoning. The first two were Ōsawa Kenji (大澤謙二, 1852–1927) and his student Furukawa Sakae (古川榮), who in 1885 (Meiji 18) researched pufferfish poisoning by injecting the toxin into dogs and cats to observe the resulting outcomes (Ōsawa, 1884: 23–28). Later, in 1889 (Meiji 22), Takahashi Juntarō (高橋順太郎, 1856–1920) and his research assistant Inoko Yoshito (豬子吉人, 1866–1893) extracted pufferfish poison from a pufferfish’s ovaries and injected the substance into not only cold-blooded animals but warmblooded ones as well, including rabbits, frogs, turtledoves, chickens, snakes, and certain sorts of birds (Sanitary Institute of the Home Ministry, 1909: 12–13; Inoue, 1913: 1–3). More important, in 1909 (Meiji 42), Tawara Yoshizumi (田原良純, 1855–1935), when serving as the director at the Tōkyō Hygienic Experimental Institute (東京衛生試驗所), which had launched research on pufferfish toxicity in 1884 (Meiji 17), officially named the main pufferfish toxin “tetrodotoxin” (Tani, 1948: 99–101). Researchers devoted themselves to identifying which types of toxins were in which types of pufferfish. For example, in 1887 (Meiji 20), Takahashi Juntarō and Inoko Yoshito conducted experiments on nine sorts of pufferfish and examined whether certain parts of the body (e.g., ovaries, testicles, liver, muscle, and blood) harbored poisons, including Akame (赤目) fugu, Nagoya (名古屋) fugu, Komon (小紋) fugu, Karakusa (唐草) fugu, Tora (虎) fugu, Ma (真) fugu, Goma (胡麻) fugu, Oman (巾著) fugu, and Yorito (寄戶) fugu. These scientists published their research in a top-tier journal entitled Communication Magazine (交詢雜誌, Kōjun zasshi). All of this cutting-edge empirical research gradually clarified the nature of pufferfish toxicity. Interestingly, pufferfish toxins, despite posing a serious threat to the lives of humans, were found to have positive medicinal effects. According to Japanese medical research, pufferfish toxins, after undergoing a rigorous reconstitution, can function effectively as a painkiller. For example, medically usable toxins can help treat labor pains, neuralgia, joint pains, muscle pains, burns, and skin irritation associated with eczema and scabies. In the case of scabies, the toxins kill scabies germs. Other functions of such toxins include the treatment of stomach cramps; congestion; enuresis; male impotence; and such lung ailments as persistent cough, asthma, and bacterial bronchitis (Inoue, 1913: 1–3). 142

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Knowledge of pufferfish toxins Medical researchers who examined pufferfish toxicity in Japan published their findings in medical journals and presented these findings at conferences and other gatherings. In 1894, for example, Takahashi Juntarō delivered a presentation entitled “A Talk on Pufferfish” in Tōkyō. The Journal of Japanese Stenography (日本速記雜誌, Nihon sokki zasshi) and the Journal of Women’s Hygiene (婦人衛生雜誌, Fujin eisei zasshi) later published the presentation (Association of Japanese Stenography, 1894: 356–364; Great Japanese Women Hygienic Association, 1894: 19–22, 7–9, 9–11). The former journal was published by the Japanese Stenography Association, whose members consisted largely of journalists, and the latter journal was published by the Great Japanese Women Hygienic Association, which chiefly promoted knowledge of women’s hygiene. This process beginning with medical researchers’ hard work in laboratories followed by the researchers’ dissemination of their findings in publications and presentations brought the issue of pufferfish toxicity to the attention of many non-specialists in Japan. By the late Meiji era, medical researchers had discovered pufferfish toxins in the animal’s ovaries, liver, testicles, blood, and other body parts. Armed with this scientific knowledge, the Meiji government in 1892 (Meiji 25) issued “The No. 13 Executive Order,” declaring, “It is prohibited to sell pufferfish without cleaning all of its interior organs.” Additionally, sellers should keep the pufferfish’s blood and internal organs away from other fish. With the implementation of the No. 13 Executive Order, the cases of pufferfish poisoning decreased (Association of Oriental Arts and Sciences, 1894: 149–151). In addition, despite lacking an adequate grasp of pufferfish toxins, ordinary people learned how to resuscitate themselves upon experiencing the onset of pufferfish poisoning. A first-aid book published in 1894 addressed resuscitation techniques for apnea, drowning, hypothermia, rabies, severe burns, and pufferfish poisoning. According to the book, a victim of pufferfish poisoning should drink saline water and mustard water to throw up. If sufferers experienced diarrhea, they could alleviate the symptoms by eating a mixture of chicken, milk, sesame oil, and kelp (Terao, 1894: 2–3). Continuous experimental research into pufferfish toxins revolutionized medical treatment that shifted away from traditional folk remedies and toward modern pharmaceutical applications. For example, physicians were using laxatives and diuretics to remove pufferfish poison from the human body. In severe cases of pufferfish poisoning, physicians used artificial respiration to stimulate the heart or used electronic devices to promote normal functioning of the thoracic diaphragm (Nanba, 1905: 162–163). In the 1950s, pufferfish poisoning was the most common form of food poisoning in Japan. However, the symptoms of pufferfish poisoning were now easily recognizable to medical practitioners and even to people in everyday life. Many Japanese now knew, for example, that symptoms typically manifest themselves between 30 minutes and four hours after consumption of the fish and include nausea, vomiting, intestinal cramps, stomachaches, and slight numbness of the tongue and mouth. In cases of severe poisoning, the numbness would quickly spread to the fingers and limbs, resulting in full-body paralysis, an inability to speak, and great difficulty breathing. Death might take place between 90 minutes and nine hours after consumption of the fish. Before death, the final symptoms would include unconsciousness and a severe decline in blood pressure. Indeed, there was no antidote for pufferfish poisoning, so the best method for treating these cases involved the use of vomiting agents or gastric lavage to remove all remaining poison in the stomach (Tōyama, 1952: 22–27). In short, Japanese knowledge of pufferfish toxins by the Meiji period had been bolstered by two prominent achievements. First, motivated by advances in Western medicine, more and more Japanese medical researchers were conducting rigorous scientific experiments involving 143

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pufferfish toxins and recognized that they were located chiefly in the fish’s internal organs. Second, journals, other publications, and presentations of all kind resulted in the wide dissemination of pufferfish-toxin knowledge.

The consumption of pufferfish in modern Japan Across the whole of Japan, the best-known region for pufferfish consumption is Shimonoseki in Yamaguchi Prefecture. After the 1888 lifting of the ban on pufferfish consumption, the first restaurant to obtain a license to serve pufferfish was Shunpanrō, based in Shimonoseki. More and more restaurants in Shimonoseki started serving pufferfish, specifically in the Amidaji Temple area (阿彌陀寺町). Of course, crucial to the emergence of consuming pufferfish was careful handling of the fish itself. By the late nineteenth century, the most well-known wholesale store was Daikichirō (大吉樓), run by Ōishi Kichizō (大石吉藏): its strict processing of pufferfish was so impressive that the store later became a restaurant specializing in pufferfish (Fujii, 1978: 4). In addition to Daikichirō, several restaurants served pufferfish, including Jōroku (常六), Tsukimiya (月見家), Yukitei (幸亭), Ginsui (銀水), Yamaguchi (山口), and Okasaki (岡崎), all of which promised their customers a perfectly safe pufferfish dining experience (Shimonoseki Tourism Association, 1935, appendix). Moreover, by the 1940s, with significant demand for pufferfish in Tōkyō, shops in Shimonoseki regularly shipped the ready-to-eat pufferfish to the area (Mizuo, 1941: 22). In addition, Moji Port (門司港), whose location is next to Shimonoseki, featured pufferfish restaurants, including Bunmei (文明), Kikunoie (菊之家), and Uoume (魚梅) (Kyōgawa, 1927: 1; Fujii, 1978: 6–7). Interestingly, a large number of historical figures were fond of consuming pufferfish. The so-called Pufferfish Party included politicians in modern Japan: Itō Hirobumi (伊藤博文, 1841– 1909), Inoue Kaoru (井上馨, 1836–1915), and Yamagata Aritomo (山縣有朋, 1838–1922). However, other notable figures expressed fear of pufferfish. For example, Toyama Mitsuru (頭山 滿, 1855–1915), a friend of Dr. Sun Yet-Sen, immediately left a dining table upon learning that one of the dishes would include pufferfish (Yoshikawa, 1938: 389–390). Pufferfish spawn in the springtime, when the females’ ovaries are extremely poisonous, so the best time of year to eat pufferfish extends from December to February (Mizuo 1941: 21–22). Pufferfish dishes themselves center on raw slices prepared sashimi style (including the meat and skin), hotpot, teriyaki and shioyaki grilling, stewing, and tempura deep-frying. Accompanying the sliced raw pufferfish is a specific sauce called ponzu (citrus juice with vinegar), as well as radish puree and red pepper. Moreover, parts of pufferfish organs can be mixed with Japanese wine to become pufferfish wine, such as fin wine (鰭酒), bone wine (骨酒), and seminal vesicle wine (白子酒), all of which allegedly enhance energy (Fujii, 1978: 10–13). Another style of pufferfish preparation centered on desiccations, which had long existed in Japan. Japanese people’s fondness for dried pufferfish was rooted in the discovery that dried pufferfish can greatly reduce the toxicity. In general, the species of pufferfish most suitable for drying were Goma (胡麻) fugu, Kanoko (鹿子) fugu, Jin (金河豚) fugu, and Ma (真河豚) fugu. These pufferfish would be eviscerated, cleaned with water, salted, and exposed to the sun (Agricultural and Commercial Section of Tottori Prefecture, 1888: 23). The most prominent production areas for dried pufferfish were Sanindō (山陰道), Hokurikudō (北陸道), and Kyūshū (九州) (Shizuoka Prefecture, 1889: 44). The Meiji government promoted Japanese exports of dried pufferfish to China. Considering that China, specifically the Fujian and Guangdong areas, had a long history of consuming dried aquatic products, the Meiji government encouraged local areas (e.g., Shizuoka Prefecture) to accelerate their production of dried pufferfish (Shizuoka Prefecture, 1889: 78–79). 144

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By the twentieth century, the reputation of pufferfish had grown significantly in Japan. Shōda Kazue (勝田主計, 1869–1948), a well-known Japanese politician, mentioned in his personal notes that people living around Kammon Strait (關門海峽) were skillful at slaughtering pufferfish and that cases of pufferfish poisoning were rare. Shōda mentioned that he had enjoyed sliced raw pufferfish (sashimi) served on the large plate. Also, he drank pufferfish fin wine and praised its flavor (Shōda, 1927: 199–200). Fukushima Yūhō (福島悠峰, 1905–1983), a well-known journalist, recounted his first experience of eating pufferfish: he had been 25 years old at the time and had anxiously eaten the fish at Tsukiji, delighting in the cuisine’s deliciousness. He further noted that in the 1950s, consumption of pufferfish in Tōkyō had reached great heights of popularity with many restaurants serving it. On average, in the 1950s, a pufferfish combo meal (hotpot) cost 300 Japanese yen, and if customers asked for sashimi and seminal vesicle preparations, the price would increase. Fukushima evaluated the quality of pufferfish species, stressing that Gemkai (玄海) fugu, Sukumo (宿毛) fugu, and Shimonoseki (下關) fugu were common in the Kyūshū area. Nagoya (名古屋) fugu was common in the Tōkai (東海) area, as was Tora (虎) fugu in the Kanto (關東) area (Fukushima, 1972: 15–18). The considerable improvements in the processing of pufferfish in the Showa period resulted in widespread acceptance of pufferfish consumption among diverse strata of consumers, including such notable literati, actors, and well-heeled businessmen as Aoki Getsuto (青木月斗, 1879– 1949), Masao Kumi (久米正雄, 1891–1952), Nagai Tatsuo (永井龍男, 1904–1990), Mikami Otokichi (三上於菟吉, 1891–1944), and Fumiko Yamaji (山路文子, 1912–2004) (Yoshikawa, 1938: 389–394). However, a segment of the Japanese population remained hesitant to consume pufferfish. A writer named Sakai Shigeichi (酒井繁一, 1901–1984), for example, described his own experience of consuming pufferfish. At first, Sakai dared not eat the aquatic delicacy, but persuaded by his friend, he tried it in the forms of sliced raw fish, hotpot, and pufferfish fin wine. Sakai stressed that people who were fond of pufferfish enjoyed with each bite the numbness that greeted their mouths (Sakai, 1960: 229–232).

Conclusion The evolution of pufferfish consumption in modern Japan has taken an interesting route. First, from the traditional era to the modern era, Japan skillfully absorbed culinary cultures from adjacent areas, particularly from China: pufferfish consumption was no exception. From my discussion, we can see that Japanese literati frequently cited Song-era literati Su Dongpo and Mei Shenyu regarding their emphasis on the distinctive appearance, the deliciousness, and, most important, the deadliness of pufferfish. However, despite the overall praise that Chinese literati heaped upon pufferfish, the food never became a prominent cuisine; due to the extraordinary toxicity of pufferfish, which quickly causes paralysis and death, Japanese at this time regarded the fish chiefly as an intriguing but ultimately dangerous offering from the seas. By the Meiji era, however, pufferfish consumption in Japan underwent a pivotal change. Encouraged by the Meiji Restoration’s embrace of modern Western medical knowledge, medical researchers devoted themselves to the task of discovering pufferfish toxins. The researchers succeeded in their objective, and in order to reduce the incidence of pufferfish poisoning, the researchers presented their findings in talks and publications explaining the significance of the toxins to the public, as well as to fellow experts. Buoyed by the researchers’ contributions, pufferfish grew in popularity, with Shimonoseki playing a leading role in the promotion of this cuisine. My discussion of pufferfish consumption in modern Japan has highlighted generally the success with which the developing nation sought to benefit from unfamiliar foreign resources by integrating them into Japanese culture. 145

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Bibliography Chinese resources Kuo Chunghao, The Making of Food and the Cultivation of Taste in the Lower Yangtze River Region from the Wanli Reign to the Qianlong Reign. MA Thesis. Nantou, National Chi Nan University, 2003. Kuo Chunghao, “Leisured Consumption and Refined Gustation: Shellfish and Gastronomic Life in MingQing Jiangnan.” Journal of Chinese Dietary Culture, vol. 2, no. 1, pp. 39–86, 2006. Kuo Chunghao, “The Taste of Power: Shad in Ming-Qing China, Tributary Offerings and the Culture of Imperial Rewards.” Journal of Chinese Culture Quarterly, vol. 32, pp. 39–80, 2014. Xie Zhongzhi, “Worth Dying For: Pufferfish Culture in the Ming Dynasty.” Chinese Studies, vol. 31, no.4, pp. 179–208, 2013.

English resources Bestor, Theodore C., Tsukiji: The Fish Market at the Center of the World. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004. Corbett, Rebecca, Cultivating Femininity: Women and Tea Culture in Edo and Meiji Japan. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2018. Cwiertak, Katarzyna J., Modern Japanese Cuisine. London: Reaktion Books, 2006. Ohnuki-Tierney, Emiko, Rice as Self: Japanese Identities through Time. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994. Rath, Eric C., Food and Fantasy in Early Modern Japan. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2010. ———, Japan’s Cuisines: Food, Place, and Identity. London: Reaktion Books, 2016. Rath, Eric C. and Stephanie Assmann eds., Japanese Foodways, Past and Present. Champaign, IL: The University of Illinois Press, 2010. Solt, George., The Untold History of Ramen: How Political Crisis in Japan Spawned a Global Food Craze. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2014. Stalker, Nancy K., Devouring Japan: Global Perspectives on Japanese Culinary Identity. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018. Japanese resources Anonymous, “Discussions about Pufferfish” (河豚魚の話, Fuguto no hanashi). Journal of Women’s Hygiene (婦人衛生雜誌, Fujin eisei zasshi), no. 56 (July 1894); no. 57 (August 1894); no. 58 (September 1894). Agricultural and Commercial Section of Tottori Prefecture (鳥取縣農商課, Tottori ken nōshōka), A Lecture nf Aquatic Foodstuffs by Kawaharada Moriyoshi (河原田盛美水產講話筆記, Kawaharada Moriyoshi suisan kōwa hikki). Tottori: Tottori innsatsu sho (鳥取印刷所), 1888. Akashi, Taizō (明石退藏), “The Experiences of Pufferfish Poisoning” (河豚中毒經驗說, Fugu chūdoku keiken setsu). Medical News (醫事新聞, Iji shinbun), no. 27 (June 1880). Tōkyō: Iji shinbun sha (醫事 新聞社). Chibo, Eitarō (千葉榮太郎) and Karawa Ichirō (賀川一郎), “Experiments on Pufferfish Toxin” (河豚中毒 實驗, Fugu chūdoku jikken). Tokushima Medical Journal (德島醫學會雜誌, Tokushima igakkai zasshi). Tokushima: Kagawa Ichirō, 1892. Communication Magazine (交詢雜誌, Kōjun zasshi), no. 441. Dainippon fujin eiseikai (大日本婦人衛生會, Great Japanese Women Hygiene Association), no. 56 (July, 1894), no. 57 (August, 1894). Fujii, Juichi (藤井壽一), Pufferfish Anecdotes (河豚珍話, Fugu Chinwa). Kyūshū: Ogura shuppan (小倉 出版), 1978. Fukushima Yūhō (福島悠峰), Collections of Literary Works on Sundays (日曜随筆集, Nichiyō zuihitsushū). Utsunomiya: Shimotsuke shinbun sha (下野新聞社), 1972. Inoue, shigeyoshi (井上成美), “Pufferfish Toxin” (河豚の毒, Fugu no doku). Journal of Ichthyology (魚學雜 誌, Gyogaku zasshi), vol. 1, no. 6 (August 1913). Iso Naomichi (磯直道), The Culinary Culture of Fish from Edo’s Haikai (江戶の俳諧にみる魚食文化, Edo no haikai ni miru gyo shoku bunka). Tōkyō: Seizandō shoten (成山堂書店), 2006. Itō Shungaitō (伊藤春外套) ed., Pufferfish and Shimonoseki (ふぐと下關, Fugu to Shimonoseki). Shimonoseki: kankō kyōkai, 1935. Kakehi Fumio (筧文生), Baigyōshin (梅堯臣). Tōkyō: Iwanami shoten (岩波書店), 1962.

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Enjoying a dangerous pleasure Kitahama, Kiichi (北濱喜一), The Encyclopedia of Pufferfish (ふぐ博物誌, Fugu hakubutsushi). Tōkyō: Tōkyō shobōsha (東京書房社), 1975. Kyōgawa, Gyorō (峽川漁郎) ed., Pufferfish (河豚, fugu). Moji: Tenbai shooku (甜梅書屋), 1927. Mizuo, Teruo (水尾徹雄), Pufferfish (河豚, Fugu). Kōbe: Chiba Naotoshi, 1941. Mochizuki Kenchi (望月賢二), A Great Encyclopedia of Fish and Seafood (圖說魚と貝の大事典, Zusetsu sakana to kai no daijiten). Tōkyō: Kashiwa Shobō (柏書房), 1997. Nanba, Sōjirō (南波宗次郎), “The Poisonousness of Fungi and Pufferfish” (菌ノ中毒及河豚ノ中毒ニ就 テ, Kinoko no chūdoku oyobi fugu no chūdoku no tsuite). News on Clinical Medical Treatment (臨床藥 石新報, Rinshō yakuseki shinpō). Tōkyō: Kenshōdō (建昇堂), 1905. Ōsawa, Kenji (大澤謙二), Experiments on Pufferfish Toxin (河豚中毒ノ說, Fugu chūdoku no setsu). Medical News (醫事新聞, Igi Shinbun), no. 122 (May 1884). Tōkyō: Iji shinbun sha (醫事新聞社). Sakai Hanichi (酒井繁一), The Surface of Japan (日本の肌, Nihon no hada). Tōkyō: Kawade shobō shinsha (河出書房新社), 1960. Sanitary Institute of the Home Ministry (內務省衛生試驗所, Naimushō eisei shikensho) ed., The Collections Diet (飲食物編, Inshokubutsu hen). Tōkyō: Maruzen kabushiki kaisha (丸善株式會社), 1909. Shimonoseki Tourism Association (下關觀光協會, Shimonoseki kankō kyōkai), The Love Song and Beauty of Pufferfish (河豚情歌とふく美, Fugu jōka to fugubi). Shimonoseki: Seibu kyōiku shuppansha (西部 教育出版社), 1935. Shizuoka Prefecture (靜岡縣), The Improvement of Aquatic Foodstuffs (水產改良說, Suisan kairyō setsu). Shizuoka Prefecture: Yōmandō (擁萬堂出版), 1889. Shōda, Kazue (勝田主計), Gelidium jelly (Tokoroten). Tōkyō: Nihon Tsūshin daigaku shuppan sha (日本 通信大學出版社), 1927. Takahashi, Juntarō (高橋順太郎) and Minetarō Fujimoto (藤本峰太郎), “Discussions about Pufferfish” (河豚魚の話, Fuguto no hanashi). Journal of Japanese Stenography (日本速記雜誌, Nihon sokki zasshi), no. 13 (May 1894). Tani, Iwao (谷巖), Pufferfish (ふぐ, Fugu). Ōsaka: Sōgensha (創元社), 1948. Terao, Shizuo (寺尾靜雄), First-Aid Handbook (命の親, Inochi no oya). Tōkyō: Kōshinsha (後信舍), 1894. Tōyama, Yūzō (遠山祐三), Knowledge and Treatment of Food-Poisoning (食中毒の知識と手當, Shokumotsu chūdoku no chishiki to chiryō). Tōkyō: Igaku shoinn (醫學書院), 1952. Tōyō gakugei sha (東洋學藝社, Association of Oriental Arts and Sciences), “Statistics on Pufferfish Poisoning” (河豚の中毒者に就ての統計, Fugu no chūdokusha nit suite no tōkei). Journal of Oriental Arts and Sciences (東洋學藝雜誌, Tōyō gakugei sha zasshi), vol. 11, no. 150 (March 1894). Yakushiji, Bunkichirō (藥師寺 文吉郎), “Pufferfish Toxin” (河豚中毒ニ就テ, Fugu chūdoku nit suite). The Medical Matters of Geishū and Bishū (藝備醫事, Geibi iji), no. 195 (August 1912). Yasuda, Masataka (泰田正隆) ed., Journal of Sino-Japan Medical Business (和漢醫林新誌, Wakan irin shinshi). Tōkyō: Kyōu sha (杏雨社), 1884. Yoshikawa, Eijii (吉川英治), Weeds by the Window (窓邊雜草, Madobe zassō). Tōkyō: Ikuseisha (育生社), 1938.

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11 CROSSING JAPANESE RICE PRODUCTS WITH ITALIAN FUTURISM Fortune cookies, onigiri and arancini as communicant rice-bites Annette Condello

Introduction Luck exists in the leftovers. Japanese proverb

Increasingly, scholarly attention has focused upon the history of Asia’s rice and its culinary customs. However, although Italy is recognized as the major European producer of rice, the cross-culinary connections between Japan and Italy have received scant notice. In particular, little research has addressed the historical encounters between Japanese and Italian cultures, as well as the intersection between Italian Futurists’ ideas about food. Within the Italian Futurist cuisine of the early 1930s, for instance, there are common ingredients within Japanese culture, specifically using leftover rice from risotto dishes to make antipasti. Considering that rice is a more sustaining food for the masses rather than pasta, Japanese rice-bites affected Futurist ideas about cuisine. Traditionally considered an Asian food, rice has been understood as both as a luxury and necessity, a sustaining food crop commonly consumed throughout the Mediterranean region as a main dish and in the form of appetizers. Recently, rice is also understood as “the staple food of a fifth of the world’s population and offers a defence against famine today” and having “permeated everyday life, culture, festivities, traditions and language” (Lavitrano 2015: 254). Originally cultivated in China as well as India, there are two main rice varieties: the japonica and indica. “Rice has historically been considered a ‘luxury’ food in much of Asia, with per capita consumption increasing as incomes have risen and more and more people have come to be able to afford the ‘superior,’ ‘preferred’ grain” (Latham quoted in Franck 2007: 150). Since it was considered a luxury food, the influence of the Europeans traversing by sea from west to east and vice versa synthetically popularized Asian food in Mediterranean regions by deep-frying appetizers in olive oil. Rice was introduced into Japan through China in the Yayoi period (300 BCE–300 CE), mainly for religious purposes. There, as in China and India, rice is worshipped at thousands of shrines. 148

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Japanese rice worship, for example, “has undergone the same transformation as [the Hindu goddess] Lakshmi worship in India, namely, a conflating of the rice deity with a deity for prosperity and wealth” (Hamilton 2003: 263). Rice was believed to be “protected by the innumerable kami (spirits) that populate the Japanese countryside” (Weiss 2016: 23). Although “rice undoubtedly held religious and symbolic significance in Japanese culture from very early on but, as with other kinds of ‘sacred’ food elsewhere, this did not imply that everyone who accepted that significance ate it on an everyday basis” (Franck 2007: 151). In Japan “rice was primarily the food for the upper class throughout most of history, and was not a ‘staple food’ for most Japanese until recently” (quoted in Aguilar 2013: 300). Pounded in mass quantities, rice paste and rice paper incarnate religious, dining and theatrical spaces. Rice soup was also used in lime mortar paste to sustain the longevity of buildings. There, gold or silver leaf could be glued on to temple walls, as well as laced in food. As far as rice paper is concerned, numerous versions of wafer paper from Asian countries use rice flour as the key ingredient mixed with water. In fourteenth-century Italy, the so-called pioneer of East–West exchange, Venetian merchant Marco Polo insisted that Asian rice was a more wholesome food than the pasty foods made from dough – vermicelli or noodles. Along with rice, Polo believed citrus fruits were wholesome. Rice and oranges were cultivated abundantly in the Mediterranean, specifically in the provinces of Sicily, Calabria, Sardinia and Campania. Martino da Como was one of the first culinary experts to mention vermicelli (Shelke 2016). Pasta, or doughy paste, a starchy wheat-grain paste processed in a similar manner to rice, was believed by some to have been invented in Sicily in the twelfth century, not by Asians as such but by the Arabs in Sicily (Libya or Tunisia). Arab geographer Muhammad al-Idrisi, a member of the Norman King Roger II’s court in Palermo, identified pasta (Itriyya) in his description of the town called Trabia in his manuscript, kitab nuzhat al-mushtaq (A diversion for the man longing to travel to far-off places). Itriyya was exported to the Calabrian province and to Muslim and other Christian countries. Curiously, this type of pasta was noted two centuries earlier in an Arabic medical text by a Jewish doctor in what we now recognize as Tunisia (Crofton 2013: 46–47). Nonetheless, pasta was therefore introduced into the Orient via the Eastern Mediterranean and is now recognized as a staple food of Italian cuisine competing with rice. As for the oranges, about four centuries later counterfeit varieties – the arancini rice balls, made with leftover risotto and deep-fried in oil – were created in Southern Italy. The invention of these portable fake rice oranges filled the void created when citrus fruits were not in season. While other Asian cultures have altered the manner in which rice was cultivated, transforming it from a local food crop into a widespread cultural phenomenon with many types of deep-fried rice balls, Italy and Japan in particular are intriguing cases. Both cultures reconceptualized how food could be composed in intriguing ways. As in Japan, the most sought-after variety of rice in Italy is the white short-grain japonica. Japonica’s high absorbency, translucency and stickiness lent itself to making onigiri (rice balls), risottos and arancini (little orange rice balls). Today Italy is recognized as the major European producer of rice, noted for its high quality of protein. Above all, japonica became a common grain used in Italian rice recipes, through the conduit of japonisme. This chapter unravels a series of intertwined influences between Japanese rice culture and Italian Futurist ideas about food expressed in The Futurist Cookbook. It outlines the origins of the onigiri and fortune cookies, because these are made with rice flour, and the historical encounters between Japanese and Italian cultures. In order to decipher these food expressions, the chapter also identifies the linguistic and historical connections between Japanese and Italian eating practices with regard to rice and rice paste; it also observes the way Japanese cuisine was understood in the Italian context and how Italian food became established in Japan. Drawing upon war 149

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ballads, diaries, nineteenth-century literature and the impact of rice products upon their culinary settings, the chapter concentrates on the japonica rice connections between Italian futurism and Japanese culture. Next, it traces the references to rice within The Futurist Cookbook because Marinetti’s text communicates resonances of Japanese culture. As a consequence of japonisme, the intertwined influences of Japanese rice products with Italian futurism oriented the way Futurist recipes arose as a communicative twentieth-century culinary practice to form more nourishing bites to eliminate surplus food waste. Arguably, it demonstrates why the Italian Futurists were attracted to Japanese cuisine through its military dimension.

Revolutionizing rice and the Italian Futurists The Italian Futurists revolutionized food through rice. According to Ernest Ialongo, “the Futurists were a self-proclaimed avant-garde movement that saw no difference in its revolutionizing mission when it came to art and politics” (2015: 7). Alexandria-born Italian poet and leader of the Futurist movement, Filippo Tommaso Marinetti, believed that food and cooking could be a mechanism for spreading the Futurist revolution. In 1930 Marinetti made his first public foray into cooking, publishing his “Manifesto of Futurist Cooking” in the Gazzetta del Popolo newspaper in Turin. Two years later he penned The Futurist Cookbook in collaboration with the painter Luigi Colombo Fillia. Aiming to merge art with gastronomy and to transform dining into a type of performance art, the cookbook included rice recipes – the text is supposedly more of a satirical polemic than a cookery manual. For instance, it omitted pasta altogether as he sought to prepare Italians for war (Shelke 2016). For the Futurists, food was of concern because it helped “feed” Italians in a novel way to “strengthen the Italian race” (Ialongo 2015: 214) in his “Manifesto of the Futurist Kitchen.” Responding to Italy’s economic needs during the Depression, Marinetti argued, for example, “that the Italian dependence on pasta had to end.” (Ialongo 2015: 214). According to Ialongo, “the reason was that a future war was inevitable, and the Italian people had to be prepared. They had to be more agile, more fast” (2015: 214). Marinetti claimed that pasta was less nutritious than meat, fish or legumes, and was too difficult to digest, leading to fatigue, pessimism, inactivity, and – consequently – neutralism. Moreover, in a specific reference to [Benito] Mussolini’s autarchic turn, he made a special note that “the abolition of pasta will liberate Italy from costly foreign grain and will favour the Italian rice industry.” (2015: 214) Marinetti and Mussolini were not the first to think of pasta as being less nutritious than rice. Internal evidence in Marinetti’s manifesto suggests that he extracted information from sixteenth-century Italian surgeon, Giovanni da Vigo, who started a campaign against pasta (Marinetti 1932: 54). Cooked pasta, for architectural theorist Marco Frascari, was “in itself, a meaningless gluey construct” (2003: 45). Alluding to the Futurist manifesto’s genesis, Frascari argued that the appearances of [Italian] cuisine and architecture include all those outward characteristics that can be perceived by the sense of sight, taste, touch, smell and hearing. They are referred to as “accidents,” not to be confused with the common meaning of that word. (2003: 46) 150

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Pasta is an “accidental” foodstuff prelude – to be eaten before the main meal – made in advance and reserved for special occasions, for the antipasto, or in Japan, the “otoshi.” In terms of the actual Futurist meal, “the physical body and the built environment devoured each other just as time and space consumed all material traces. By assimilating food to architecture and architecture to food, the Futurists cooked up a new sensibility” (Hunt 2005: 163). This was the case with Italian rice culture and its artistic derivations through its transformation, that is, through the idea of camouflaging food from leftover rice paste into arancini. Marinetti was more interested in the idea of consuming lighter, smaller Asian portion-sized meals – as a series of antipasti. At least a decade before writing his cooking manifesto, Marinetti gravitated to Japanese cuisine because of its rapid preparation of rice-bites, their nutritious value and portable nature and their original link to the food of samurai. In addition, since Japan was previously at war with Russia, this, in turn, resonated with the Italian Futurists’ preoccupation with speed. Marinetti championed rice in the Lombardy region, and he also had an appetite for the militaristic. Traditionally, small Japanese rice dishes that would fit into the palm of one’s hand provided the best diet for the military, which is why Marinetti was fundamentally drawn to Japanese culture. This was especially the case when Marinetti first encountered Japanese themes from 1920s Italian accounts of the Russo-Japanese War. He was also drawn to the exoticism of Japan he vicariously encountered in Paris around the same time. There, he met Japanese avant-garde artists and photographers, namely Iwata Nakayama and Seiji Togo (Zanotti 2015). Although Marinetti never once mentioned Japan in his cookbook, there are, nonetheless, underlying references to rice and its addition and use in specific recipes. This is particularly the case with the orange rice balls and risottos. Rice paste proved to be a stronger “spackle,” so to speak, for the stomach because it is one that is easily digestible than pasta paste. Thus small Japanese-inspired rice products feature in the manifesto, promoting the benefits of Asian food in Italy to feed the masses – that could feed an army on the move.

Onigiri’s portability and the fortune cookie’s noteworthiness Originally, onigiri (Japanese rice balls) were flattened spheres wrapped with leaves and created as an easier method to transport small foods because of their portability and speedy sustenance to feed the samurai. “People have made and consumed the rice ball in Japan for millennia. In the Heian Period (794 AD–1192 AD), court documents mention the ceremonial exchanges of dense, egg-shaped bundles of glutinous rice between aristocratic households and loyal vassals” (Whitelaw 2006: 132). At the time, when Buddhism, Taoism and Chinese influences were present in Japan, all portable boxed meals supplied to the military contained such small-sized rice balls. This reflected the country’s preoccupation with Chinese cuisine, especially the vast array of rice products, including dried and pounded rice stalks for wrapping food. Rice balls were, and still are, stuffed with fish and pickles, then grilled (see Figure 11.1). “Rice balls could be produced in bulk, rapidly distributed, carried into battle, and consumed when necessary” (Whitelaw 2006: 132). These types of rice balls had to be wrapped with large leaves or rice straw (Whitelaw 2006: 132) so they would not fall apart, and eventually they were covered with pounded and flattened seaweed (or nori). With their portability and nutritious value, even Japanese military ballads reference rice balls, which no doubt would have appealed to Marinetti. Japanese poetry also makes references to onigiri. They appeared in Lady Murasaki’s eleventhcentury diary. Murasaki Shikibu mentioned people eating the oval-shaped rice balls tonijki (Harper and Shirane 2015: 363). In addition, rice balls were recognized as wrapped rice – tsutsumi-ii – to feed servants. These were made of wrapped-up parcels made into a meal and served on a platter. Today these are called torinko. It was only in the late sixteenth and seventeenth 151

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Figure 11.1 Mice contemplating the leftover rice balls from the “Hokusai School Sketchbook” (ca. 1830–1850)

centuries that the small Japanese rice balls were begun to be fried in oil. This was the outcome of the Portuguese mercantile trade with the Japanese. In Japan, Catholic Portuguese had introduced the ancient Mediterranean technique of deep-frying fish in olive oil and invented tempura. The military and poetic dimensions of onigiri are evoked in the Italian Futurists’ recipes. Apart from the onigiri, the savoury-confection fortune cookie was a unique Japanese invention. Conventionally, scholars believe that fortune cookies, made out of rice flour and water, buried with notes originated in China. In fact, this was not the case. More recently, evidence has come to light documenting the fortune cookie’s first appearance in Japan. According to Yasuko Nakamachi, the fortune cookie (tsujiura senbei) was served in tea houses and small restaurants “as a complimentary side dish or dessert to pair with tea or sake (see Figure 11.2). The tsujiura confectionery, which contained a fortune-telling slip of paper within itself, was often used as a prop to stir up the crowd at banquet parties” (2012, accessed 18.11.2016). Fortune cookies soon became “fancied as props in settings such as parties featuring geisha and barmaids, as well as a tool to break the ice when striking up a conversation with somebody new” (Nakamachi 2012). By the 1870s they were called tsujiura senbei. These were also introduced into California by Japanese immigrants (Shurtleff and Aoyagi 2014: 3111). In reviewing the “Edo- and Meiji-era 152

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Figure 11.2 Baking Japanese fortune cookies with notes inside each one, aka tsujiura senbei (ca. 1878)

documents that referenced tsujiura senbei in Japan during the nineteenth century,” Nakamachi described them as “brittle cookies that contained a fortune in a fictional work by Tamenaga Shunsui . . . and found a book that featured an 1878 print of a man grilling tsujiura senbei” (Nakamachi 2012; and Boylorn and Orbe 2016). The tsujiura notes used in Japan made out of rice crackers called senbei, which are similar to fortune cookies, were also invented there. Thus, the practice of putting paper with messages on it inside food was practice common in some Japanese regions, especially in sweets, but this practice was later abandoned (Lee 2008). Messages also reappeared in The Futurist Cookbook. As a sort of low-calorie East–West food, onigiri and fortune cookies would have appealed to the Italian Futurists as antipasti. The messages inserted into the fortune cookies appealed to their propensity for warfare foods revealing secret messages of what to do next. Creating a new recipe based on this form, called “stuffed oranges with notes,” suggests a fusion dish, a Japanese-Italian future orange, discussed later. Such traditional Japanese foods provided the Italian Futurists small rice-bites which could be consumed in battles because of their rapid sustenance. Yet a gap in current literature otherwise suggests that these rice products were an outcome of the influence of the japonisme movement in Europe, noted for its oriental decadence. This decadence consequently inspired, and at the same time abhorred, the Futurists. According to Allen S. Weiss, there was a vogue of japonisme in late nineteenth-century France after the opening of Japan to the West and the widespread importation of its arts. . . . We find today many of the same sorts of crossing influences in most of the arts, especially in cuisine. (2016: 112–113) 153

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Marinetti would have learned about japonisme through the Italian poet Gabriel d’Annunzio’s novels, such as Mandarina (1884), in Naples and at various International World’s Fairs in Milan and Paris. When considering the impact of rice and citrus upon Italian culture, the expansion of japonisme (along with its counterpart, chinoiserie) suggests how significant the crossing of influences was, with each culture informing each other and vice versa.

Japonisme, Italian rice culture and its pasty forms First prevalent in France (then Austria and Italy), japonisme expanded at the International Exposition at Paris (1867). This exposition included a pavilion dedicated to Japanese arts and crafts. The display popularized porcelain, kimono-silks mania, cherry blossom embroidery, samurai armour, traditional lacquerware decorated in gold and literature pertaining to this exotic culture. Books about Japanese culture were published in Paris – for example, Pierre Loti’s exotic novel Madame Chrysanthemum, which takes place in Nagasaki, the so-called “Naples” of Japan. Around this time, Marinetti was acquainted with the Italian critic, Vittorio Pica (who admired Edmond and Jules de Goncourt’s Oriental-French taste) and was knowledgeable about japonsime. At Milan La Scala Theatre, a 1904 adaptation of Loti’s novel into an Italian libretto, Giacomo Puccini’s Madame Butterfly, incorporated Japanese themes of geishas and the tea ceremony. Madame Butterfly’s opera set, for example, depicting Japanese Shoji screens, was made of rice products and depicted a rice field. Lightweight and easy-to-transport doors made with rice paper inserts for Milanese opera fans marked the beginning when japonisme expanded in Italy and when japonica rice products were abundant. Madame Butterfly’s opera tea ceremony might not have appealed to Italian Futurists’ except for their penchant for compact rice-bites. The fortune cookie, in particular, appealed to their culinary and surreal artistic sensibilities because it could communicate top secret messages through food. With these rice products in mind, it is no coincidence that japonisme enlarged with the importation of the japonica rice variety from Asia into Europe. Italian chefs started to create similar textural forms of rice pastes, specifically through their leftover rice grains. Reconsidering the time when the rich cultural legacy of the East refracted rice culture, pounded rice sheets and risotto dishes, with its leftovers spherically shaped and deep-fried, present us today with a multitude of pasty forms. Japanese writers travelled through Italy in the Meiji (1868–1912) and Taisho periods (1912– 1926). Consequently, their gourmet literature reveals an understanding of Italian rice and pasta culture. Writers such as Omiya Toyotaka and Nogami Yaeko observed that northern Italians, particularly in the Lombardy province, loved their rice, but those in the south loved their macaroni and spaghetti. In the Italian army this proved to be a problem in the military kitchens because it divided its people into two camps – those who consumed rice for speedy sustenance, ready for battle, and others who consumed pasta and felt lethargic straight after their meal. Food played a political role in the army, not knowing who to reply to when dining in company. Writings also mention the consumption of risotto and macaroni dishes, which the Japanese likened to udon noodles (Masahiro 2012: 19–10, my translation). With respect to Japan at the time, the inclusion of cheese in the risotto dishes (Masahiro 2012: 11) was unusual. That is, dairy products then were rare and only introduced into Japan well after pasta dishes had become locally embedded. Risotto became a popular dish in Europe only in the mid-nineteenth century. Mostly renowned was, and still is, Lombardy’s national dish, Milanese risotto. Another version calls for fried Arborio rice and broth added with Persian saffron, which was a Southern Italian invention, given the ready availability of saffron brought to the Campania region by the Jews. (This is especially the case since the ancient Neapolitans had already traded with the ancient Persians and 154

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Indians in preceding centuries.) From that point on, the sphere-shaped arancini not only became Italy’s signature antipasti but also a street food.

Arancini, or counterfeit oranges, rice stuffing and risotto Moulded rice balls of the Italian variety were made with leftover risotto and deep-fried in olive oil. These were created to resemble oranges, a counterfeit whole food. In the Middle East there was a similar tradition of creating counterfeit food using rice varieties from ancient India and Persia, as we shall see. Rice, however, was first introduced from India and Persia into the Mediterranean region in antiquity through Greece, Turkey, Sicily, Calabria and Egypt – the indica variety. The Romans imported varieties of rice from the Orient (and North Africa), but not as a foodstuff. They were interested in rice for its medical application. Rice was otherwise considered a costly luxury for the rich and only used in the form of a powder added with water to form a paste. The Romans also cultivated the first orange (arancia) orchards in North Africa. Rice for consumption was introduced into medieval Italy and Spain by Arabian merchants. After the Muslim conquest of part of the Mediterranean, rice was grown in Sicily and exported from there to Spain. The imitation of citrus fruits, the cultural fusion of the arancini in the Mediterranean with Asian versions, no doubt brought about the invention of Futurist food. Yet four hundred years before Marco Polo’s supposed introduction of rice and citrus fruits into the Mediterranean, “Arab travellers and merchants regularly visited China, following the rhythms [of] the monsoon season, usually aboard Chinese junks” (Zaouali 2007: 16). At that time, it apparently was the Arabs, not the Chinese, who first imported rice grains to the Mediterranean region. On their voyages, Arab traders also exported dried pasta to the Orient because it was easily portable, inventing new versions of pasta in the form of short tubes, noodles and the like for Asia (Shelke 2016). Arabian cookbooks included recipes for rice stuffing. More importantly, they “camouflaged” some whole foods to resemble something else, a moulded edible paste of a different type. The Kitab al-tabikh, for example, the apparent surviving cookbook compiled by Ibn Sayyar al-Warraq in the tenth century, comprised preceding caliphs’ recipe collections (Perry quoted in Zaouali 2007: ix), indicating their fusion into other foods. The caliphs [. . .] employed Christian physicians who were learned in the Greek school of medicine, and they introduced the idea of serving vegetarian dishes to invalids. In Islam, there is no religious requirement to abstain from meat on any occasion, and this surely explains why meatless dishes were called muzawwaj (“counterfeit”). (Zaouali 2007: x–xi) “The concept that ‘genuine’ dishes contain meat is still alive – the Turkish word for vegetables stuffed with rice instead of meat is yalanci, which also means ‘counterfeit’” (Zaouali 2007: x–xi). Whether they contained meat or not is not the issue here, but rather the idea of counterfeit food stuffed with rice was served to the invalids rather than the elites. Rice stuffing is therefore informative when exploring Japanese and its equivalent Italian artistic morsels for the masses or the military. Returning to Italy, it is worth reflecting on how in the mid-sixteenth century, other “pastes” were invented. The culinary influences of Asian rice pastes in the form of risotto emerged in 1574 (Martin 2014). Another paste transformed into edible rice paper was created to wrap nougat to prevent stickiness transferring to one’s fingers. This particular finger-food paste, studded with crystallized citrus pieces and wrapped with rice paper, could be served with hot beverages at 155

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festive occasions in the Renaissance, which was purely an elite luxury product. As a finger food, antipasto was invented in 1590 (Ayto 1994: 7). Antipasto was a similar course to the leftovers, or hors d’oeuvres, in France (Condello 2008), serving savoury bite-sized portions rather than the over-sized sweet delicacies. “Antipasto is an Italian term for ‘hors d’oeuvres,’ compounded from anti- before and pasto ‘meal’ (a descendant of Latin pastus ‘food’)” (Ayto 1993: 8). The Mediterranean type of edible rice paper paste was derived from the folded and baked Asian fortune cookie.

The establishment of Italian food in Japan At the time japonisme pervaded Italy, the various kinds of pastes, pounded and moulded to form rice balls, prompted chefs to make arancini, or different versions of them as “counterfeit oranges” in Japan. There, they were deep-fried, similar to tempura. Deep-fried savoury morsels in olive oil were therefore considered to be pasti. And in Asia “pasto” was rice, the focal meal. The intention then is to focus on the deep-frying of foods in olive oil to stress the intersection between Italian and Japanese food. So, apart from the arancini, where precisely did wheat-based pasta itself as a cultural phenomenon arise in Japan via Italy? It was in the early 1920s that Italian restauranteurs established culinary centres in Nagasaki. The city soon gained the name by novelist Kafu Nagai of the “Naples of Japan” was and acclaimed as the “Naples of the Orient.” There, macaroni proved to be a popular type of pasta. Indeed, a macaroni factory was established in Nagasaki by a French missionary, Father de Rotz, as Italian macaroni remained a costly luxurious food (Ono and Salat 2013). Following French occupation in the 1920s, Italian restaurants were set up in the city. Japanese elites could sample Mediterranean-type rice balls deep-fried in oil as the Nagasaki otoshi. Gradually, when cooking oil became more affordable, the deep-fried rice balls were served at local restaurants. This opened new networks for Italians to launch new ideas about Japanese cuisine as an art form in Futurist Italy, and vice versa. Meanwhile back in Italy, the Futurists created other arancini where they inserting new messages therein to be consumed within Turin’s “The Holy Palate Tavern,” marking cross-cultural influences.

Indica and japonica tidbits in The Futurist Cookbook In 1931, Futurist architect Nicola Diulgheroff and painter Luigi Colombo Fillia erected “The Holy Palate Tavern” at Turin, cladding it from floor to ceiling with gleaming aluminium (Pirro 2009:19). The atmosphere conveyed speed – silver foil even lined the tables. In reinterpreting this tavern’s table features, it appears to imitate another Asian custom, this time from India, particularly the Moghul culinary practice of lacing rice dishes with silver leaf – but in reverse. Traditionally, in the city of Lucknow, silver leaf was used by the Nawabs for medicinal purposes in Ayurveda practices because of its antibacterial coating, which was edible. Usually lacing rice dishes and highly valued as a garnish, silver leaf (vark) was, and still is, used to promote a perception of luxury (Bhatnagar and Saxena 2006). Silver leaf is used widely to layer atop of rice dishes, which was also a sybaritic practice at medieval Persian banquets. Deriving from the jewelled rice pilaffs with citrus pieces, as in Nawabi cuisine celebrations, perfumed food, such as the naturally fragrant Basmati rice, enticed diners with its magical aroma. The practice of deliberately producing a perfumed ambience of a space tantalized one’s olfactory senses and altered how food was produced. Equally interesting is to observe and consume rice dishes decorated with slivers of silver foil within decorative surroundings. This ambience determined how modern meals could be orchestrated in the future. “Hid[ing] through artifice, the creative process to highlight the inventiveness of the artist as a molder of uniformed matter” (quoted in Martin-McAuliffe 156

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2016: 2) dispels new effects in metal-lined interiors by catapulting the Futurists’ stainless steel kitchen and restaurant to other cultures. The Futurist Cookbook’s “Intuitive Antipasto” recipe, a formula created by Fillia, was basically a stuffed orange but without any rice to be consumed by people who either want to live in the fast lane or want to live longer. No rice was actually used for this dish. Instead, a real orange was used; the pulp was scooped out and the rind filled with mixed meats, pickled vegetables and chillies. The messages on slivers of paper said: “‘Live dangerously’ – ‘With Futurist cooking, doctors, pharmacists and grave diggers will be out of work’” (Marinetti 1932: 213). Evoking a Japanese-Italian Futurist fortune cookie that did not involve rice at all, the suggestion is what made the orange instinctive – as a “fortune” orange. Marinetti’s ideas about Japanese customs motivated him to invent new rice recipes with oranges and cheese. He celebrated risotto alla Milanese cooked with saffron. He was concerned “with the idea that Italian soldiers were out on the battlefield consuming pasta, bloating themselves on this ruinous grain” (Hunt 2005: 157). In alignment with da Vigo’s and Mussolini’s abhorrence of pasta, as noted earlier, Marinetti was adamantly against pasta and therefore recommended that people eat risotto instead. In any case, the dishes for the Futurist dinner included recipes such as “orange risotto” (an appetizer served with clumps of provolone cheese) and “Totalrice” (cooked rice layered with parmesan cheese). “Rice oranges,” created by Italian poet Mazza, were prepared with a tomato risotto with a good pinch of saffron to make little balls out of it, about the size of an orange. Stuffed with cheese and meat, these oranges were rolled, covered in flour, then dipped in beaten egg and breadcrumbed and fried in lots of olive oil. Similarly, “The Bombardment of Adrianolopolis” recipe, created by Pasca d’Angelo, was essentially arancini reminiscent of the Japanese onigiri eaten during battles. These were made from a risotto which was moulded and stuffed with olives, capers and buffalo mozzarella; formed into balls; dipped into beaten eggs; and then rolled in breadcrumbs and fried. The cookbook’s rice recipes thus reorient the japonica rice variety in the form of a diverse fusion of Italian and Japanese dishes: risotto with oranges and counterfeit ones in the form of arancini. “Marked by a strong Orientalist flavour” (Zanotti 2012: 95), Marinetti’s Futurist fortune recipes are based on the European Japonisme tradition. Marinetti’s knowledge of Japan was based mainly on secondhand sources. His interest in Japan climaxed in the mid-1920s, but he never actually visited the place (Zanotti 2012: 97), or India for that matter. Evidence shows that in Italy the Japanese poet “Takamura Kotaro is said to have corresponded directly with Marinetti and received information from him beginning around 1910, when he published his avant-garde manifesto ‘Midori-iro no taiyo’ (Green Sun)” (Zanotti 2012: 97). It is probable that Marinetti would have also come across Japanese cuisine in Argentina and Brazil when he visited the main cities in the 1920s and 1930s to promote his Futurist manifesto and dined with Japanese intellectuals and artists. Curiously, Marinetti forbade the use of cutlery, namely the fork, an Italian invention, and preferred people to eat with “one’s hands” (Hunt 2005: 162). Presumably, his xenophobic reaction to Italian eating customs was thwarted by his earlier recollections of Northern African cuisine, which he personally experienced when growing up there – the Arabic eating customs with one’s hands (as in Indian and other Asian cultures too). As reflected in his writings and poetry, Marinetti idealized Northern Africa culture. He would have first experienced eating rice in Egypt, then in Paris, where he studied law and encountered japonisme. Following these culinary experiences, in Italy he lived in the Lombardy region where the rice paddy fields were cultivated in the Po Valley, which would have allowed him think twice about the benefits of consuming japonica rice and fusing Japanese cuisine with Italian futurism. 157

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Additionally, Marinetti imagined Futurist meals to be eaten in a mock-up of an aeroplane interior. Therein, fragrance was used to enhance the gastronomic experience. Perfume “was dispelled from the table by electric fans” (The Futurist Cookbook, 95). “When diners lift their heads to chew, waiters spray them with perfume” (Crofton 2013: 291). No doubt the idea came to him at the same time when he read the Italian reports about the Russo-Japanese War fighter planes, but also when Marinetti celebrated the leader of Italy’s air force minister, Italo Balbo, who popularized aviation in Italy. As an inspiration for the mock-up aeroplane interior, Marinetti must have had not only a preoccupation with speed and stainless steel but also the Japanese aluminium bento box in mind. Although Marinetti never actually visited Japan, he surely demonstrated an undetected inspiration of Japanese themes in his cookbook – of the communicant rice-bites the samurai and geishas ate to convey sweet nothings or top-secret messages hidden within the food. Marinetti was not unknown in Japan. Ogai Mori, who was the first to translate the Futurist manifesto into Japanese in 1909, enabled Japanese poet Hirato Renkichi to write the Japanese Futurists movement manifesto in 1921. Marinetti’s writings did influence Hirato Renkichi’s poetry, but within these writings there is an ominous allusion to food of how people in the city “get sick” (Renkichi 2004), hinting at what we would consider today as inedible counterfeit foods, such as fake rice. Intriguingly, the translation and publication of the Futurist manifesto from the Italian language into Japanese in the early 1920s is what ultimately emerged as Japanese influences within The Futurist Cookbook, published a decade later. At the end of the 1920s, when japonisme fell out of fashion in Italy, the japonica rice variety continued to dominate Italian food culture because pasta was considered a second-rate food. It became so political to the point that pasta dishes were seen by some as less important, specifically in the northern provinces of Lombardy and Piedmont and Veneto since wheat was considered more expensive to cultivate than actual rice grains. Eventually, the Italian rice industry grew and so too did Japanese futurism with its equivalent macaronic choices for inventing new foods, like instant noodles, thirty years later.

Conclusion When considering what to do with the rice leftovers and the invention of Futurist recipes, the prevalence of japonica rice products dominated the Italian scene more so than the indica variety. Although the Japanese onigiri and Italian arancini appeared at different times, the Japanese version most definitely preceded the Italian ones. Italian Futurists included varieties of the fortune cookie, onigiri and arancini in their novel recipes, which resonate ideas on Japanese futurism and what to do with leftovers. Japanese and Italian rice-bites made from leftover rice pastes were culturally fused to form new appetizers or antipasti. These communicant rice-bites were invented as a way to eat with one’s eyes, to consume less, to experience and appreciate the dissipating aromas of food in restaurant settings so there is no regret over waste. And as far as the spaces where the Futurist food was served, emphasis was placed upon delivering small portions that could be consumed fairly speedily within stainless-steel rooms, influenced by Asian food cultures. This chapter has provided an account of rice products. Today many variations of the savoury onigiri, rice balls, exist in Japan. The sweet version, the mocha, filled with pounded rice, which are essential for the Japanese tea ceremony, are sometimes flavoured with orange rind.1 The original counterfeit food function and Japanese refinement informed the Futurist fillings. The fortune cookie is therefore the one fortuitous Japanese invention that extended to all other Asian food cultures in the United States, identified as portable antipasti props for entertainment rather than for warfare. In the end, onigiri are healthier snacks than arancini, because for some there are fewer calories than those fried in olive oil. 158

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Reflecting upon the fake rice leftovers in restaurant window displays and in creating artistic imitation rice dishes for advertising purposes, these make it easier for one to order outside restaurants or online when deciding on a particular “pasty” dish on the menu. And yet there is the replica of food without taste – such as the plastic industrial resin made into fake rice – true counterfeit rice. In Africa and in the West alike, one may find counterfeit rice on the Asian market made out of synthetic rice resin and sprayed with a fragrance to resemble the aroma of rice. Unfit for human consumption, counterfeit rice has become problematic as an unethical food aimed to benefit rice traffickers or to entice restaurant-goers to look at the more-than-real food in vitrines.

Note 1 I thank Allen S Weiss for his inspiring email correspondences with me about Japanese cuisine.

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PART 3

Food and the media

12 FOOD WRITING AND CULINARY TOURISM IN SINGAPORE Donna Lee Brien

Introduction Culinary-related experiences are increasingly being acknowledged as significant components of the tourism experience. In response, many destinations market gastronomic experiences and/ or their food history as tourist attractions. As such, food and beverages, and especially – but not exclusively – how they will taste in situ, are both marketed as niche travel motivators and used in destination brand building. This chapter focuses on an acknowledged leader in the field of culinary tourism, the island nation of Singapore – officially the Republic of Singapore – to explore how food writing contributes to the culinary experience made available to locals as well as visitors. Singapore has been chosen for this case study as it has a food literature in English, and for the variety and relative longevity of its marketing of culinary tourism. Although recognising that Singapore is a multilingual nation, this study also acknowledges that English is its national language. Findings are based on the analysis of primary materials, that is, published food writing, as well as academic and other materials available in the public domain, supplemented by personal observation. Whenever possible, Singaporean and other Asian scholarship has been drawn upon in this discussion, although the focus is on profiling Singaporean food literature and how it may contribute to culinary tourism, rather than on reviewing scholarly analyses.

Culinary tourism It is surprising, given how ubiquitous the expression is in contemporary discussion, to consider how recently the term “culinary tourism” was coined, seemingly only being first proposed in 1998 in reference to the concept that tourists purposefully aim to experience the culture of a location through its food (Long 2004). In this, food is understood as moving beyond what had traditionally been seen as being a “supporting” component of tourism (Godfrey and Clarke 2000: 65) to a motivating “peak” experience (Quan and Wang 2004: 302). Although some writers distinguish between the terms, there is considerable overlap in the variously termed “culinary”, “gastronomic”, “gourmet”, “food”, “food and wine”, “cuisine” and “tasting” tourism and, following Lucy Long (2004), “culinary tourism” is used herein. While early discussions of this form of tourism largely focused on the experience of exotic cultures in foreign destinations through tasting those locations’ food, wine and other beverages, the umbrella idea of culinary 163

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tourism has opened to embrace all kinds of experience, however close to – or distant from – the tourist’s home, where the aim of this experience revolves around understanding local food history and culture. Elena Ignatov and Stephen Smith’s literature review-inspired definition positions culinary tourism as an active and participatory experience – with travellers purchasing and/or consuming local food and/or observing and researching food production (from agriculture and local processors to food markets and cooking schools) – and perceiving these activities as either an important or major motivation for their travel or as a significant activity on their itinerary (2006: 238). Jeou-Shyan Horng and Chen-Tsang Tsai note that the concept of culinary tourism implies that “local or special knowledge and information that represent local culture and identities” can be “transferred” via this culinary-based experience (2011: 41, see also, Smith and Xiao 2008). Long’s foundational work on culinary tourism is central in the development of this idea of culinary tourism as an active and generative activity (rather than one of passive consumption), suggesting that by consuming and learning about the preparation and history of locally available foods and drinks, tourists actively construct unique experiences of the locations they visit. Long’s definition, “the intentional, exploratory participation in the foodways of another” (2004: 20–21), leaves open the possibility that reading can be one such participatory activity. From this, food writing can be posited to be a component of a location’s suite of culinary tourism offerings.

Singapore’s culinary tourism Singapore is an acknowledged global leader in culinary tourism, despite importing almost all of its foodstuffs and currently reducing the small amount of land available for agricultural production (Neo 2016). Tourism comprises a major part of Singapore’s economy, with recent figures detailing that food and beverage sales contribute over ten percent of this revenue, with spending on culinary tours and cookery classes and other culinary-related items, such as cookbooks, food magazines and food memoirs added to this figure (Singapore Government 2012). This figure may be related to the fact that Singapore actively promotes itself as an exceptional culinary destination (Horng and Tsai 2010) and has developed detailed government policies in relation to encouraging culinary tourism (Henderson 2004). The Singapore Tourism Board (STB) highlights the culinary in its advertising, information brochures and websites. It also mounts information-rich campaigns both abroad and inside Singapore. The 2007 “Singapore Seasons” campaign, for instance, promoted Singaporean cuisine alongside films, design, books and other cultural products in London, New York and Beijing. Refining this focus, the “Singapore Takeout” pop-up restaurant toured cities identified as key tourist markets, including London, Paris, Moscow, Shanghai, Dubai and Sydney, in 2011. From a kitchen in a custom-fabricated shipping container, Singaporean chefs worked with local culinary professionals to produce and promote Singaporean dishes. Singaporean chefs are also regularly supported to appear at international food festivals, such as in Copenhagen in 2014 (STB 2014). In country, the STB promotes the culinary and cultural value of Singaporean food to local residents through such initiatives as the Singapore Food Festival, which showcases local dishes, eateries, personalities and food history each July. Singapore also hosts the annual World Gourmet Summit (Chaney and Ryan 2012) and Asia Pacific Food Expo, both of which attract local and international culinary professionals and food producers to meet in Singapore. These and other initiatives generate positive local and international media attention around Singapore as a culinary destination. T. C. Chang and Brenda Yeoh have suggested that the promotion of Singaporean cultural attractions is “an ongoing process catering as much to the leisure aspirations of Singaporeans as those of foreigners” (1999: 103), and published Singaporean food writing, both print and online, assists in promoting food culture to both locals and visitors – for the latter before and after their 164

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arrival. Popular guidebooks reflect this focus, paying significantly more attention to Singaporean food than they do for many other destinations. Sections on food in such guidebooks note not only the taste of Singaporean food (which is always described as delicious) but also how varied, authentic, hygienic and suited to all budgets it is. These texts also recommend hawker stalls and food courts alongside cafés and restaurants (Henderson et al. 2012) and a range of other culinary experiences such as city and farm food tours and cookery classes. The free maps and booklets produced by the STB available in country at the airport, in hotels and via popular tourist locations also promote a range of culinary tours and discuss local delicacies and their flavours, plus recommended eateries in which to sample them. The STB also recommends the work of a number of Singaporean food writers – principally Singaporean food bloggers, restaurant reviewers and memoirists – as trustworthy guides to Singaporean dining experiences. One of the most prominent of these is Leslie Tay, a medical doctor and “passionate foodie” (Knipp 2010) whose multi-award-winning ieat.ishoot.ipost blog was launched in 2006. Although the blog has expanded beyond its initial recording of Tay’s visits to Singaporean hawker stalls, it continues to include descriptions and extremely appetising photographs of a wide range of meals consumed in Singapore, creating accumulative oral culinary histories of these dishes and those who prepared them, accessible through a useful “food directory” index. A number of these narratives have been rewritten and collected in The End of Char Kway Teow and Other Hawker Mysteries (2010), Tay’s first book, wherein each chapter tells the story of one particular dish and includes recommended hawker stalls where this can be best enjoyed. Describing hawker food as embodying “the essence of being Singaporean” (2), Tan writes: “As I listen to the personal stories of these hawkers, I am slowly weaving together a fabric of our society that has played a pivotal role in forging our nation’s culture” (2). An almost instant success, the book’s sequel, Only the Best: the Ieat, Ishoot, Ipost Guide to Singapore’s Shiokest Hawker Food (2012) (shiok being commonly used in Singapore and Malaysia to convey a feeling of pleasure and happiness), has also achieved a wide readership with both local readers and visitors, and is widely available in bookstores and tourist venues. The strategy at the heart of this government promotion is information provision that co-functions as a form of advertising. At a number of food centres, for instance, STB information panels provide details about specific dishes and Singapore’s food culture more generally (Henderson et al. 2012). This focus is apparent at many tourist destinations, many of which are also popular with locals. In Chinatown, for instance, information panels mounted outside prominent heritage food brand shopfronts aim to enrich the visitor’s experience by providing biographical, historical and gastronomical information. A number of government-supported museums similarly profile Singapore’s food culture and history with food writing – in this case, on wall texts and labels, as well as in gallery guides and exhibition-related books – contributing significantly to this.

Singapore’s food writing As in many other countries, the study of Singaporean popular and lifestyle publishing is still at an emergent stage. While cookbooks and culinary memoirs, the focus of the later discussion, are just beginning to attract scholarly notice (for exceptions, see Brien 2014a; Evans 2015; LeongSalobir 2015; Duruz 2016), they are an increasingly visible component of Singaporean cultural production (Brien 2014b). Singaporean foodways – characteristic eating, cooking and other culinary practices – have attracted significant scholarship (see, for instance, Hutton 1979; Chua and Rajah 2001; Duruz 2006, 2007, 2011; Wong 2007; Bishop 2011; Leong-Salobir 2011a, 2011b; Tarulevicz 2012, 2013; Henderson 2014a, 2014b; Duruz and Khoo 2015; Kong and Sinha 2016), and these studies often utilise food writing as a resource. Two major recent critical historical 165

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studies have used food writing in investigating Singapore’s food culture. Cecilia Leong-Salobir’s social history uses a selection of long-neglected primary sources, including early cookbooks and household management manuals, alongside diaries and travel and other memoirs as key resources in her investigation of colonial Singapore’s food culture (2011a). Leong-Salobir writes that these sources “provide important insights into the daily activities of colonial life” (2011a: 3) and invaluable “mines of information on colonial food practices” (4). Nicole Tarulevicz has written a food-inflected cultural history of Singapore post-1965, which also maps how food has been mobilised in building a sense of national identity (2013). While both of these groundbreaking studies draw on and discuss the significant role that food memories (personal, popular and national) and food nostalgia play in connecting Singaporeans to the past and, in Tarulevicz’s case, to nation building, Singaporean food writing is not their main subject, nor is its contribution to narratives of culinary tourism explored in detail.

Cookbooks Ellice Handy’s My Favourite Recipes (1952) is understood to be the first cookbook of Singaporean recipes by a local author – earlier cookbooks having been largely written by expatriates, featuring European recipes adapted for local ingredients (Lim 2016). Handy wrote and published her collection of recipes, many of which she collected from friends, to aid the Methodist Girls’ School Building Fund. The recipes in the volume include dishes identified as Chinese, Malaysian, Indian, Indonesian and Eurasian, using local ingredients and cooking utensils. This focus meant that although the book was clearly intended for local cooks, it would be “popular with anyone interested in Asian cuisines” (Lee 1992: 7), and it indeed proved to be valued as a souvenir of Singapore and its cuisine. Handy was called a “culinary pioneer” (SCWO 2015) and likened to Julia Child and Elizabeth David in terms of her influence and respect in Singapore, with the volume being revised in 1954 and then republished in almost a dozen revised editions, the latest of which was published in 2014. The success of Hardy’s volume is seen to have “sparked a wave of local cookery books in Singapore” (Lim 2016), many of which seek to tell the story of Singaporean cuisine to visitors as well as local readers. Mrs. Lee’s Cookbook by Mrs. Lee Chin Koon, mother of the first (and long-serving) prime minister of Singapore, Lee Kuan Yew, first published in 1974, is a much-loved classic both in Singapore and abroad. Documenting Peranakan home cookery, developed by the descendants of Chinese migrants who combine Chinese, Malay and other culinary influences into their cooking, this volume has been so influential that Beng Huat Chua and Ananda Rajah note that the inscription of such domestic practice into high-circulation volumes has “resulted in the formalisation of a cuisine” (2003: 99), despite this personal and gastronomic identity being somewhat contested (Tan 2010; Duruz 2016: 20–21). This enduring text has been frequently reprinted and released in new editions, including a current version in two volumes revised by Lee’s granddaughter, Singapore-based chef Shermay Lee (Lee and Lee 2003, 2004). This edition has not only won accolades and attracted significant sales in Singapore but has also become a standard text on Singaporean food abroad. The heritage value of this text was recognised, with the first volume awarded the “Special Award of the Jury in the Respect of Tradition” prize at the international Gourmand World Cookbook Awards in 2003, while the volumes were also positively reviewed in newspapers and magazines in Japan, Korea, Malaysia and Thailand. Published two years after Mrs. Lee’s Cookbook, The Singapore Cookbook (1976) was, author Mrs. P. C. Kon wrote in her introduction, conceived and planned for local cooks, but also aimed at “the thousands of tourists who arrive here everyday [for whom] this book is indeed something to be taken home, after having tasted some of the niceties of Singapore cooking” (vi). In 166

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this volume, as in many of those that follow, Kon attempts to describe the distinctive features of Singaporean cookery. This begins with noting the cuisines of the various groups, “basically there is Chinese food, Malay food and Indian food” (iv), but then continues to explain that the way these mingle and combine in Singapore kitchens is what is distinctive, this “subtle blending in the ways of preparation bringing about a typical Singaporean quality in all its entirety” (iv) resulting in “a speciality of its own, a unique experience” (vi). Singapore Food by Singapore-based food writer and editor Wendy Hutton, first published in 1979, is accepted as one of the most authoritative titles on Singapore’s culinary heritage and is obviously written for a reader seeking much more than purely practical direction. Providing a detailed social and historical study of Singapore’s culinary traditions organised into multicultural sections, this volume has been republished and reprinted each decade since its release by both international and Singaporean publishers. Hutton has reflected that she never planned to write a cookbook, but saw a gap in the market: “On moving to Singapore in 1969, my delight at the incredible range and exciting flavours of the food was matched by my frustration at not being able to find any English-language cookbooks on local cuisines” (2007, back flyleaf). Published the year after Hutton’s volume, Kenneth Mitchell’s A Taste of Singapore (1980) also notes the wide variety of foods available due to the varied multicultural origins of its inhabitants and then focuses on the range of eateries where “like perhaps nowhere else in the world, can be found food that will delight the appreciative and demanding palate of even the most well-travelled gourmand” (2). Although an image of a roadside hawker’s stall, complete with a sweating cook in stained apron, is prominently featured, this volume gathers recipes and images from a series of then-leading international hotel restaurants in Singapore, including the Hilton, Hyatt and Shangri La. The Raffles Hotel Cookbook (Liu and Knipp 1994), reprinted in 1995 and 2000 and with a second edition in 2003, is a large, lavishly illustrated volume that is obviously targeted to visitors. It opens with a detailed history of the hotel, the “Savoy of Singapore” (Liu 1994: 26) and since 1987 a gazetted National Monument, that is enriched by a food history of Singapore. This traces experiences of Singaporean cookery from Victorian times to the present, charting the move from what the text characterises as “endurance test to gourmet paradise” (Liu 1994: 18). The remainder of the volume provides recipes for the dishes available in each of the hotel’s dining venues arranged by cuisine, such as European in the grill, curries in the Tiffin Room, kopitiam-style Singaporean meals in the coffee shop and local and international-style breads and sweets in the bakery. The more modest Hawkers Flavour: A Guide to Hawkers Gourmet in Malaysia and Singapore (Ibrahim 1998) is openly instructive, with a detailed essay introducing commonly available foods and drinks, as well as festivals and festive foods. What are described as Indian, Indian Muslim, Chinese, Nyonya (Chinese-Malay), Malay and Halal foods and customs are each accompanied by a small selection of representative recipes. This style of condensed information-rich cookbook produced as a souvenir, such as those currently published in the frequently reprinted Periplus Mini Cookbook series, are today sold at many tourist attractions in Singapore. Each of these modestly priced, sixty-four-page, mouthwateringly illustrated booklets offers a chapter of framing information before the recipes and explanatory glossaries of ingredients. Most individual recipes also include a boxed paragraph detailing cookery or ingredient information that adds cultural nuance, as well as attempts to describe tastes that the (obviously foreign) intended reader may not have encountered. Marshall Cavendish (part of the Times Publishing Group) and Singaporean independent publisher Epigram Books both produce a heritage cookery series, each of which are promoted to tourists, although Epigram’s titles are also popular with Singaporean readers with volumes on Cantonese, Eurasian, Hokkien, Peranakan, South Indian and Teochew cuisines offering both cultural and practical guides to understanding and cooking these recipes. 167

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Violet Oon Violet Oon is a Singaporean celebrity chef and food writer whose work is targeted to local, visiting and international consumers, and also reveals how major food writers in Singapore work across various publishing platforms. Oon commenced her food writing career in 1974 when she became the New Nation newspaper’s restaurant critic (Ahmad 2004). Her first cookbook, which like Mrs. Lee’s Cookbook, profiled her own family’s Peranakan cookery – World Peranakan Cookbook – was published in 1978. Her groundbreaking serial publication, The FOOD Paper, published for almost a decade from January 1987, was marketed as “Singapore’s only monthly publication dedicated to the CSF – Certified Singapore Foodie, alias the Yeow Kwee” (Oon 1992: 7). Under the auspices of this newspaper-like magazine, Oon promoted Singaporean cuisine to both locals and visitors alike and then later ran cookery classes and culinary events, hosted a television cooking series and toured internationally for the STB as a “Singapore Food Ambassador” (Kraal 1999; Ahmad 2004). The STB also commissioned Oon to put together a volume, Singapore: 101 Meals (1986), specifically to promote Singaporean cuisine. Violet Oon Cooks, a compilation of recipes from The FOOD Paper published in 1992, attracted a range of major international as well as Singaporean food sponsors, and her Timeless Recipes, published in 1997, aimed to show how convenience food products manufactured in Singapore could be incorporated into iconic Singaporean dishes. She also produced her own branded range of curry powders, spices and biscuits, and set up and ran a number of prominent food outlets. This approach reflects, as Tarulevicz (2012, 2013) has discussed, the contradictory messages relayed to Singaporeans in past decades about home cookery. While cookbooks and school textbooks present cooking and homemaking as a desirable form of nation building, at the same time women have been encouraged to participate in the paid workforce which, together with the availability of inexpensive eateries, has marginalised the importance of eating at home. In 1998, Oon included many Nonya (Straits Chinese) dishes in her A Singapore Family Cookbook in order to promote “the culinary tradition of local families” (Oon 1998: back flyleaf) which, she stated, visitors dining in restaurants and on street food did not have the chance to experience. In this volume, Oon described the importance of preserving these recipes, and her later books continue this dual focus on the idea of preserving Singaporean recipes by promoting them locally and abroad.

Other food-themed volumes A number of other volumes promote this idea of a national cuisine that needs to be preserved by being recorded and thus able to be passed on to local cooks and shared with other presumably non-local readers. This includes collections such as Joyceline Tully and Christopher Tan’s Heritage Feasts: A Collection of Singapore Family Recipes (2010), which Tarulevicz describes as a “quintessential Singaporean cookbook” (2013: 112), due to how it, and other cookbooks, “reinforce categories of ethnic identity . . . [and] existing public understandings of history” (115). Other food-themed volumes continue this rhetoric, including those that focus on historical periods, individual businesses or specific locations and/or cuisines. Examples include such diverse texts as the National Museum of Singapore’s closely researched and moving Wartime Kitchen: Food and Eating in Singapore 1942–1950 (Wong 2009), the celebratory centenary history of a long-lived local food business, the Cold Storage company which shipped frozen foods across Southeast Asia (Goh 2003), and Annette Tan’s Savour Chinatown: Stories, Memories & Recipes (2012) which creates a location-based food history of Chinatown culinary locations based on the oral histories she collected from hawkers, chefs and restaurant owners. Food culture also features in more general book-length studies of Singapore, including social histories (Chan and Tong 2003), sociological 168

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studies (Tan 2004) and educational texts (Chew 2000; Guile 2003), all of which provide a consistent narrative about food and cookery in Singapore that agrees with that promulgated in the food writing discussed earlier.

Food memoirs Many of these cookbooks and other volumes draw on and include narratives of the authors’ own food experiences and memories. This approach to Singapore culinary history is fully developed in the book-length food memoir, another growing sub-genre of Singapore food writing. Memoirs are narratives based on the personal knowledge and memories of the author, and the food memoir is most often defined as a (usually) autobiographical narrative that uses the author’s culinary memories to illuminate their life story (Waxman 2008; Brien 2011). Lucy Lum’s The Thorn of Lion City (2007) was published in both New York and London by prestigious publishers. Born in 1933, this narrative focuses on Lum’s childhood in Singapore with her Chinese immigrant family. In her story, food and eating play a large role, and Lum even images her birth in terms of food: I slipped out of my mother in the blink of an eye at the maternity hospital close to Serangoon Road where the air was thick with spices from the shops where they were milled, and people queued on the pavement, clutching their previous bags of turmeric, cardamom and cumin, grown on their plots of land and brought to the shops for grinding. . . . Along the road, tucked away, tiny restaurants served curries, sweetmeats and yogurt on banana leaves cut into squares. (23) In common with many other memoirists, Lum describes how her early life was lived in low-rise urban housing near or with home gardens and how during the war these home gardens saved lives with, by mid-1943, “many . . . surviving on tapioca and sweet potato” (135). The privations and rupture of social and cultural life during the Occupation is a recurring theme of many Singapore food memoirs, and even if the memoirist is too young to remember this period, it is mentioned through the memories of older relatives or as a general marker of previous hardship and food insecurity. Also like other memoirists, Lum relates how food plays an important part in Singaporean religious life, whether, in her case, as offerings for Chinese spirits in her own home or in observed Malay ceremonies such as circumcisions, weddings and funeral vigils. Lum narrates, for instance, how preparations for a Malay wedding feast could last for several days, with many assisting with the cooking under a huge tarpaulin that protected them from the weather. In Lum’s narrative, women sit on grass mats cutting up baskets of vegetables; peeling shallots, garlic and ginger; slicing lemongrass; grating coconut; and grinding fresh spices on large stone slabs with granite rolling pins, while men butcher animals, cutting up goats and chickens for use in curries. Lum also describes how food can be the basis of superstition and even magic, as in the case of a family friend feeding puppy meat to her husband in an attempt to break a spell she believed his mistress had cast on him. Lum describes her favourite treats, many of which are now classics, such as “ice-kachang . . . red beans and agar-agar, piled high with ice shavings and streaked with the delicious multi-coloured syrup that always dripped down our chins” (69) and “chendol, coconut milk served with teardrop-shaped green bean flour noodles and gula melaka, brown sugar that came in tubeshaped blocks” (69). She also relates enjoying delicacies which have now slipped from the home or kopitiam menu, such as the sweet rice left after brewing rice wine. 169

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Considerable culinary information is relayed through this and other food memoirs. Papaya, for example, Lum tells readers, was not only eaten as a fruit as today; its leaves were also used in the preparation of a stew of pig’s stomach, mustard greens and tofu, flavoured with garlic and dark soy sauce – the papaya leaves being used to scrub out the stomach’s slimy lining. Lum uses the description of this economical dish to reveal another recurrent trope of Singapore food memoirs – that of the different ethnic groups living peaceably together in Singapore and how that difference can be expressed in food preferences. She describes, for instance, how her grandmother, in searching for the most inexpensive meat, had “discovered that Europeans, Malays and Indians did not eat pigs’ stomachs, which could be bought for next to nothing” (44), alongside many instances of members of various communities coming together over food. Although no recipes are included in Lum’s memoir, there are many descriptive passages of ingredients and cooking techniques that readily substitute for such recipes. Culinary medicines are also described, including making soup from flying foxes [bats] – a medicinal preparation enhanced with restorative herbs. The results are “always tasty” (Lum 2007: 32), which is in line with the overall impression of Singapore food in other memoirs, with descriptors such as “tasty”, “delicious”, “delectable”, “mouthwatering”, “flavourful” and “succulent” recurring across these memoirs as the single most prominent marker of the food memories recounted. Most Singapore food memoirists write at length about the dishes they remember from their childhoods and how they miss these and/or have tried to re-create their flavours. Cheryl Lu-Lien Tan’s A Tiger in the Kitchen: A Memoir of Food and Family (2011), for instance, narrates how after living for more than a decade overseas the author undertakes a year-long quest to learn how to cook her grandmother’s recipes, in the process gaining considerable insight into her family’s history and how such foods can express and even rejuvenate family relationships. This link between family feeling and traditional cookery is a common trope in the food memoir both in Singapore and internationally (see, Waxman 2008). Dishes described by Tan include salted vegetable and duck soup, mooncakes and her late grandmother’s pineapple tarts. These and a series of other foods and recipes occur through many Singaporean memoirs, including belacan (a salty fermented shrimp paste), achar (mixed vegetable pickle), mie siam (spicy rice noodles) and kueh (cakes). Sharon Wee’s cookbook memoir Growing Up in a Nyonya Kitchen (2012) describes how Wee’s mother, a Peranakan Chinese, learned to cook from her husband’s grandmother, using this frame to relate a series of stories behind the food her family consumed. Like Tan, Wee wrote that as a girl she was not interested in learning how to cook and, by the time she was interested in learning, her mother had died. Wee has stated that her memoir began as a recipe collection but she needed to consult with members of her family to learn how to re-create them in her mother’s style. This issue of the authenticity of dishes produced within the home kitchen, using family recipes, is another common feature of both these memoirs and many Singaporean cookbooks. The dishes may be common in Singapore, but their execution is individual, and these family nuances are what are remembered and described in these texts. Food blogger Jocelyn Shu adds the notion of nostalgia into the title of her memoir, Nostalgia Is the Most Powerful Seasoning (2011), recognising that the overlay of memory and sentiment adds flavour to cherished foods from the past. Television chef and food writer Terry Tan’s Stir-fried and Not Shaken: A Nostalgic Trip Down Singapore’s Memory Lane (2008), similarly recognises this aspect of personally remembering the food from his past. Born in 1942, Tan’s memoir charts Singapore’s culinary culture from the 1940s to 1970s, including his grandmother’s flying fox curries – “sousing them [the bats] with spices and coconut milk” (99) – alongside a wide range of now-disappeared street food and similarly extinct pasar malum (night markets) with their food stalls (183). The presence and then removal of hawkers from the streets of Singapore is a recurring theme of the Singapore food memoir, as are the physical changes to the city that 170

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have occurred in terms of land reclamation and high-rise development. These changes are most often acknowledged with a mixture of nostalgia for the lost physical past and the gastronomic opportunities these entailed, moderated by a recognition of the need for development. The phenomenon of what Tan calls “vanishing foods” (202) recurs throughout his memoir, including delicious-sounding snacks such as crab apples pickled in salt and chilli, bean curd stuffed with stewed duck, and various coconut and rice flour cakes. After one such lengthy description, Tan writes about the centrality of these memories to his identity, asking: “I know, I go on about food, but is it not the most important element in life?” (202), which could be the refrain of all these Singapore culinary memoirs. Tan is, however, unusual in writing disparagingly about one kind of Singapore food, in this case, the meats his father brought home to be prepared during the war. These came in the form of iguana, deer, wild ducks, snakes and a dog, providing what Tan describes as an “unspeakable degustation” (48). Tan’s focus on change continues in his final section on the 1970s, when he writes of the growing affluence of many Singaporeans and how “posh hotels and supermarket chains suddenly began to spring up” (236). He also identifies this as the time when Singaporeans began to seek out iconic, but disappearing, dishes – the best of which included “an pan (red bean paste puffs) . . . kueh lapis [rice flour cakes], nasi padang [a rice dish], Hokkien noodle soup with pig’s tail [and] fish head curry” (236). Tan also describes a range of early convenience foods that are in direct contrast to the foods he remembers from the 1940s, when his childhood was marked by such bucolic scenes as his family’s “personal milkman”, a Punjabi cowherd who would milk his cow at Tan’s doorstep, although his mother would then boil this milk and it was eventually replaced with tinned condensed milk. A number of these memoirs have been produced under the banner of the Singapore Memories Gastronomic Literary Series which has been published with support from the National Heritage Board of Singapore. This series includes Shu’s Nostalgia Is the Most Powerful Seasoning (2011) mentioned earlier, as well as Tricks & Treats: Childhood and Other Tales (2011) by Devagi Sanmugam, a celebrity chef who is known as the “Spice Queen” of Singapore and has written some twenty cookbooks. Another in this series is Aziza Ali’s Sambal Days, Kampong Cuisine (2013) by the chef and restaurateur who is widely credited with introducing fine Malay dining to the Singaporean public. The series also includes Rebel with a Course (2012) by chef Damian D’Silva, who traces his culinary development back to learning how to cook what he identifies as traditional Eurasian dishes in his childhood family kitchen in Singapore in the 1950s and 1960s. As a group, these volumes not only profile a wide range of traditional Singaporean dishes but also present information about how they are cooked and served. These texts also describe a harmonious society inhabited by named groups – Shu is Chinese, Sanmugam Indian, Ali Malaysian and D’Silva Eurasian – yet all these authors identify as Singaporean.

Conclusion Each of these volumes of Singapore food writing narrates much more than recipes and culinary memories. All, for instance, include examples of changes to the social and physical environment of Singapore through time, but while lost foods and landscapes might be mourned in these works, the onward pressure of development is never robustly criticised. These texts are also a rich source of food history, including recipes and traditional and adapted food preparation and cookery techniques, as well as a wealth of information on the history of dining out in Singapore. The locations where cooking and eating occur in these texts is indeed notable, both in terms of the historical context and how this reflects shifts in food habits in Singapore. As many of the cookbooks and almost all the memoirs narrate stories of family meals prepared at home, they provide either explicit or implicit commentary on changes regarding current practices of, and attitudes 171

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to, home cookery. This reflects current demographic research indicating that many Singaporeans now eat out for many of their meals, with the Health Promotion Board’s Report of the National Nutrition Survey 2010 reporting that over sixty percent of all Singaporean residents usually ate lunch and/or dinner outside the home (2013: 12). Most indelibly, both individually and together, these texts tell a story of Singapore food that is powerfully consistent in terms of the promotion of culinary tourism: this is, that Singapore has a distinctive, interesting, delicious and accessible food culture that plays a significant role in Singaporean life both currently and historically. Moreover, this food writing is widely available, making it possible to thus make a contribution to both locals’ and visitors’ appreciation of Singaporean food culture and history.

Acknowledgements Research to complete this chapter was supported by Central Queensland University, Australia, under its Outside Studies Program (OSPRO). A special thank you is offered to the librarians of the National Library, Singapore, for their assistance in locating and accessing texts and other materials.

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Glossary achar mixed vegetable pickle an pan red bean paste puffs belacan a salty fermented shrimp paste char kway teow spicy fried rice noodle dish 174

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chendol dessert made with shaved ice based on coconut milk with rice flour jelly flavoured with pandan leaf juice and sweetened with palm sugar culinary tourism when tourists purposefully aim to experience the culture of a location through its food food hawker person who sells food on the streets or from a stall flying fox bat gula Melaka palm sugar ice-kachang dessert made with shaved ice with fruit, jellies and syrups kueh cakes Nonya Singaporean woman of mixed ethnic descent, especially a Malay mother and Chinese father, has come to refer in Malaysia and Singapore to the Singaporean cuisine that combines Malay and Chinese ingredients and techniques mie siam spicy rice noodle dish mooncake Chinese bakery product traditionally eaten during the Mid-Autumn Festival nasi padang steamed rice served with various pre-cooked dishes pasar malum night markets pineapple tarts Singaporean biscuit traditionally eaten for Chinese New Year, with a buttery pastry and pineapple jam

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13 HER HUNGER KNOWS NO BOUNDS Female–food relationships in Korean dramas Eunice Lim Ying Ci and Liew Kai Khiun Introduction: Let’s Eat, Televisually In Season One of South Korea’s TVN’s television drama, Let’s Eat (식샤를 합시다), the character Lee Soo-kyung, who is played by an actress of the same name, is a divorcee living alone with her dog in a nondescript apartment. Habitually snacking, especially when she is confronted by work-related stress, Soo-kyung’s appetite and her indulging in food alone often result in her being on the receiving end of public derision and embarrassment, and this is the case until she subsequently finds like-minded friends to dine with her, On a blind date, Soo-kyung’s exaggerated responses to a huge dish of spicy stir-fried seafood, or Haemuljjim (해물찜), that she was previously too embarrassed to be seen consuming alone demonstrates her thinly disguised food cravings. Although Soo-kyung acknowledges her date at first by nodding and smiling at him modestly, her poise quickly fades away and she is seen tearing the strands of meat from the spicy crabs with her gravy-stained fingers. As she opens her mouth widely to consume an entire squid’s tentacle, Soo-kyung slips into a gastronomic oblivion. It is these moments of oblivion to the otherwise highly gendered table etiquette of polite feminine restraint that defines this drama which spans two seasons from 2013 to 2015. Beneath the thin plotline, Let’s Eat is a pretext for a dramatised demonstration of everyday characters savouring a range of traditional foods and street delicacies in South Korea. Accompanying the drama’s broadcasts are blog posts and Internet sites in Korean and subsequently English that identify the restaurants and eateries featured (Visit Seoul 2015). In the case of Haemuljjim, the seafood dish mentioned earlier, an English-language blogger by the username of “Manager-Hyung” located the restaurant in the Gyeonggi Province, called “Wongdang Steamed Seafood” (ManagerHyung 2014), providing in turn a transliteration process vital for international tourists inspired by the Korean Wave to visit Korea and embark on a drama-driven culinary adventure. From text to context, what one sees here is the role of television and entertainment in popularising the representation of Korean food cultures as part of the urbane Asian gastro-modernity. In emphasising traditional, ethnic, and heritage differences, efforts to distinguish non-Western food cultures have often simplified the otherwise complex, fluid, and underlying evolutions in food cultures and neglected these in favour of exotic, unilateral, and stereotypical categorisations. In using televisual portrayals as a method of reflecting the changing social dynamics of gastro-cultures, particularly through the gender dimensions of women’s negotiation with food and lifestyle, this chapter seeks 176

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to illuminate the role of media ecologies in appreciating the evolving nature of Korean food and its consumption patterns. By juxtaposing the dramatic portrayals of the female and food over nearly two decades, it is possible to trace the evolving roles and perceptions of the female and consider how Korean dramas have either reflected or driven these changes. In light of Let’s Eat’s portrayal of Sookyung as a hungry female released from social obligation into an unreserved demonstration of desire and appetite, it is tempting to conclude that Korean dramas and their portrayal of the relationships between women and food have largely had an emancipatory function. However, the majority of existing literature on Hallyu – the phenomenon of increased and sustained popularity of Korean media, entertainment, and non-media commodities – and its effects have argued that certain tropes in Korean dramas have negatively affected consumers, resulting in body-image issues, unrealistic expectations, and low self-esteem. By including the serialised Internet viewing phenomenon called Meokbang (먹방), where broadcasting jockeys (BJs), usually female, live-stream themselves eating copious amounts of food to their followers and patrons, this research is expanding the study of food imagery and their relationship with women to include the small screen.

Mediating and mediated foods Departing from the scientific gastro-nutritional approaches, with dietary habits and culinary practices being reflexive of social hierarchies and cultural particularities, the study of food has in recent decades taken its culturalist and semiotical turns. As ethnographic practices and textual codes, food has become more than mere matters of sustenance and is increasingly recognised for its role in sustaining and changing social practices, as well as defining the cultural values attached to them (Leeds-Hurwitz 1993: 83–103; Barthes 2008; Bourdieu 1979). By emphasising its fluid diffusion and hybridisation in the daily lives of its consumers over that of either its ethno-culturally essentialistic origins, food cultures are increasingly recognised as cosmopolitan evolutions of globalisation and modernity. With the rapid development of processed foods, from burgers to instant noodles, coupled with that of the penetration of fast food advertising on the small screens in the domestic environments, media has become critical in the shaping of food cultures (Kinsella 1982). The marketing of brands in association with the latest lifestyle trends has resulted in a performance of food consumption in the mediated communication of gastronomical cultures (Bourn et al. 2015; Kemps, Tiggemann and Hollitt 2014). Here, through the especially food-related television programmes, the media’s influence on what to eat, where to eat, how to cook, and how to eat has resulted in food culture becoming more performative and demonstrative. Within the context of Asia, with more food-related television programmes churned out, the screen mediation of food cultures is increasingly linked to efforts to distinguish national identities (Fan 2015; Yuen 2014; Okumus, Okumus and McKercher 2007). Social relations, particularly that of gender, get deployed in this performance, transmission, and communication of food cultures, influencing behaviours, tastes, and lifestyles (Parsons 2015; Buscerni 2014; Shugart 2008; Stern and Mastro 2004; Lupton 1996; Mennell, Murcott and Otterloo 1992). Huge portions of meat and carbohydrates become masculinised as “men’s” food, and these are generally associated with physical prowess that is fuelled by an uninhibited consumption of food (Buerkle 2012). Overrepresented as celebrity chefs of cosmopolitan fine dining, men in toques blanches and white double-breasted jackets have become associated with knowledge and expertise in food cultures. On the other hand, female cooks are often associated with domesticity and maternal duty, and unlike their male counterparts, celebrity status for women is patterned in 177

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terms of their domesticity identified predominantly in “home cooking” television shows aired during the afternoons (Cruz 2013; Lawson 2011; Swensen 2009; Furnham and Li 2008). In light of this, screen performances of women with vociferous appetites such as the one in Let’s Eat are meant to indicate the extent of the allure of the product – so alluring that it breaks gender taboos of feminine restraint. As much as these representations tend to continuously portray women as the irrational embodied subjects, they may also serve as a source of escape in what Leer describes as “the heterotopias where childish imaginations can be unfolded” (2016: 113) and the complex desires of the community can be explored. While these identifications are well acknowledged in scholarly accounts, the more significant question on the semiotical interactions of gender, media, and food is the extent to which greater subjectivities and agencies can be accorded to these cardboard gendered representations (Davidauskis 2015; Jonston and Baumann 2015: 199–201). In the same vein, this case study about Korean gastronomical cultures goes beyond identification of “unique national characteristics” in order to draw out the complexities of screen women as active performative subjects critical to the global popularisation of Hallyu.

Hallyu and television dinners Until the turn of the 21st century, South Korean entertainment existed only on the periphery of Asian entertainment. For the past two decades, its television and popular music burst into the regional and global media entertainment circuits, quickly taking the lead in shaping popular cultural aesthetics and discourses. Known collectively as the Korean Wave or Hallyu, the cultural phenomenon is characterised by the role of television dramas and music videos of Korean artistes in influencing foreign markets to identify with Korean culture and society (Jin 2016; Kim 2013; Chua and Iwabuchi 2008;). Alongside lifestyle products, Korean entertainment also heavily features Korean food, both traditional and modern (Ko, Lee and Whang 2013). By giving them emotive and dramaturgical values, such representations have facilitated the rising regional popularity of Korean food cultures. Featured as part of tourist promotion videos and drama serials and variety shows (Seo and Yun 2015; Kim et al. 2012), culinary diversity is often emphasised by the colourful spread of side dishes or banchans (반찬) alongside an equally rich selection of grilled, steamed, stewed, and soupbased main dishes. From the humiliating memories of the disdain shown by Japanese colonial masters towards Korean kimchi (김치) to the fears of culinary dilution by foreign imports when South Korea was being integrated into American-dominated free trade agreements (Reinschmidt 2007: 104–107; Oum 2005), food cultures are regarded as indispensable to a country’s heritage and national identity. In television dramas, documentaries, and films, Korean foods are being portrayed more and more as part of the holistic cultural ecosystem that embodies philosophical insights, social relations, and practices rooted in the country’s agrarian traditions. Television dramas in particular are arguably the primary medium through which food is featured in detail. Emphasising the elaborate and meticulous preparation of traditional Korean food, the 2003 period drama Jewel in the Palace (대장금) showcased Joseon court cuisine. As for contemporary Korean food, dramas like Gourmet (식객) in 2008 and God of Noodles (마스터-국수의 신) in 2017 feature a range of traditional Korean dishes with contemporary twists, prepared in sophisticated, modern kitchens and served in the style of Western fine dining. In Gourmet, for example, the aspiring food columnist Jin-soo (Nam Sang-mi) asks why there are bell peppers in a traditional Korean dish. Joo-hee (Kim So-yun), the restaurant manager, replies, “I don’t think we can’t use bell peppers just because they’re not from Korea. Tradition is about developing what we had in the past to fit the present”. Joo-hee’s answer demonstrates how foreign ingredients and cuisine can be integrated into traditional Korean food culture seamlessly and adapted to produce a 178

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modern and diverse Korean food culture. The foreign bell pepper, in the hands of capable Korean chefs, becomes a part of Korea’s culinary offerings. Fine cuisine aside, Korean dramas also feature a wide selection of rice snacks, noodles, and desserts to cater to the consumer appetite for convenience foods. In particular, fast food like Ramyeon (라면) and Jjajangmyeon (자장면) are regularly featured in Korean dramas, and one recent example of this is the 2015 SBS drama I Have a Lover (애인 있어요), in which Hae-gang (Kim Hyun-joo) teaches Jin-eon (Ji Jin-hee) to shake the Jjajangmyeon to mix the sauce and noodles evenly. With this mixture of deepening romance between the protagonists over takeaway bowls of Jjajangmyeon and the sharing of tips on how to best enjoy it, a profusion of such scenes in Korean dramas has influenced the consumer imagination and spurred the demand for these food products. The incorporation and indigenisation of foreign foods into the popular imaginations of Hallyu culture are also evident in the featuring of Western dining, as typified by cafe and coffee cultures. One of the most prominent television dramas centring on Western food culture in Korea is 2007’s The 1st Shop of the Coffee Prince (커피프 린스 1호점), which popularised the location of the “Coffee Prince” cafe as a tourist destination. My Lovely Sam-soon (내 이름은 김삼순) in 2005 also features a female lead who is an aspiring female baker of Western cakes and pastries. Although featuring foreign food and beverages, such dramas contextualise and incorporate these items within a Korean setting and plot. Whether the type of food prepared and the preparation process being featured are traditional or modern, local or foreign, what Fung (2007: 154–155) describes as the French concept of mise en place, or “everything in place” presentation of food, as exemplified in organised kitchen workstations and meticulously detailed preparatory procedures, is being featured heavily in Korean television dramas. By showcasing them as multifaceted, dynamic, and vibrant – capable of being both historical and contemporary, elaborate and accessible, local and cosmopolitan – what is crucial here is the process in which Hallyu has projected through media images, particularly drama images, the successful fusion and transmissions of Korean culinary cultures. In 2014, Korea Times published an article titled “Southeast Asia Becomes Hot Market for Korean Food”, where a spokesperson from the Korea Agro-Fisheries and Food Trade Corporation claimed that “Southeast Asia has become Korea’s second-largest food market for the first time in 2013” (Lee 2014), Japan being the first. The spokesperson also added that “consumers in the region listen to K-pop and watch Korean films and dramas. Many want to eat what their favourite Hallyu stars eat” (Lee 2014). The undeniable effect of Korean dramas in particular and its astonishing influence on the culinary lifestyles of its Asian viewers are evident in the increasing number of Korean restaurants, grocery shops, eateries, and cafes that have sprouted across the region. Korean-American journalist, Euny Hong, also refers to South Korea as “the tastemaker of Asia” (2014) and attributes this ability to influence consumer preferences to the success of Hallyu. While Hong is concerned with general consumer tastes, this chapter is concerned with the media images of literal taste and tasting of food by female characters in South Korean dramas from the early 2000s to the present day and suggest that the perpetuation of these images has transformed the consumer relationship between Asian females and food in a variety of ways – both positive and negative.

Gendered consumption: the female prerogative The traditional role of a woman as a tireless housekeeper, preparing and serving food to her household, and the corresponding portrayals of female characters in such roles, have been gradually phased out from Korean dramas. While it is possible that changes in social perception and practices have influenced television portrayals rather than the other way round, it is more likely that the influence is bilateral. During the late 1990s and early 2000s, underlying tensions in the 179

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household in relation to food and gender roles were beginning to surface. In the 1990s, Korea’s “sudden establishment of the health industry [and] health food sector [led to a] media hype about middle-aged Korean men having the world’s highest mortality rate” (Lee 1996: 75). “Popular representations of the ill male body and the caring female body” (88), such as in health food advertisements, called for wives to purchase and prepare health foods for their white-collar husbands (73). Products like “a vegetable juice maker [named] Angel Nokjupgi” (75) were explicitly targeted at wives and encouraged them to pay “angelic attention” (75) to their husbands. Lee’s study revealed that the wives’ “responses towards the images of the angelic wife and the myth of the sacrificial wife were commonly full of resistance” (88). This underlying discontent of South Korean females and their alienation by media images in the 1990s, when juxtaposed with the evolving portrayals of female characters throughout Korean dramas from 2000 to the present day, suggest that in an effort to appeal to female viewers, South Korean dramas inevitably subverted the traditional hierarchy of household relationships. Rather than the idealised immaculate, apron-donning, soft-spoken housewives constantly preparing food, women are beginning to be portrayed as self-indulgent, ravenous, gluttonous consumers of food. This had a liberating effect and proved to be popular amongst the female viewers throughout Asia as well. In fact, “in the early 2000s, [Korean Wave] was characterised by scenes of middle-aged housewives in East Asian countries chasing after Korean actors whom they were enamoured [with] from watching VCDs (video cassette disks)” (Shim 2011: 16) and “traditionally it has been thought that food media are directed at [. . .] women [at] home, conventionally figured as bored, frustrated housewives” (Probyn 2003: 108). Clearly, in the early 2000s, the bored and frustrated housewives that Probyn describes are able to find solace in Korean dramas and actors, with the former satisfying their desire for refreshing, non-traditional presentations of the women, and the latter appealing to them with their on-screen personalities – often handsome men who unhesitatingly accept and are drawn to the non-traditional, voracious women and encourage the behaviour by considering the faux pas committed by the women as endearing. In the early 2000s, during the initial rise of the Korean Wave, no South Korean male actor came anywhere close to Bae Yong-joon in terms of regional popularity. Bae gained considerable popularity playing the role of Frank Shin in the 2001 Korean drama Hotelier (호텔리어) and rose to regional fame playing the role of Kang Joonsang in the 2002 KBS2 drama Winter Sonata (겨울연가). In Japan alone, Bae was given the honorific nickname “Yonsama” by his Japanese fans, which translates to “Prince Yong” or “My Lord Yong”, and he has been considered “an icon of transnational cultural flows between South Korea and Japan” (Jung 2011: 35–37). By investigating the appeal of these two male characters – Frank and Joon-sang – to the bored and frustrated housewives, a few common qualities reveal themselves that give us a clue as to why these women are so enamoured by these South Korean actors and the characters they portray. One might argue that both Frank and Joon-sang are undeniably wealthy, handsome, and clever – common desirable traits that contribute to their popularity. Jung proposes that it is the “soft masculinity” characterised by “tender charisma”, “purity”, and “politeness” (Jung 2011) embodied by Bae’s characters that appeals to his female fans around the region. In light of our argument here, it is not entirely what Bae embodies as a male character but also his responses to the leading female characters that contributes to his appeal. Both Frank and Joon-sang respond to the boisterous female protagonists Jin-young (Song Yun-ah) and Yoo-jin (Choi Ji-woo) with fond curiosity and affection rather than disapproval. The unruly Jin-young and Yoo-jin are portrayed as forgetful, messy, loud, and uninhibited, and when they demonstrate these traits, Frank and Joon-sang consider them to be endearing, often smiling lovingly in response. It is not hard to see how Bae’s popularity among female fans – mostly middle-aged housewives all around Asia – are a result of his portrayals of male characters that affirm, approve, and encourage an unrestrained disregard of tradition and female etiquette. 180

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The regional appeal is also not surprising considering many other Asian countries are influenced by a similar set of cultural values, such as the hyonmoyangcho (현모양처) in Korean, which literally means exemplary wise mother and good wife, and is synonymous with the corresponding Confucian paragon of female virtue xianqiliangmu (贤妻良母), that are recognisable across Asian societies. In a study on the effects that food featured in Jewel in the Palace had on the perception of national image and intention to visit Korea by residents of Hong Kong, Taiwan, and Thailand, the researchers concluded that “food is likely to be effective in promoting a food origin tourism destination at least to people who are involved with a food-themed TV drama” (Kim, Agrusa and Chon 2014: 557; Kim, Agrusa and Lee 2012). The study also listed “cultural similarity and proximity” (538) as a potential reason that other researchers have picked out for why there is a demand for TV drama–induced tourism from other Asian countries to Korea. It is evident how cultural similarity and proximity have a large part to play in the portrayal of female characters that have appealed to and still appeal to audiences across Asia. The Korea Tourism Organization (KTO) has also been marketing its cuisine for years, and “the globalization of Korean food was integrated into the ‘2010–2012 Visit Korea Year’ campaign, which was launched in 2009 to attract more international tourists and create more tourism revenue over three years” (Korea Tourism Organization, 2009 as quoted by Seo and Yun 2015: 2916). In fact, the Korean government pledged to globalize Korean food as one of the five major international cuisines (Korean Cuisine to the World 2009) [and] the promotional campaign for “Han Brand: The taste of Korea” was launched in 2009 to promote Korean food as representative of Korea and the Korean culture. (2916) When the affective image of Korean food and Korean consumption practices departs from the hyonmoyangcho ideal and instead celebrates unapologetic and unrestrained female indulgence, it is not hard to see how the increasing ubiquity of the female indulgence in food becomes a manufactured cultural image of female empowerment. Appealing to both local and overseas female audiences, Korean food culture has become what Bourdieu would term an icon of cultural unification (qtd. by Seo and Yun 2015: 2917). In recent years, however, these portrayals of female celebrities as ravenous consumers of food have manifested in the meokbang phenomenon on the Internet, in which broadcast jockeys (BJs for short), usually slim and beautiful females, broadcast themselves consuming copious amounts of food. This phenomenon can hardly be a coincidence considering how many of these eating styles and dishes directly correspond with those in Korean dramas. Criticised as pornographic, gratuitous, and unhealthy, the meokbang phenomenon reveals a new dangerous paradigm that has substituted the former housewifely image – a paradigm in which the female is vocal, voracious, and vivacious. Exaggerated and dramatised, this voracious female model, as depicted on various media platforms, raises a new unattainable standard of an ideal female with an insatiable appetite who in spite of her gluttony, continues to maintain a celebrity figure and image.

A dramatic anachronism: Kim Ji-hyun meets Dae Jang-geum In order to demonstrate the evolving portrayal of Korean food and its consumption in South Korean media, it is necessary to understand what Korean food is about and how it used to be traditionally portrayed in the media. A glimpse into Korean dramas and television commercials of the late 1990s to early 2000s will reveal how the media portrayal of Korean food and its consumption began its evolution. Many studies on Korean food in the media have focussed on the 181

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popular 2003 period drama, Jewel in the Palace (대장금), where Lee Young-ae plays the role of Jang-geum, an apprentice cook in court during the Joseon dynasty. The drama, with its elaborate scenes of traditional court cuisine, appealed to viewers in South Korea, as well as throughout the East and Southeast Asian regions. Lesser attention has been paid to Fireworks (불꽃), the 2000 drama that preceded Jewel in the Palace and also casts Lee in the lead role. In Fireworks, Lee plays the role of Kim Ji-hyun, a modern-day, disgruntled housewife whose dissatisfactions with her oppressive marital life and regimental domestic chores lead to her divorce. Ji-hyun’s barely disguised displeasure at having to don an apron, cook, and wait upon her husband and her in-laws from dawn to dusk is in stark contrast to the image of a diligent and resourceful Jang-geum, who rises through the ranks in the imperial court and, against all odds, eventually gains the respect of everyone, including the king and his many other officials. Considering how Jewel in the Palace is set in Korea during 1457–1544, where traditional values and court customs were a necessity, the portrayal of women characters and their relationship with food in this period drama is surprisingly more progressive than that of Fireworks. Jang-geum, the female protagonist, is a talented and inquisitive palace girl working in the palace kitchen. Although the female characters in Jewel in the Palace are still responsible for cooking and serving others and the environment of the palace is regimented and competitive, the act of cooking is portrayed in a very different manner in comparison to Fireworks. Whereas Ji-hyun of Fireworks considers preparing food for her family and the extended family a chore, Jang-geum and the other kitchen girls take obvious pride in their culinary achievements. Although set in a feudal era, the palace kitchen of Jewel in the Palace is a distinctly matriarchal space. Montage shots of large kitchen spaces and courtyards filled with women engrossed in different stages of food preparation and cooking at assembly line efficiency, accompanied by a rousing soundtrack, establish the kitchen as a dynamic female space – occupied and operated by a large group of diligent and capable female chefs. Elaborate scenes throughout the drama showcase Korean court cuisine and traditional food in detail, and the dishes featured prominently include tofu and Chinese cabbage soup, dumpling soup, honey, bean paste, ginseng stew, hotpot, rice cakes, pajeon (green onion pancake), and many more. For example, persimmon candy, as well as persimmons, continue to feature from time to time in the series, and it remains a comfort food for Jang-geum throughout the drama, symbolising the warmth and inclusiveness of Jang-geum’s foster family. In an early episode, a young Jang-geum is given a persimmon candy by her stepbrother which she consumes with gusto. Persimmons are also associated with the motherly Lady Jung, who gives Yeon-saeng, Jang-geum’s friend and fellow palace girl, persimmon candy to eat because she thought Yeonsaeng was adorable. Jang-geum also identifies red persimmons as the secret ingredient in one of Lady Jung’s dishes. It is surely not a coincidence that in the late 1990s, South Korea began exporting persimmons (Huidrom 2012). The sales of South Korean persimmons have since steadily increased, and the KTO website promotes persimmons as one of the must-try local produce and lists the dates for the persimmon festivals held in Korea. Throughout Jewel in the Palace, a pair of disembodied female hands are also shown preparing the dishes in close-up – from the skilful chopping of the food to the deft scattering of flavouring and the meticulous arranging of food on the plate. Although the close-up makes it glaringly apparent that the pair of plump hands do not belong to actress Lee Young-ae, these drawn-out montages recur throughout a good portion of the series, demonstrating how dramatic continuity is sacrificed for the sake of the presentation and preparation of the food in the drama. The luxurious spread on screen is a feast for the viewers’ eyes, and it is noteworthy that two of the supporting female characters – Yeon-saeng and Chang-ee – who are friends of Jang-geum, are often depicted enthusiastically and greedily tasting the food. Chang-ee, in particular, is often teased for stealing food while preparing it. During a culinary showdown, Chang-ee serves up a 182

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walnut-based dish to the sanggungs (상궁), or ladies-in-waiting, and sheepishly explains that she made the dish because she likes eating walnuts. This is in stark contrast to the other characters who present their dish and impressively but mechanically list the ingredients and health benefits. In many other scenes, Yeon-saeng is shown eagerly reaching over to taste the dishes. The two characters, especially Chang-ee, explicitly cook for the sake of eating, and Chang-ee reiterates throughout the series that she is not ambitious and is content if she continues to have delicious food to eat. Comparing these two endearing characters to the antagonists, the politically ambitious Geum-young and Young-roh, who are never depicted enjoying food for its own sake, the drama seems to invite its audience to take the side of the former duo who live vicariously through their unreserved gastronomic indulgence. Unlike Fireworks’ Ji-hyun, who has to serve everyone in her family before retreating to the kitchen to eat with the family helper, Jang-geum samples the food as she cooks and takes obvious pride in her culinary achievements and wealth of knowledge regarding food. Ji-hyun’s dissatisfaction and regimented domestic duties serve as a dramatisation of the domestic situations of many wives in the 1990s, when “wives [were] expected to prepare the health foods for their husbands” (Lee 1996: 73), and “in the hierarchical reconstruction of gender relations through dietary practices in industrialised Korea, [. . .] the requirement of tender loving care, primarily by wives, is inherent in the consumption of health food” (74). Like a direct response to the lack of “prevailing popular representations of Korean wives’ lives, beyond the moral ideal of [hyonmoyangcho]” (75), Lee Young-ae’s successive roles in Fireworks and Jewel in the Palace possess a strange, anachronistic continuity. The dissatisfied, modern housewife exemplified by Ji-hyun decides she has had enough of her repressive domestic life and leaves home to pursue her own interests. Jang-geum, a character who is born in a period that ought to be far more oppressive, is instead a progressive young woman who passionately defies conventions in the name of culinary expertise and medical advancements. What is evident in Fireworks is that the consumption of food is inherently gendered, and “the dominant image of ‘home’ in the 1990s is that of a place of warmth where a man can unwind, be indulged, and most importantly, be recharged with energy” (Lee 1996: 84). A woman, on the other hand, is a provider of such an environment (84), and is not privy to the consumption or enjoyment of the food itself. Considering the resistance in the late 1990s to the portrayal of women as mere providers of food, Ji-hyun’s departure from her marital home, her continued interest in her extramarital affair, and her subsequent choice to divorce her husband collectively serve as an on-screen exemplification of this resistance; and in subsequent television dramas in the 2000s, this resistance eventually becomes normalised as female characters of Korean television dramas such as Jang-geum increasingly depart from the traditional model of the giving hyonmoyangcho.

Long live the hungry female Fireworks and Jewel in the Palace represent a departure from the conventional, traditional relationship between women and food, while also ushering in a new sensual, self-indulgent relationship between the two. Previously starved of media representation, women were increasingly portrayed in Korean dramas as unapologetic, ravenous consumers of food, who derived immense pleasure from the act of eating. In Hotelier, Frank Shin invites hotel manager Jin-young to have French cuisine with him in his suite, but Jin-young rejects him since it is unprofessional for her to dine in the room of a hotel guest. Instead, she brings him to a crowded Korean eatery. There, she is seen slurping the noodle soup hungrily, while Frank watches in disbelief and amusement. Unsure why Frank is not eating, Jin-young reaches over unceremoniously to demonstrate the best way 183

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to enjoy the traditional Korean dish. The similarity of this scene and the Jjajangmyeon scene mentioned earlier from the 2015 I Have a Lover demonstrates a sustained motif, fourteen years later, to portray the female as a connoisseur and lover of food, who consumes with unreserved pleasure while teaching the male to consume food the way she does. Notably, this scene in Hotelier ends before Frank is seen consuming the noodles. In yet another scene, Frank and Jin-young visit the grand palace, and Jin-young is seen tearing and consuming pieces of her cotton candy. Frank’s cotton candy, on the other hand, is nothing more than decorative and is left uneaten. What is apparent in the case of Fireworks and Hotelier is that even in Korean dramas that do not thematically involve food and cooking, the portrayal of the female characters in relation to food is still very prominent. Thus, tracing the subtle food imagery throughout other popular Korean dramas in the 2000s to the present day allows for an examination of how the media’s portrayal of women and food has evolved. This may also be influenced by the changing social perception of women’s role in society, but the two influence one another in ways that illuminate how Korean dramas have served as a catalyst for social change and how this social change may have manifested into new, unhealthy lifestyle paradigms and social expectations. The 2013 drama You Who Came from the Stars (별에서 온 그대) was massively popular in Korea and throughout the East and Southeast Asia regions and was viewed more than “2.5 billion times in China” alone (Jones 2014). The fantasy romance starring Gianna Jun and Kim Soohyun revolved around the lives of fictional Hallyu celebrity and actress Cheon Song-yi and the extraterrestrial being Do Min-joon. In the first scene that Song-yi appears in, she is seen taking a selfie with a cup of mocha latte and uploading it to her SNS account. Shortly after doing so, she hands the drink to her assistant, claiming that she was never going to drink the sweet beverage and it is only for show. Like a self-reflexive commentary on how female actresses often endorse products they would never consume or use, this scene seems to remind viewers of the fictitious quality of dramatic representation. However, even in a drama so self-aware of its own production and the irony of casting an actress as an image-conscious actress, the recurring motif of the hungry female continues to be perpetuated. When Song-yi is away from public eye, her celebrity image peels away and she complains that she has eaten only an apple and half a cabbage head all day, citing this diet as the reason for her emotional outbursts. In the subsequent episodes, Song-yi’s appetite becomes increasingly voracious, and she often laments any dieting she is required to do and lists the food she desires. She is often depicted with a growling stomach and is perpetually demanding Min-joon and other characters for food, namely fried chicken, beer, and sea cucumber. Song-yi’s preferred food is also distinctly Korean, and at a lavish cruise wedding, when told by supporting character Hee-kyung that there is foie gras and caviar available, Song-yi rejects the offering and requests sea cucumber and soju. Significantly, the popularity of Korean fried chicken and beer increased after the success of this drama, resulting in the mushrooming of Korean fried chicken franchises all over Asia. The acronym KFC, which previously exclusively referred to Kentucky Fried Chicken, now faced competition from a drama-endorsed newcomer in the form of Korean Fried Chicken, and in Singapore, where Hallyu entertainment is widely consumed and absorbed into local culture, there are more than sixteen places serving Korean-style fried chicken, including Chir Chir (치르치르), NeNe Chicken, Bonchon Chicken (본촌치킨), and Ssiksin Chicken, just to name a few (Ang 2015). Evidently, the hungry female of Korean dramas is no longer just an emancipatory role model for the female viewer, but a marketing vehicle that introduces foreign viewers to Korean food and promotes interest in Korean food exports. Song-yi’s popularity, both within and outside the drama, demonstrate how the overt characterisation of a female as an active and unabashed consumer of food continues to be favoured by viewers, and it is this image of a soju-drinking, sea cucumber–munching, finger-licking female that is becoming endearing. 184

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Min-joon, the male protagonist of You Who Came from the Stars, also continues the early 2000 passive male stereotype, as seen in the previous examples of Jin-eon and Frank Shin from I Have a Lover and Hotelier, respectively. In the first episode, Min-joon is seen opening a pristine fridge filled with orderly bottles of mineral water. When he dines, he sits alone at the dining table and very immaculately consumes a traditional Korean meal – the many small dishes of banchan are arranged neatly on the table, reminiscent of Fung’s mise en place. Song-yi’s manner of eating, unlike Min-joon, is disorderly and uncouth. Rather than consume her food at a dining table, Song-yi is often seen eating on her couch, on the floor, and in front of the television. In various scenes, food packages can be seen strewn all over the floor, and Song-yi is seen lying amongst the food detritus in a food-induced coma of sorts. Her relationship with food is a fundamental part of her character as episode after episode reiterates her insatiable appetite and slovenly eating style. Song-yi, as a popular representative of a woman in 2013, is evidently quite different from the predominant hyonmoyangcho image in the 1990s. While the hyonmoyangcho ideal continues to live on to some extent through some Korean soap operas, these soap operas are usually targeted at elderly viewers. The popular dramas that go on to conquer prime-time television slots in Asia are the ones like You Who Came from the Stars which often boast an idol cast and a high budget. The success and popularity of a character like Cheon Song-yi further demonstrate the datedness of the hyonmoyangcho ideal. At the centre of media and public attention and favour is a woman who readily and unapologetically indulges in Korean food. Much progress has been made in the thirteen years between the disillusioned Ji-hyun in 2000’s Fireworks and the assertive, career-driven Song-yi of 2013’s You Who Came from the Stars, especially in the realm of the kitchen. Prior to Ji-hyun’s marriage, her mother cooks and serves her food. She is seen entering her house and asking for food numerous times, and her mother prepares the food off-screen before enthusiastically serving it to her. When Ji-hyun marries, however, cooking for her husband, her in-laws, and even their relatives becomes her responsibility. In one scene, her strict mother-in-law demands to know if Ji-hyun has finished preparing sushi for a family dinner. An intimidated Ji-hyun later complains to her husband and her friend that she can neither live with the stress of preparing meals nor tolerate her fierce mother-in-law’s constant supervision. She also argues with her husband because she does not wish to dine with his relatives and does not like that she has to give up her writing career to carry out her domestic duties. Song-yi, on the other hand, is unapologetically bad at cooking, and it is Min-joon who is the provider of food. In one scene, Min-joon prepares food in the kitchen, while Song-yi hugs him, representing how the kitchen is now a shared space that both the male and female occupy and maintain. In less than two decades, the narratives of Korean dramas have thus evolved from the resistance of Ji-hyun as provider of meals to the normalisation and celebration of women like Song-yi as voracious consumers of foods.

From the frying pan into the fire: Meokbang as dramatic consequence Having borne witness and celebrated the Korean television drama’s progress in portraying female characters, from Jang-geum of A Jewel in the Palace to Song-yi of You Who Came from the Stars, we would now like to express as well as invite scepticism towards the hungry female in these dramas and question the extent of its emancipatory effects. After all, the hungry females in these dramas are not just voracious consumers but are also commodities produced for the sake of consumption, an image of the female consumer to be consumed by drama fanatics all around the world. While we acknowledge the influence of the hungry female in driving social change, her constant recurrence on screen elevates the figure of the voracious female to the status of a drama trope. If we are to chart the trajectory of this trope against the shift towards the celebration 185

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and normalisation of the voracious female, it raises the question of what other agendas may the continued use of this trope serve. Is the female not liberated yet? The Meokbang phenomenon has been widely discussed and documented online (Ashcraft 2013; Huffington 2013; Kim 2014; Knibbs 2015; Munchies 2015; Oh 2013; Vincent 2014; Yoon 2015), but few have considered it as a direct outcome of television dramas and the recurring motif of food on the television screen. A portmanteau of muk-ja (먹자, eating) and bang-song (방송, broadcasting), Meokbang has often been seen as a response to a demand for simulated commensality via the computer screen, and this is not new given the predominance of cyberspace and virtual communities in replacing the physical space in facilitating social interactions. The continued desire of commensality, particularly in the dining experience (Cho et al. 2015), has often been considered the primary motivation for viewers in Korea and from all over the world to pay and watch BJs eat copious amounts of food on screen while talking about their everyday lives. The televisual dining space of the small screen proves once again to be a reliable reflection of social trends. Tracing our way back to 2000’s Fireworks, an independent, pre-wedding Ji-hyun often works late into the night and is seen eating alone. Her elderly parents occasionally voice their concerns for her health and lament her late hours. After her marriage, when Ji-hyun often finds herself with only the domestic helper as a dining companion, these moments with her parents observing her eat and expressing their concerns are what she misses the most. Thirteen years later, in You Who Came from the Stars, this issue of commensality is once again characterised in both the male and female leads. Min-joon is often seen eating alone at home, and his colleagues resent that he has never joined them for meals. On the other hand, Song-yi is reluctant to eat alone and goes to great lengths to get Min-joon to dine with her. When Min-joon expresses unwillingness, Song-yi questions the purpose of dining alone and insists that food is better when eaten with company. The links to be drawn here are clear; deprived of dining companions, like Soo-kyung in Let’s Eat, there is an appetite and demand for commensality, a large contributing factor to the emergence and success of meokbang. One of the most famous, most successful, and most often cited broadcast jockeys is Park Seoyeon, a female BJ also known as “The Diva”. Eating as much as “35 eggs, a box of crab legs, or five packs of instant noodles in a single sitting” (Huffington 2013), Seo-yeon has gained some weight but still fulfills Korea's beauty standards. Having quit her day job, she is now a full-time BJ with sufficient sponsorship to cover the cost of her feasts. She has conversations with her fans and patrons while eating, and her performances of gluttony can be seen as an exaggerated reality television version of what female characters like Chang-ee, Jin-young, Soo-kyung, and Song-yi have been doing in their respective dramas. Having stripped away the plotline and other cast, Meokbang streams are akin to concentrated episodes of female celebrities doing little else but eating. Feminist theorist Gloria Jean Watkins, better known by her pen name bell hooks, argues “that society is more responsive to those ‘feminist’ demands that are not threatening [and] that may even help maintain the status quo” (1984). She goes on to suggest that one example of “this co-optation of feminist strategy” (hooks 1984) is when “capitalism [coopts] piecemeal change [. . .], taking [. . .] visionary changes and using them against [the agents of change]” (Gross, cited in hooks 1984). Korean drama as a form of popular entertainment rarely presents itself as a site of political struggle to its audience, and is thus not threatening in the demands it makes. Considering the episodic quality of dramas, any feminist demands or changes presented through the medium also play out gradually in the piecemeal fashion that hooks describes. Having perhaps outlived its emancipatory function, the trope of the hungry female in both recent and future Korean dramas may exclusively serve a capitalist agenda, a capitalist agenda that maintains the popularity and sales of Korean food products, continues to promote food and culture via entertainment, and finally in the case of Meokbang, sustains a new and lucrative kind of online food 186

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entertainment. Divorcing herself, both literally and figuratively, from the oppression in the family, women are “thrown, with no preparation [. . .], into the labor market” (Gross, cited in hooks 1984) and rather than “taking their places at the row of typewriters” (Gross, cited in hooks 1984), these women are taking their places at the dining table and in front of their screens, both big and small. The shift from subservient, virtuous, self-sacrificing occupants of the kitchen and home to the self-indulgent, voracious glutton at the dining table may be liberating to a certain extent, but is ultimately one of the “many liberal feminist reforms [that] simply [reinforce] capitalist, materialist values [. . .] without truly liberating women economically” (hooks 1984: 22). BJs like Seoyeon earn enough money from their online supporters to quit their day jobs and do Meokbang full-time and as suggested by You Who Came from the Stars’ self-reflexive portrayal of the character Cheon Song-yi, with the help of strategic editing, actresses like Gianna Jun only need to give an impression of consuming large amounts of food on camera. Professional female entertainers like Seo-yeon and Gianna Jun are hardly “thrown, with no preparation into the labour market”, and their financial successes are indications of their economic freedom. However, it is still true that the liberal feminist reform exemplified through their performances of voracious appetite are now exclusively and inextricably linked to capitalist and materialist agendas, and the image of the hungry female no longer resists traditional ideals of passivity and domesticity as much as it perpetuates excessive consumption, returning women to “their traditional exhibitionist role [where they] are simultaneously looked at and displayed, with their appearance coded for strong visual and erotic impact so that they can be said to connote to-be-looked-at-ness” (Mulvey 1999: 837). The Meokbang phenomenon is thus a new kind of gastronomic spectacle, and the sustained demand and continued fascination with Meokbang raise questions about whether what was originally meant to be a liberating portrayal of self-indulgence has now manifested into yet another unhealthy new paradigm, in which the ideal female is now an excessive consumer of food but is still expected to maintain a body image of that of a typical celebrity. Mediated through the small screen, these televisual meals are also being used as substitutes for real-life interaction, and the act of eating in front of an audience and watching someone eat is now a measure of social intimacy. Yet this parasocial intimacy can only be illusory. While the female characters in television dramas have largely unshackled themselves from their traditional representation and the restrictive Confucian values placed on them, whether the emancipation of the dramas has materialised in the real world is uncertain. It would seem that the Meokbang phenomenon suggests these female characters and their female audience have simply taken off one shackle only to put on another one that is arguably even more restrictive and unfeasible.

Beyond dramas: Red Velvet, SNSD, and Running Man’s Song Ji-hyo Looking beyond the sphere of South Korean television dramas at the extremely successful K-pop industry, the hungry female persona may appear to be entirely absent at first. Well known for their coordinated dance moves, sexy or sweet image, youthful vigour, and svelte bodies, female K-pop stars and their music videos rarely veer from this image. S. M. Entertainment debuted the five-member girl group Red Velvet in 2014, and although the group is named after the cake of the same name, the group is never seen consuming food in their music videos. Their first mini-album and its lead single, “Ice Cream Cake”, has the following lyrics, “please give me that sweet taste, ice cream cake, with flavor that fits this special day [. . .] the ice cream that’s on my mouth [. . .] It’s so tasty come and chase me [. . .] Gimme that, Gimme that Ice Cream [. . .] Oh Vanilla chocolate honey with a cherry on top” (Korean lyrics translated into English by Fullstopzyy 2015), but the music video for the song does not feature a lot of eating despite the profusion of food in the music video. The music video’s opening shot shows an immaculately 187

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cut cake from the top-down view, and a manicured hand carefully removing a slice of cake with a cake server. Throughout the video, different manicured hands, presumably the hands of the members, are seen reaching out from different sides of the screen to remove slices of the cake until every slice is gone. Yet none of the scenes show the members actually consuming the cake. The girls are shown posing with ice-cream microphones, dancing in an American diner, and posing with sweet beverages, sundaes, ice cream, lollipops, and cotton candy, and while the consumption is implied, the act of consumption is largely omitted. Even when implied, the consumption is reserved in manner, with the exception of a split second in the video when a member poses with a large piece of cotton candy stuffed in her mouth. The food imagery in this case is a metaphor for the temptations of sexuality and sensuality, and the invitation to “give [. . .] that sweet taste” expresses little more than an appetite for intimacy. While music videos like this one suggest that female K-pop celebrities appear to have a non-existent or distant relationship with food, there are still occasions in which the image of the ravenous female continues to be used to endear female K-pop celebrities to their fans, and there is no need to look further than S. M. Entertainment’s other girl band, SNSD. Also known as Girls’ Generation, the group debuted in 2007, and is one of the most popular and prominent K-pop girl groups to date. During a 2009 episode of the variety show Star Junior Show Boong Uh-Bbang, the mother of SNSD’s member Soo-young shared that “when it comes to eating, [Soo-young] only thinks of herself ” (Garcia 2012). The Korean characters “Ssik Tam” (식탐), which translates into greed for food, or gluttony in English, appears on the screen. This revelation causes the audience and guests on the show to erupt with laughter. Later, Soo-young’s mother explains that “Soo-young, who looks like she just eats dewdrops” hoarded some cookies from her and asks Soo-young not to be so greedy in the future. Soo-young unapologetically replies that she will not remember to do so and that she wanted to eat the cookies, much to the amusement of the audience and other celebrity guest stars. Fansites like SNSD Food and blog posts like “Shik Sa Shi Dae” (Mikechi 2011), which translates to “Meal Generation”, document SNSD’s favourite food and their food-related appearances. These fansites serve as archives of SNSD’s “food-print”, and pictures of SNSD members enjoying food fill the pages. In particular, pictures that show the members eating large quantities of food or being unable to repress their love for food tend to gain significant interest. Although “sexualisation and objectification are commonly associated with their performative representations” (Oh 2014: 56), the members of SNSD and their extended performances of non-conventional femininity via variety shows, commercials, and social media deserve mention. These performances of gluttony and barely repressed desire for food are not frowned upon, but endear these celebrities to fans and generate sustained interest, as evident from the fansites. Similarly, the female celebrity Song Ji-hyo is often teased for eating large amounts of food without considering her image on the popular variety show Running Man. This is a recurring joke about Ji-hyo, whose lack of restraint and love for food are emphasised throughout the show and have become crucial parts of her comic personality. What is evident from these examples is that beyond Korean dramas, the insatiable female appetite continues to be evident, albeit to a lesser degree. Even in K-pop, when such an image is incompatible with the “hypergirlish-feminine style” (Oh 2014: 62), there continues to be other avenues and platforms where the act of eating and the female desire for food are enacted. Thus, the definition of femininity appears to have undergone some revision in recent years, and a seemingly unrestrained appetite has become a desirable characteristic that is considered compatible with “society’s fascination with adorable, cute, and child-like femininity” (Oh 2014: 63). This supports the notion that the Meokbang community’s fascination with physically attractive and constantly hungry women is a manifestation and dramatic consequence of the subtle 188

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female–food imagery underlying many popular Korean dramas. The use of these images may have successfully attracted female audiences locally and regionally, allowing them to vicariously and cathartically self-indulge in the images they see on the small screen. But these images in their dramatisation tend to go on to perpetuate yet another unhealthy and unrealistic social expectation.

Conclusion: moderated media images By tracing the trajectory of Korean dramas from the early 2000s to the present-day extension of small screen audio-visual entertainment beyond dramas to include online video broadcasts and YouTube music videos, and zooming in on the instances where food images are being employed, either subtly or more explicitly, in these televisual platforms, the evolving relationship between the female and food is demonstrated. Food is not merely for physical sustenance but is also emotional and psychological fodder for those who feel deprived of freedom or companionship. The preparation and consuming of food are political acts, in which the manner of consumption is capable of resisting hegemonic discourse and also asserting self-identity. When alienated from food and the pleasures to be gained from its consumption, as exemplified in Ji-hyun of Fireworks, self-identity is underrepresented, threatened, and ultimately diminished. However, an over-indulgence in food and the pleasures to be gained from its consumption leads to a literal as well as metaphorical bingeing. Excess proves to be alienating as well, especially when female representation in the media is now dominated by images of beautiful and slim women consuming large amounts of food to please their television or online audience. And it is this alienation that leads to a new hegemonic discourse that differs from the original, yet continues to be repressive, restrictive, and unrealistic. While the demand for Korean exports, especially food and entertainment products, testify to the effectiveness of the Korean entertainment industry’s use of subtle and explicit food imagery, the initial positive effects of such images seem to have manifested into increasingly negative consequences. Without moderating these media images and stepping up efforts to walk the fine line between the fictional, fantasy world of the drama and the real world, the Meokbang phenomenon in all its present extremities and over-the-top performativity will likely become normalised. The normalisation of Meokbang will not represent the woman taking control of her own hunger and life in general. Instead, she loses control over her own body once again to a society that idealises a beautiful, voracious female.

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Glossary Banchans Small plates of side dishes Bang-song Broadcasting Hallyu Korean Wave Haemuljjim Spicy braised or stir-fried assorted seafood Hyonmoyangcho Wise mother, virtuous wife Jjajangmyeon Korean black bean sauce noodles Kimchi Traditional Korean side dish of fermented and seasoned vegetables Korean Wave Neologism referring to the rise of popularity in South Korean culture and entertainment Meokbang Portmanteau of muk-ja and bang-song Mise en place Everything in its place Muk-ja Eating Pajeon Green onion or scallion pancake Ramyeon Korean instant noodles Sanggungs Official title of a senior lady-in-waiting during the Joseon dynasty of Korea SNS Social networking service or site Soju Distilled alcoholic beverage popular in South Korea Tam Ssik Greedy for food Toques blanches Chef ’s tall white hat Xianqiliangmu Romanisation of the Chinese words for virtuous wife and loving mother

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14 UNTOUCHED BY HUMAN HANDS Making and marketing milk in Singapore, 1900–2007 Nicole Tarulevicz

Introduction Chicken rice, chilli crab or rojak might be the foods that come to mind when one thinks of Singapore. Yet it is milk which more broadly reflects its colonial past and global present. Singaporeans have long enjoyed regular consumption of milk. Singapore’s coffee shops – kopitiams – are popular spaces where patrons have encountered, and continue to encounter, dairy products in the form of butter in their coffee (a Hainanese tradition) or the ubiquitous condensed milk in tea and coffee (Duruz and Khoo 2015: 49). Teh Tarik (Indian pulled tea) an iconographically popular drink in Singapore, also relies on condensed milk (Lai 2016: 110). Milks for babies; milks to lower cholesterol; milks condensed and imported from across the globe; milks fresh, preserved, cultured, flavoured, enriched and low fat fill the supermarket shelves and refrigerator cases of Singapore, a nation largely without cows. As a city-state with limited land and water resources, Singapore has always relied on international trade to feed its populace, facilitated by its port and its privileged access to trade networks via the British Empire. The experiences of Singapore – technological innovation and processing, sourcing milk from many nations, the ensuing negotiation of long supply chains, the need to reassure consumers of the quality of the product – presages global food-chain challenges around the world. The depth and breadth of these experience mean Singapore provides a historical example with startling wide relevance. The sustained presence of milk in Singapore is reflected in more than a century of advertising. After tracing the context of local milk, including fears around the safety of local and imported milks, this chapter turns to the recurrent themes of safety, purity and country of origin in milk advertising. We might expect to see massive changes in the ways that milk has been advertised over the past century, given the changes in the product, the way it is produced and consumed and geo-political changes in Singapore itself, including the transition from colony to independent nation. But the reality is the advertisements reflect remarkably consistent appeals. Jessamyn Nehaus has argued, in the context of advertising of American housework products, that despite technological changes and superficial changes (from apron-wearing housewife to the soccer-mom), advertising has basically remained the same for decades, targeting women and depicting them as transforming housework into homemaking (Nehaus 2011: 1–2). In Singapore a similar consistency can be seen in milk advertising, with a fear of the safety of milk, an insistence on its purity and a focus on its country of origin forming the foundations of the advertising approach. 193

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Scholars have taken an increasing interest in the study of milk, using it to interrogate the industrialisation of food production, the transformation of a natural product to a processed one, and to tell national histories (Atkins 2010; Velten 2010; Valenze 2011; Kardashian 2012). The cultural belief in milk’s suitability for babies, children, the elderly and the infirm has been the focus of key studies (DuPuis 2002; Mendelson 2008; Bentley 2014). E. Melanie DuPuis’ work has been critical to the study of milk, and as she notes ‘milk is more than food’ (DuPuis 2002: 8). It is not as revealing of national identity for Singapore as DuPuis’ American example, but nonetheless it is more than a simple comestible. Environmental historian Kendra Smith-Howard has teased out the relationship between rural and urban roles in milk production in the United States. She suggests that understanding categories like rural and urban also facilitates understanding categories like ‘natural’ and ‘artificial’ (Smith-Howard 2013). In a city-state like Singapore, where rural largely means extra-national – some other country’s rural – these tensions and relationships are complicated in different ways. Clare Gupta’s recent work on milk in Hawai’i highlights the relevant tension for an island state between a desire for safe and affordable fluid milk and the complexities of long milk supply chains for a highly perishable product. In the Hawaiian example a return to local milk production is seen as a viable, if contested, solution (Gupta 2016: 504). Singapore’s geographical limitations mean that despite the presence of a dairy farm, with a herd recently expanded to 100 cows (Dairy Folks website, http://dairyfolks.com/, accessed 24 November 2016), Singapore will remain dependent on imported milk. Consumption of milk, as with other foods, is cultural, many Western scholars cite the high incidence of lactose intolerance among some Asian populations as evidence that these groups historically have not made regular use of milk (Albala 2000: 19). The reality is more complex. Even in Chinese history there is evidence of milk consumption, and the eighteenth-century Qing Emperor Qianlong is documented as regularly having milk in his tea (Rawski 1998: 49). India, too, has a long indigenous milk tradition (Wiley 2014: 81), and for Singapore’s sizeable Indian population, milk products (including ghee, yoghurt and paneer) form important dietary staples. Non-mammalian milks, such as coconut, rice and soy, are also important for Malay and Chinese culinary traditions, featured in desserts such as sago pudding (Leong-Salobir 2011: 20). In contemporary Singapore, public health messages support the benefits of cow’s milk and advise that lactose intolerance, most likely to affect children, can be overcome by regular exposure to small portions of dairy foods (Singapore General Hospital Website, www.healthxchange.com. sg/healthyliving/DietandNutrition/Pages/Lactose-Intolerance-Can-YouStill-Drink-Milk.aspx, accessed 30 July 2015). Commonly and widely consumed, Singapore remains dependent on the technologies of milk production, including shipping, condensing, canning and refrigeration, even when they take place outside the national border. In contrast to America’s dominantly localised experience of the industrialised production of milk (DuPuis 2002: 8), milk has always been globalised in Singapore. Singapore is, and has always been, deeply embedded in complex networks of trade, from regional trade networks, to trade networks of empire and beyond, to trade networks driven by its preeminent port. Milk, like most of the contents of Singapore’s bowls and cups, is precisely the story of globalised food supply.

Locating Singapore Singapore is both a city-state and an island nation and has a total coastline of only 193 km. It is small at just 704 km2. Its present population is a little more than five million, and one million of those are foreign workers. With a Chinese majority (76 per cent) coexisting with Malay 194

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(15 per cent), Indian (8 per cent) and, in the words of the state, ‘Other’ (1 per cent) minority communities, it forms a uniquely Chinese society in a predominantly Muslim and Malay region. Its small physicality belies its contemporary economic and regional influence, with the third highest gross domestic product (at purchasing power parity) per capita in 2014. That influence is grounded in Singapore’s colonial history as a free port – in which goods in transit were exempt from customs duty – for the British East India Company, which helped the colony emerge rapidly as a centre of trade with a vibrant exchange of goods and cultures. Much of this trade was in comestibles, including dairy products such as canned milk, milk powder, butter, cheese, and even in cows themselves. Historically, Singapore produced only a very small portion of its food and water needs. The story of milk production as largely happening elsewhere is not the exception; it is the rule. By most conventional definitions, Singapore is food insecure – it relies almost exclusively on imported food and has insufficient drinking water and what limited water there was quickly became polluted (Hon 1990: 29). Remarkably, despite early attempts at agriculture, this reliance on imported food has been Singapore’s reality for more than a century. Sir Thomas Stamford Raffles, the British founder of colonial Singapore, established the first botanical and experimental garden on the island at Government Hill (Fort Canning) in 1822, with the explicit intention of testing viable crops. Those crops, like rubber, which had proved so successful in neighbouring Malaya, failed to flourish in Singapore (Reisz 2003: 124). Despite tropical equatorial conditions, many agricultural ventures failed, and Singapore quickly became reliant on its port for comestibles.

Milk production in Singapore The same circumstances that led to a reliance on the port also create resource demands. Even if crops had been successful and the water supply better, land was always at a premium, and there were other imperatives for its use. Even pig farms were forced to close because of land concerns, and dairy farming was much more land- and water-intensive than piggeries (Neo 2016: 92). Coupled with these resource challenges, the early attempts at dairying in Singapore were frequently blighted by disease and economic ruin. The establishment in 1911, and the subsequent collapse in 1912, of a local dairy run by a syndicate highlight both the challenges and local interest in milk production (Down 1912). Several newspapers reported on the enterprise; one stated that the membership of the syndicate included ‘a few well known and influential Singapore Residents’, and that staffing included, among others, ‘a practical Expert and his wife’ (Singapore Free Press and Mercantile Advertiser 1911a). Before the farm’s demise, the Straits Times, the local newspaper of record, had praised the location and conditions of the farm as well as its management, noting that: ‘Under the experienced management of Mr. and Mrs. C. A. Stevens, who have been specially brought from Staffordshire for the purpose, the farm will be run on the lines of a scientific English dairy – adapted, of course, to local conditions’ (Straits Times 1912b). The local conditions appeared hard to adapt to, and the Singapore Poultry and Dairy Syndicate were in trouble from the start. In April and May 1912 they announced they would not be able to supply ‘any new customers at present, being fully booked with orders’ (Singapore Free Press and Mercantile Advertiser 1912a). In late May they advertised that due to a ‘fresh batch of cows having arrived from Australia’ they were ‘now prepared to supply a limited quantity to new customers’ (Singapore Free Press and Mercantile Advertiser 1912b). The cows clearly did not last, and their advertisements for fresh milk for the following six months consisted of announcements in a variety of newspapers: ‘Fresh Milk. The Singapore Poultry and Dairy Farm Syndicate, Regret they cannot fully supply their customers at present, but hope shortly to be in a position to do so’ (Singapore Free Press and Mercantile Advertiser 1912c). They never were, and the company went 195

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into voluntary liquidation (Straits Times 1914a). But the collapse of that enterprise was not the only dairy matter of concern. A lengthy newspaper editorial in 1914 traced the ‘hideous abominations connected with the local milk supply’, the rise and fall of two local dairy companies, including the aforementioned syndicate, and called for the establishment of a Singapore Dairy Board. Milk, as the editorial makes clear, is not just a commercial concern; it is a public health matter, a ‘question of life and health’ which touches all in Singapore, and, the editorial concluded, ‘the denial of wholesome, reliable milk supply’ is a crime (Straits Times 1914b). Although milk might be contaminated by dirty water and thereby become a vector for disease, press coverage in Singapore tended to focus instead on the dilution of milk for profit. Milk adulteration by water was, as Municipal Analyst A. G. Harington put it in a lecture at the YMCA, actually evidence of an inability to do worse: ‘the fact that water adulteration was the only one practised in Singapore, was due to the natives not being sufficiently “educated” to practice the more subtle forms of adulteration’ (Singapore Free Press and Mercantile Advertiser 1911b). Singaporean adulterators may have been perceived as naïve, but they still posed a threat to public health. Milk was indeed a potential vector for diseases, especially tuberculosis and brucellosis. Tropical conditions pose particular risks and challenges to dairy cows. In more temperate latitudes and climates, the cycle of spring calving and high milk production in spring and summer and low milk production in autumn and winter shaped the dairy industry. Milk production in Singapore, with its equatorial absence of seasons, was not as defined. Cow health disintegration from heat stress and foot rot, septicemia, mastitis, pneumonia, dystocia, uterine prolapse, ruptured uterus and other problems was exacerbated by heat and humidity. Even nowadays, although selective breeding has helped, these continue to be issues for tropical dairy herds in Malaysia (Ristic 1981, reprinted 2012: ix) For Singapore, then, the history of dairy production lies in failed attempts at local production, fear about dilution and reliance on imported milks. Fresh milk from Malaya and the Dutch East Indies (what was to become Indonesia), supplemented by milk shipped from Australia and by preserved milks from around the globe, filled the glasses, bowls and coffee cups of Singaporeans.

Milk scandals Because of the reliance on imported foods, the history of the milk in Singapore rapidly morphed into the history of imported products. The circumstances of production become virtually invisible to both consumers and regulators in this context. What tended to remain was fear. In Singapore this was fueled by press coverage of both international and local adulteration, contamination, fraud and poisonings. Newspapers available in Singapore were filled with milk horror stories from around the globe. In 1858 the New York Times wrote about ‘swill milk’ and alluded to malnourished cows fed on mash, a by-product from distilleries. The cows produced poor-quality milk, which was adulterated with all manners of things – like flour, plaster of Paris and molasses (New York Times 1858). In the same year, Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper brought these descriptions to life by publishing lurid illustrations designed to incite public outrage (Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper 1858). Scenes of foul city dairies where diseased animals were kept in conditions that left them too weak to stand on their own for milking defined their pictorial coverage of the swill milk scandal. It was not just American milk that was plagued by scandal; British, Australian and New Zealand milk were all, at times, the subject of health scares and controversy (Mein-Smith 2003: 90). For Singaporean newspaper readers, milk scandals in Penang and Colombo were presented as having particular relevance, especially with the outbreaks of enteric fever (typhoid) in Colombo (Eastern Daily Mail and Straits Morning Advertiser 1906). 196

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Even with an imported milk supply, Singapore was not immune to its own domestic milk scares; in October 1917, for example, the senior magistrate placed a public notice in the Straits Times regarding two dairies that were convicted and fined for diluting their milk with water. A Mr. E. A. Gardiner of Rathbourne Dairy Farm in Serangoon Road was charged with ‘selling by their servant milk to which water had been added’, an offence under Sections 10 and 17 of the 1914 Sale of Food and Drug Ordinance. The fine for adulterating by 16.5 per cent was $100. Even with inflated post-war prices and the weak Straits dollar, a $100 fine was hefty – 400 times the cost of a can of condensed milk, one diluted can of which, according to Nestlé, made three glasses of ‘excellent drinking milk’ (Straits Times 1917). The fine was equivalent to the cost of 1200 glasses of milk.1 Another individual, Mr. H. S. Kirwan, convicted of the same offence as Gardiner, although for a higher rate of adulteration – 29.5 per cent – was also fined (Glennie 1917). Kirwan went on to appeal his conviction, arguing that his servant, Gajarda Singh, was directed to deliver milk and was not directed to sell milk, and therefore Singh was acting outside of the scope of his employment. Further, Kirwan argued that the inspector who took the milk sample was not empowered to do so because the milk that was sampled was not for sale. Justice Ebden was not convinced of the arguments and upheld the conviction, shifting the charge from ‘selling by their servant milk to which water had been added’ to ‘selling milk to which water had been added’ (Straits Times 1918). These cases achieved considerable press attention, reflecting significant popular interest in the topic of adulteration. This apprehension about milk quality did not dissipate with time. Even in the post–World War II period, milk caused public health concerns. Singapore’s Municipal Health Department shared the public’s anxiety about milk as a vector of disease, but their concerns were broader – it was not just milk as a raw product that posed a threat but also its use in value-added refreshments, including drinks and ice cream. The department went so far as to recommend in 1950 that ice cream vendors be banned in hawker centres, but the Hawker Inquiry Commission of the same year, recognising the great demand for ice cream in the tropics, did not follow the recommendation, choosing instead to take an approach of regulation rather than prohibition (Hawker Inquiry Commission 1950: app A 35). The ice cream debate exemplifies the issues around provision of food services and its regulation in Singapore. Ice cream was popular with the people but not with colonial officials, and the same was true for hawker centres, generally (Tarulevicz 2013: 54–58). The tropical conditions and venues posed real health risks, such as the water-borne diseases that could be spread if the scoops were washed in dirty water and the transmission of disease through possibly contaminated milk and cream in ice cream making. The ice cream vendors themselves were potential carriers of disease, and the hawker centres in their varied and unregulated locations naturally attracted disease-carrying vermin. Ultimately, the Singaporean approach of regulation, not prohibition, sought to remove these threats by cleaning up the problem. Similarly, cleaning up the milk industry also required regulation, but it took a long time, and the end result was an outsourcing of virtually all milk. The problem, then, was cleaned up by removing it from the national territory, making the realities of milk production even less visible.2 But the imported product still required marketing by the importers and producers in order to expand consumption and sell specific brands. In Singapore, as elsewhere in the world, extensive advertising helped milk emerge as a safe, nourishing product, ‘nature’s perfect food’, wholesome, complete and essential (Du Puis 2002: 43).

Purity and milk advertising Responding to consumer anxieties about fraudulent food and production practices, including substitutions and adulteration, advertisers stressed the purity of their products (Tarulevicz 2015). Advertisers also responded to anxieties about dirt, disease and contamination by emphasising 197

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technological processes, deploying words like ‘sterilised’ and ‘hygienic’ (Tarulevicz 2016: 139). This lexicon of cleanliness worked to make milk into a product perceived to be safe. Purity features in milk advertisements as a claim in contrast to both the realities of diluted milk and the visceral production of milk. In advertising logic, the tropics posed a particular risk to bodies, the risk of disease and moral corruption (Leong-Salobir 2011: 115); thus, the ‘purity’ of the product was stressed in this context. A 1909 Milkmaid advertisement in a major newspaper provides an example of typical milk advertising of the time. It includes the figure of a woman, an illustration of the actual product – the can of milk with a repeat image of the brand’s signature milkmaid – and text. The text is also typical in its appeals to safety and quality. Milkmaid is ‘the hall-mark of perfect purity’, its claim that the milk is ‘untouched by hand’ is the most distinctive feature of the advertisement, implying that the product is therefore clean, safe and sterile (Straits Times 1909). In the following decade Milkmaid continued to stress these qualities, stating that it was ‘the ideal milk for the tropics’ because of the technological processes used, including sterilising (Straits Times 1910). Lion Brand milk went further, detailing the multiple ways the product was made safe through both technology and a regime of inspection: ‘This milk is the produce of carefully selected Cows and is homogenised and sterilised according to the most modern and effective method under the Superintendence of the highest scientific authorities’. Purity is both asserted and explained: ‘It is absolutely pure, contains no Foreign substances whatever, is entirely free from Germs of any description is not subject to fermentation and preserves its good taste in any climate for a long period’ (Singapore Free Press and Mercantile Advertiser 1910b). Milkmaid remained consistent in the 1920s, encouraging consumers to put ‘Health First’ and prompting newspaper readers to question the cleanliness of their milk supply: ‘Are you quite sure that your milk supply is pure and untouched by unclean hands? You can be sure if you use only “Milkmaid” Brand Condensed Milk which is guaranteed pure, rich, full-cream cows’ milk’ (Malayan Saturday Post 1929). Alpine Brand Milk likewise emphasised ‘the latest hygienic processes’. Bear Brand stressed that their Swiss milk was ‘Pure and Free from added matter’ (Straits Times 1922b). And Glaxo told readers that they had ‘Plenty of pure unadulterated milk!’ (Straits Times 1923). Cleanliness and technological hygiene developed in Singaporean advertising into a broader appeal to scientific knowledge (Tarulevicz 2017), and milk advertising followed this trend. An exemplar of this approach is provided by a Klim Powdered Milk advertisement from 1930 which uses ‘science’ in its appeal to purity: ‘Science has proved what every mother knows so well – that regular milk varies constantly in nourishing quality’. The text details how poor-quality milk could look the same as milk from good dairy stock, but ‘only good dairy stock produce nourishing, safe milk’. Surveillance – ‘milk from rigidly inspected herds’ – suggests safety. Technological transformation, ‘by a scientific process it is reduced to powdered form’, and packaging (‘Klim is specially packed in vacuum sealed tins insuring the freshness and purity’) remind the reader of the multiple ways in which the milk is safe and pure (Straits Times 1930). Klim milk continued to stress how production process kept their product pure: ‘Klim is fresh, pure milk powdered and packed by an exclusive sanitary process so that it will keep in any climate’ (emphasis in original, Straits Times 1941). The suitability of powdered milk to the tropics was repeatedly asserted by a range of brands. Milkmaid milk made this claim explicitly, offering: ‘the benefits of creamy farm milk without the dangers from dirt or bacteria so common to cows’ milk in the East. The Milkmaid Trade Mark is your guarantee of safe, fresh milk in its natural state’ (Morning Tribune 1940). By the 1950s milk in its ‘natural state’ was less desirable. Milk had to be simultaneously pure (and thus safe) and enriched with vitamins. Every Day brand milk was thus ‘rich, pure, safe milk . . . with added vitamins A and D’ (Straits Times 1957). Libby’s Evaporated 198

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milk used a similar strategy, describing the product as ‘pure, rich cow’s milk’ which is ‘sealed in sterilized, air-tight tins’ and ‘is enriched with 500 I.U. of Vitamin D’ (Straits Tines 1959). This trend continued into the 1960s and is typified by Dumex Full Cream Milk, which described its milk as ‘vitamised’; it is ‘specially prepared from wholesome, pure cow’s milk and enriched by the addition of: Vitamins, A, D, B-1, C and Iron’ (Straits Times 1962). Milk enrichment continued into the 1970s, with increasing appeals to quality assurance through certification (Straits Times 1974). By the 1980s, as saturated fats emerged as a public health concern, what was not in the milk was a more prominent feature of advertising. Carnation milk advertised aggressively in the low-fat milk space but still stressed the purity of their product: ‘It provides all the nutritional goodness of milk that a body needs with approximately 0.1% fat in every glass. And the rest is pure, wholesome milk goodness’ (Straits Times 1988). Low-fat milk continued to be a presence in the market for the following decades. By the 2000s while milk was still pure and enriched and low fat, it also conferred additional health benefits, such as improving bone strength, and did so while being ‘fresh’ milk (Today 2005). The actual freshness of the milk is hard to ascertain, as milks can be reconstituted in part or in whole, enriched with permeates and so forth, but the claim to freshness (of being a fluid milk) stands in contrast to powdered, evaporated and ultra-heat-treated milks. To illustrate this four-fold claim, Marigold milk is pure fresh milk ‘high in calcium and protein, and low in fat and lactose’; in fact, it is ‘fortified with 7 vitamins’ (Today 2003). What is apparent then is that for over a century the purity of milk has been asserted in advertising, even when it means very different things – free from additives, processed with specific technology, packaged in particular ways, clean, enriched, low fat, health giving and fresh.

Country of origin Brands operate as a mechanism for consumer protection but also for national identification – for milk, both brand and nation were being affirmed. As anthropologist Paul Manning notes, while ‘brands serve as semiotic figures for the characters on the stage of the global economy’, they are also ‘frequently taken to figure the logic of the global economy itself ’ (Manning 2010: 46). Food advertising in Singapore has always been intimately bound with ‘foreignness’, with global brands and the global economy; a reflection of Singapore’s reliance on imported comestibles and its status as a port city and milk advertising are no exception. Country of origin developed alongside purity as a central advertising platform, a complement to brand and evidence of how for Singapore, milk has always been a global commodity. Dutch Flag Brand Milk used nation in a titular manner but also reminded consumers that it was Dutch authorities that provided regulation: ‘prepared under constant supervision of Dutch Government Officials (Singapore Free Press and Mercantile Advertiser 1903). Dahl’s Milk also used place of origin, ‘Norwegian Pure Cow’s Milk’, to market the purity of its product. The milk is ‘sterilized and quite homogeneous’ and ‘superior to ordinary fresh milk’ because it is richer, digestible and ‘quite free from all bacteria’. It is Norwegian-ness that is the foundation of these qualities: ‘Guaranteed to be absolutely pure milk as taken from cows grazing in the richest pastures of Norway’ (Straits Times 1904). Dahl’s Milk was not the only Norwegian brand to emphasise origin. Fussell’s Green Butterfly Brand Pure Cow’s Milk and Pure Rich Cream were ‘purity itself ’, again from cows grazing in Norway, not just in the richest pastures but on the ‘high Norwegian pastures’. Quality of product was supplemented by process and technology, and readers were told that the milk was ‘sterilized by a new process to destroy all injurious germs, and packed in Cans, hermetically sealed without the use of any solder’ (Singapore Free Press and Mercantile Advertiser 1905). Norway thus became not only the physicality of its pastures but also embodied the scientific and industrial processes of 199

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the Norwegian food system. What these advertisements are selling is milk from a specific place. The cows may eat the grass, but the place, the cultural and the physical environment, imbues the milk with special qualities, which are then reinforced by process and technology to make safer and richer milk. This is not terroir per se, but it is a connection of food and place with social meaning (Trubek 2009; Parker 2015). Country of origin is generally framed as an appeal to quality. In 1910, for example, Bernese Alps Milk Company was not content to just advertise itself in conventional advertisements, although these were used; it also placed notices in newspapers. The text of one such notice is illuminating: ‘The Bernese Alps Milk Co. wish to draw the attention of the public to the fact that Sledge Brand milk is SWISS MILK’. The qualities of Swiss-ness, as they related to milk, were detailed: ‘Swiss Milk is richer in cream and flavour, and far more nourishing than milks from other countries’ (Singapore Free Press and Mercantile Advertiser 1910a). Sledge Milk, in fact, had already been advertised in Singapore for a number of years before this appeared. By 1912 the slogan that was to dominate Sledge Milk advertising was in play: ‘Sledge Milk is genuine Swiss Milk from cattle grazed on the famous pastures of the Bernese Alps’ appeared hundreds of times in Singaporean newspapers. (Straits Times 1912a). In 1928 the Swiss-ness of Sledge Milk was still being insisted upon. In a full-column, page-one advertisement from November of that year, the details of the milk’s production are accompanied by a large image of the wooden sledge racing down a snowy mountain, presumably the Bernese Alps. Three wooden, lidded vessels sit strapped to the handle of the otherwise unaccompanied sledge, the first vessel with a B A Milk (Bernese Alps) sign on its front. This milk, sourced from pristine mountains, drives itself to the factory for processing in an environment that is equally free of germ-spreading human labour (Straits Times 1928). As the global economy slumped during the Great Depression, milk advertising maintained its message about the prestige of country of origin but added to this with statements about price performance and the importance of the product. To illustrate, in one advertisement Bear Brand opened by accepting that consumers ‘may make retrenchments in the purchase of many commodities but Milk is an essential item that must be used unstintingly’, but also made clear that the milk was sourced ‘from pedigree cattle grazing on the rich verdant pastures of SWITZERLAND’ (Straits Times 1932). The Second World War, with its accompanying occupation of Singapore by Japan, obviously significantly disrupted the global trade in comestibles. In 1940 Bear Brand was still advertising its ‘Natural Swiss Milk’ and suggesting consumers ‘Make it your standby in the tropics’ (Straits Times 1940b). Cow and Gate announced that there were ample quantiles of their product in Malaya and that supplies would be maintained, while also stressing that the milk ‘reaches you fresh from the English meadows – untouched – unhandled – dated when made’ (emphasis in original, Straits Times 1940a). The post-war period saw a marked increase in milk advertising by New Zealand and Australian companies, with both emphasising quality that emanated from place of origin. Affordability and safety were also recurrent themes. Anchor Milk thus ‘means good value for your money’ and is not just ‘good milk’ – it is ‘the richest and purest pasteurised milk from New Zealand cows’ (Singapore Free Press 1950). And Cowlac powdered milk is ‘from lush Australian pastures’; it is ‘sealed from danger’, ‘can never turn sour’ and ‘contains no preservatives’ (Singapore Free Press 1952). By the 1960s and 1970s the health-giving properties of milk were the most common antipodean advertising message. The connection between health and milk is nowhere more oddly made than in a 1969 Fernleaf Milk advertisement in a Straits Times feature on New Zealand, which shows a female exotic dancer, complete with skimpy outfit, thigh tattoo (in the shape of the Fernleaf logo) contorted upside down on a pole, with ‘Swing along’ in psychedelic font and strangely old-fashioned text: 200

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‘From green pastures that are among the world’s finest come(s) New Zealand Fernleaf Milk. Milk that builds strong and healthy bodies!’ The dancer’s routine certainly requires fitness and a strong body (Straits Times 1969). To some extent, this is a basic claim to health based on where the product comes from. It is the New Zealand-ness of the milk that makes it healthy. And although exotic dancers are new, in a sense this advertisement was very similar to those we have already seen in Singapore’s pre-independence period. Australian milk in this period was advertised not by brand, but exclusively by country of origin, a reflection of domestic policies around dairy cooperatives intensifying the connection between product and place. In one 1967 advertisement, a smiling Filipino woman, ‘Miss Portfiria Parker’, tells readers: ‘Australian Dairy Products Make Me Feel Good All the Time’. Miss Parker apparently discovered Australian dairy products while studying in Australia, and they make her feel good ‘because Australian butter, cheese and milk are rich in vitamins – the vitamins essential for good eyesight, a smooth glowing skin, strong bones and teeth, and boundless energy’. The advertisement claimed that Australian products are ‘Best in Flavour. Best energy value, because they come from Australia’s rich pastures’ (Straits Times 1967). That same slogan had already been used the year before in a very similar advertisement showing ‘Mr Tamnaib Chuawiwat’ (‘Tom to his friends’), a Thai architect trained in Australia, drinking milk in a glass bottle through a straw, saying: ‘Australian Dairy Products Give Me Stamina’ (Straits Times 1967). The foreignness, the Thai-ness of Tamnaib, was transformed by an anglicised name change; his career and his Western dress make him familiar. Such portrayals of successful pan-Asian dairy consumption made Australian milk both regional and global. In fact, 1966–1967 was a year filled with Australian dairy advertisements. Three advertisements from the Australian Dairy Produce Board, part of the ‘Asians on the way up’ series carried by the Straits Times, are of particular note, not least for their slogan which so explicitly links milk to progress. ‘Guy Lam’ of Hong Kong, a student at Sydney University, has a busy life and is balancing ‘study, sports and social activity’, which ‘calls for an alert mind in a healthy body. Natural foods, including plenty of Australian dairy products provide a sound basis for physical and mental well-being’. Guy is depicted studying by the pool, playing tennis, in a suit at a desk and playing pool (Straits Times 1966a). Dairy products help him study and swim. ‘Ismail Bin Hajii Abas’, a Malay language instructor and accounting student in Sydney, also has a busy life. He tells readers: ‘Keeping fit in my busy life is no problem . . . I eat plenty of Australian dairy foods’ (Straits Times 1966b). To prove this, he is eating bread and cheese, and there is a large glass of milk on his desk. Smaller images of Ismail teaching Malay, bowling and playing cricket show us his life beyond the desk. The message in these two advertisements is that economic success is brought about by physical strength, and milk will help build that strength. Milk is thus an avenue for accessing lifestyle as well as evidence of that lifestyle. ‘Miss Lim Piak Har’, of Kuala Lumpur, is the third Sydney University student to feature in the ‘Asians on the way up’ series. Her life is not as obviously active as her male counterparts. She tells readers: ‘I keep fit with lots of nutritious, health-giving Australia butter, cheese and milk’ (Straits Times 1966c). Of the four images we see, only one is active, depicting Piak Har playing table tennis. But the accompanying caption, ‘Australian dairy products build up reserves of energy for active games’ (my emphasis), somewhat undermines the message. We do see Paik Har engaging in lifestyle activities: the main image is of her sitting on the campus lawns during a meal break; we also see her picnicking with the Sydney Harbour Bridge in the background (‘relaxation is important for health too’) and visiting a museum. Education is the pathway to ‘the way up’. These three students are evidence of how milk gives access to a way of life. What is being sold here is lifestyle and social mobility. Australian milk gives access to an Australian way of life, wherever it is consumed. 201

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Country of origin for cows For some companies, place of origin transfers from finished product to cow, by which I mean it is the country of origin of the cow that is being marketed, not where it is later raised and milked. While the export in live cows has increased in the last few decades, this is not a wholly new advertising strategy. A 1922 advertisement for Glaxo, a powdered milk, states that ‘Your children need this safe Milk from British-bred cows’. Note this is not milk from British cows but from British-bred cows; the cows could be living anywhere. Produced by the Anglo-Siam Corporation, the location of the cows was not clear (Straits Times 1922a). In a 2007 advertisement for Greenfields milk, the origin of the cow is also employed. The dominant image in the advertisement, taking up half the page, is a passport – an Australian passport for Daisy the Dairy Cow. The birthplace of Daisy is Greenfields, the brand, not a physical location; she is adorned with a straw hat and a string of pearls. Below the passport in large lettering is the message: ‘Our cows come with the right credentials’. The Australian passport guarantees place of origin. In a smaller font the connection is explained: ‘to get the fabulous quality and flavour of real Australian-style milk, naturally, you need Australian cows’ (Today 2007a). These are cows specifically bred to produce a particular kind of milk quality; their Australian-ness, it seems, can be tasted. Greenfields has ‘imported these specially bred Australian cows to their Farm in Malang [in Indonesia] to produce it for you’. It is not place of production that makes milk taste Australian in this framing; it is the cows themselves, their breed. Again, process and technology are used to sell the product; in this instance, it is the ‘special food, Special hi-tech Australian farm management and good Aussie farmers’ that allow Greenfields to produce ‘the best quality, best tasting fresh milk, in this part of the world’, by which they mean Southeast Asia (Today 2007c). There is no detailing of what that this special food (feed) might be; it certainly is not the richest pastures of Norway.

Untouched milk Continuity with the past is also emerging around the safety of milk and, as with its nineteenthcentury cousin, twenty-first-century milk is unsafe in a variety of ways. It is unsafe because it is adulterated – with melamine in China, rather than flour and water (Keck 2009: 88). It is also culturally unsafe, full of the saturated fats we fear, so it is homogenised, stripped of fats and enriched. Perhaps then we should not be surprised how similar recent advertisements are to historical ones. To illustrate, the Greenfields advertising referred to previously mirrors that of earlier milk advertising. Milkmaid told consumers in 1909 that its milk was safe and clean because it was ‘Untouched by hand’ (Straits Times 1909), and in 2007 Greenfields used a scientistcow holding a tetra pack of milk on its hoof with the slogan ‘Direct from Cows. Untouched by humans’ (Today 2007b). The scientist-cow (more serious than Daisy, the passport-holding cow) appears in several advertisements, and the connection between technology, modernity and safety is repeated: ‘The quality levels at our state-of-the-art processing plant in the cool highlands of Malang in Indonesia exceed even the US standards several times over and our milk has HACCP certification’, that is hygiene and international good production standards (Today 2007d)’. As Anne Mendelson reminds us, an appeal to American standards of milk processing is hardly reassuring (Mendelson 2008: 36). Claims about exceeding international safety standards are made in other Greenfields advertisements as well; the short distance the milk travels (from Indonesia, rather than New Zealand or Australia) is often remarked upon.

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The naturalness of the milk is also stressed: ‘Real milk is made by nature and comes from dairy cows with all the natural vitamins and minerals already included. It is natures perfect food’ (as original, Today 2007b). The phrase ‘natures perfect food’ is used without irony (or apostrophe) and without connection to the history of the term’s use or the scholarship surrounding it (DuPuis 2002). The dominant image in the advertisement is of a cow, below which is the slogan: ‘This is our all-natural factory’. The connection between cow, nature and quality is made in other advertisements as well: ‘Within eight minutes of leaving the Greenfields cows, (yes, it is true dear reader, that’s where real natural fresh milk comes from) our milk is packed and chilled’ (Today 2007b). Milk is, however, a product of leaky bodies, and so, too, are all the other excreta, manure, methane and urine produced by cows. Untouched by humans or their hands is an ideological way of negotiating the grotesquery of cows (Stallybrass and White 1986: 105). The ‘all-natural factory’, with robotic milking, is a technological response to this old problem, negotiating the same transgression in a different era. Ideas about purity developed into an ideology of people, as opposed to cows, as the source of contamination. This ideology has continued in such a way that it is possible to draw a line between the 1909 Milkmaid slogan ‘Untouched by hand’ and the 2007 Greenfields slogan ‘Untouched by humans’. As Kendra Smith-Howard suggested, to ‘take milk’s history seriously is to understand the compromises, complexity and challenges involved in our dependence on other organisms for our very sustenance’, and it is these realities that lead to a focus on purity (Howard-Smith 2013: 11)

Conclusion Milk is a site where we can see the increasing complexity of the global supply chain, from sourcing milk from many nations, to engaging with technology for processing and packaging, to the consequent need to reassure consumers of the quality of the product. How British are the British-bred cows? How Australian are the Australian cows now being milked in Indonesia? Advertising claims to purity, safety and country of origin have been sustained for over a century. Milk is understood as an important, health-giving food, but one that is also at risk but can be made safe through inspection, regulation and technology. The continuity in global advertising in Singapore provides a historical example which speaks to contemporary challenges. Milk also shows us that there is even more complexity to come. An example of this is an advertisement by China Milk Products Group Limited, a company producing raw milk, dairy cow embryos and bull semen. The advertisement shows a cow egg (we know it is a cow egg because there is a cow on the egg) with sperm moving towards it and the slogan: ‘Life is all about . . . Moo-ving Ahead’ (Straits Times 2006). With such genetic manipulation occurring, country of origin will become harder to determine, as milk is itself Moo-ving on. But for Singapore, milk – however it is produced, imagined and marketed – remains something that must always happen, first, outside the boundaries of the island nation.

Acknowledgements This study was supported by a Colonialism and Its Aftermath Small Grant from the University of Tasmania and a Study Leave Allowance from the University of Tasmania. Eric Anderson and Sheila Allison provided much-appreciated critiques of drafts of this chapter. I would like to thank Professor Joanna Waley-Cohen and Associate Professor Wenqing Kang for constructive discussions about historical Chinese milk consumption. I would also like to thank Professor Deidre Murphy for insightful discussions about Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper.

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Notes 1 In 1917 food prices had increased dramatically in the aftermath of World War I, and newspapers of the time are filled with complaints about the cost of living, with some suggesting increases of 78 per cent. A few months before Gardiner and Kirwan were fined, Nestlé and Anglo-Swiss Condensed Milk wrote to the newspapers clarifying the set price of milk (Milkmaid Condensed and Sweetened, 40 cents per tin; Milkmaid Sterilised, 24 cents per tin; Ideal Unsweetened Condensed, 27 cents per tin) and acknowledging the official price increases (60 per cent for condensed milk; 84 per cent for sterilised milk). 2 The Cattle Act (1964) regulated the conditions in which dairy cows could be kept; unlike pigs, the trade was not directly prohibited. Section 13 of the Revised Cattle Act (1990), Cattle Regulations, in the subsection, Validity of Licence, however, notes that ‘The Commissioner may refuse to renew a licence without assigning any reason’, meaning all dairy farming is at the discretion of the state.

Bibliography Albala, K. (2000) ‘Milk: Nutritious and Dangerous’, in H. Walker (ed.), Milk: Beyond the Dairy – Proceedings of the Oxford Symposium on Food and Cookery, 1999, Devon: Prospect Books. Atkins, P. (2010) Liquid Materialities: A History of Milk, Science and the Law, Burlington: Ashgate. Bentley, A. (2014) Inventing Baby Good: Taste, Health, and the Industrialization of the American Diet, Berkley: University of California Press. Down, V. B. (1912) ‘Liquidator Notice’, Singapore Free Press and Mercantile Advertiser, 28 October. DuPuis, E. M. (2002) Nature’s Perfect Food: How Milk Became America’s Drink, New York: New York University Press. Duruz, J. and Khoo G. C. (2015) Eating Together: Food, Space, and Identity in Malaysian and Singapore, London: Rowman and Littlefield. Eastern Daily Mail and Straits Morning Advertiser (1906) ‘Life’s Worries’, 28 July. Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper (1858) ‘Milking the Dying Cow Illustration’, 15 May. Glennie, J. A. R. (1917) ‘Agricultural Municipal Health Officer, Public Notice’, Singapore Free Press and Mercantile Advertiser, 17 October. Gupta, C. (2016) ‘Dairy’s Decline and the Politics of “Local” Milk in Hawai’i’, Food, Culture & Society 19: 485–516. Hawker Inquiry Commission (1950) Memorandum on the Hawker Problem by the Acting Municipal Health Officer, Singapore: Singapore Government. Hon, J. (1990) Tidal Fortunes: A Story of Change, The Singapore River and Kallang Basin, Singapore: Landmark Books. Howard-Smith, K. (2013) Pure and Modern Milk: An Environmental History Since 1900, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kardashian, K. (2012) Milk Money: Cash, Cows, and the Death of the American Dairy Farm, Lebanon: University of New Hampshire Press. Keck, F. (2009) ‘The Contaminated Milk Affair’, China Perspectives 1: 88–93. Lai, A. E. (2016) ‘The Kopitiam in Singapore: An Evolving Story about Cultural Diversity and Cultural Politics’, in L. Kong and V. Sinha (eds) Food and Foodways and Foodscapes: Culture, Community and Consumption in Post-Colonial Singapore, Singapore: World Scientific. Leong-Salobir, C. (2011) Food Culture in Colonial Asia: A Taste of Empire, New York: Routledge. Malayan Saturday Post (1929) ‘Milkmaid Sweetened Condensed Milk Advertisement’, 18 May. Manning, P. (2010) ‘The Semiotics of Brand’, Annual Review of Anthropology 39: 33–49. Mein-Smith, P. (2003) ‘New Zealand Milk for “Building Britons”’, in M. P. Sutphen and B. Andrews (eds.), Medicine and Colonial Identity, London: Routledge. Mendelson, A. (2008) Milk: The Surprising Story of Milk Through the Ages, New York: Knopf. Morning Tribune (1940) ‘Milkmaid Advertisement’, 13 November. Nehaus, J. (2011) Housework and Housewives in American Advertising: Married to the Mop, London: Palgrave. Neo, H. (2016) ‘Placing Pig Farming in Post-Independence Singapore: Community, Development and Landscape Rurality’, in L. Kong and V. Sinha (eds.), Food and Foodways and Foodscapes: Culture. Community and Consumption in Post-Colonial Singapore, Singapore: World Scientific. New York Times (1858) ‘How We Poison Our Children’, 13 May. Parker, T. (2015) Tasting French Terroir: The History of an Idea, Berkeley: University of California Press.

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Untouched by human hands Rawski, E. (1998) The Last Emperors: A Social History of Qing Imperial Institutions, Berkeley: University of California Press. Reisz, E. (2003) ‘City as Garden: Shared Space in the Urban Botanic Gardens of Singapore and Malaysia, 1786–2000’, in R. Bishop et al. (eds.), Postcolonial Urbanism: Southeast Asian Cities and Global Processes, New York: Routledge. Ristic, M. (1981) Diseases of Cattle in the Tropics: Economic and Zoonotic Relevance, Boston: Springer, reprinted 2012. Singapore Free Press (1950) ‘Anchor Milk Advertisement’, 1 August. Singapore Free Press (1952) ‘Cowlac Milk Advertisement’, 8 August. Singapore Free Press and Mercantile Advertiser (1903) ‘Dutch Flag Brand Milk Advertisement’, 2 July. Singapore Free Press and Mercantile Advertiser (1905) ‘Fussell’s Green Butterfly Brand Pure Cow’s Milk Advertisement’, 8 February. Singapore Free Press and Mercantile Advertiser (1910a) ‘Bernese Alps Milk Company Public Notice’, 16 June. Singapore Free Press and Mercantile Advertiser (1910b) ‘Lion Brand Milk Advertisement’, 31 May. Singapore Free Press and Mercantile Advertiser (1911a) ‘Milk and Eggs’, 12 July. Singapore Free Press and Mercantile Advertiser (1911b) ‘What Shall We Eat?’, 7 June. Singapore Free Press and Mercantile Advertiser (1912a) ‘Singapore Poultry and Dairy Farm Syndicate Notice’, 25 April. Singapore Free Press and Mercantile Advertiser (1912b) ‘Singapore Poultry and Dairy Farm Syndicate Notice’, 27 May. Singapore Free Press and Mercantile Advertiser (1912c) ‘Singapore Poultry and Dairy Farm Syndicate Notice’, 25 June. Singapore General Hospital Website, www.healthxchange.com.sg/healthyliving/DietandNutrition/Pages/ Lactose-Intolerance-Can-YouStill-Drink-Milk.aspx, accessed July 30, 2015. Stallybrass, P. and White, A. (1986) The Politics and Poetics of Transgression, Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Straits Times (1904) ‘Dahl’s Milk Advertisement’, 23 December. Straits Times (1909) ‘Milkmaid Condensed Milk Advertisement’, 5 March. Straits Times (1910) ‘Milkmaid Condensed Milk Advertisement’, 1 March. Straits Times (1912a) ‘Sledge Brand Milk Advertisement’, 26 March. Straits Times (1912b) ‘Fresh Farm Produce: Conditions at Singapore Dairy Farm’, 27 May. Straits Times (1914a) ‘Poultry and Dairy Farm: Company to go into Voluntary Liquidation – The Court to Supervise’, 14 February. Straits Times (1914b) ‘Dairies in Difficulties,’ 5 March. Straits Times (1917) ‘Public Notice,’ 12 October. Straits Times (1918) ‘Milk Adulteration: Judge’s Findings in Criminal Appeal’, 16 January. Straits Times (1922a) ‘Glaxo Milk Advertisement’, 17 July. Straits Times (1922b) ‘Bear Brand Milk Advertisement’, 18 September. Straits Times (1923) ‘Glaxo Milk Advertisement’, 7 June. Straits Times (1928) ‘Sledge Brand Milk Advertisement’, 7 November. Straits Times (1930) ‘Klim Powdered Milk Advertisement’, 24 April. Straits Times (1932) ‘Bear Brand Milk Advertisement’, 22 June. Straits Times (1940a) ‘Cow and Gate Milk Advertisement’, 30 June. Straits Times (1940b) ‘Bear Brand Milk Advertisement’, 27 July. Straits Times (1941) ‘Klim Milk Advertisement’, 13 August. Straits Times (1957) ‘Every Day Milk Advertisement’, 6 April. Straits Times (1959) ‘Libby’s Evaporated Milk Advertisement’, 19 April. Straits Times (1962) ‘Dumex Milk Advertisement’, 25 October. Straits Times (1966a) ‘Australia Dairy Products Advertisement’, 16 January. Straits Times (1966b) ‘Australia Dairy Products Advertisement’, 20 March. Straits Times (1966c) ‘Australia Dairy Products Advertisement’, 1 April. Straits Times (1967) ‘Australia Dairy Products Advertisement’, 12 April. Straits Times (1969) ‘Fernleaf Milk Advertisement’, 2 February. Straits Times (1974) ‘King of Kings Evaporated Milk Advertisement’, 28 June. Straits Times (1988) ‘Carnation Milk Advertisement’, 31 July. Straits Times (2006) ‘China Milk Products Group Limited Advertisement’, 28 February. Tarulevicz, N. (2013) Eating Her Curries and Kway: A Cultural History of Food in Singapore, Campaign: University of Illinois.

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Nicole Tarulevicz Tarulevicz, N. (2015) ‘“I Had No Time to Pick Out the Worms”: Food adulteration in Singapore, 1900– 1973’, Journal of Colonialism and Colonial History, 16: 1–24. Tarulevicz, N. (2016) ‘Food Safety as Culinary Infrastructure in Singapore, 1920–1990’, Global Food History 2: 132–156. Tarulevicz, N. (2017) ‘Sensing Safety in Singapore, 1900–2015’, Food, Culture and Society 20: x–x. Today (2003) ‘Marigold Milk Advertisement’, 9 August. Today (2005) ‘Marigold Milk Advertisement’, 1 November. Today (2007a) ‘Greenfields Milk Advertisement’, 29 March. Today (2007b) ‘Greenfields Milk Advertisement’, 27 April. Today (2007c) ‘Greenfields Milk Advertisement’, 3 May. Today (2007d) ‘Greenfields Milk Advertisement’, 17 May. Trubek, A. B. (2009) The Taste of Place: A Cultural Journey into Terroir, Berkeley: University of California Press. Valenze, D. (2011) Milk: A Local and Global History, New Haven: Yale University Press. Velton, H. (2010) Milk: A Global History, London: Reaktion Books. Wiley, A. (2014) Cultures of Milk: The Biology and Meaning of Dairy Products in the United States and India, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Glossary Kopitiam coffee shop Rojak chopped vegetable and fruit salad Teh Tarik Indian pulled tea

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15 FEASTING ON ‘THE OTHER’ Performing authenticity and commodifying difference in celebrity chefs’ food and travel television programmes Jacqui Kong

Food and travel television programmes have gained popularity over the past few years, along with the rise in fame of celebrity chefs and cooking reality television shows. The rise of “food porn”, social media, and increasingly mediated experiences of food and foodways have given birth to new food cultures, behaviours, and attitudes towards food preparation, procurement, and consumption. I suggest that culinary tourism, or as I term it elsewhere in this chapter, “food adventuring” (Heldke 2003), may inadvertently encourage and/or sustain Orientalist attitudes and behaviours towards foreign cultures, people, and ways of life. As Long states, “[f]ood is central to traveling, and it is a vivid entryway into another culture” (2004: 1). Food adventuring (Heldke 2003), which is depicted in these food and travel television programmes, may possess the best of intentions in exploring new and unfamiliar cultures, territories, and foodways, but it may also unintentionally exoticise, generalise, and commodify the “difference” and “novelty” portrayed in these programmes. This chapter explores two central concerns linked to culinary tourism and “food adventuring” (Heldke 2003): the first being the search for the ‘authentic’, and the second, the commodification and consumption of ‘difference’. The aims of this chapter are similarly twofold: first, to outline how the search for the ‘authentic’ should not be made the ultimate aim of culinary tourism; and second, to provide an in-depth textual analysis on selected episodes of a particular “food adventuring” television programme: World Café Asia, hosted by Egyptian-Chinese celebrity chef, Bobby Chinn. I will first explore how the constant search for and valorisation of the ‘new’ and ‘unknown’ leads to a performance of authenticity on the part of the Other who is being ‘watched’, ‘visited’, and gazed upon. As tourists and “food adventurers” ascribe value to what they deem as ‘authentic’ and ‘pure’, they also unwittingly freeze the figure of the Other into a static frame of reference, into a moment without lived realities and histories. The second part of this chapter delves into the ways in which food adventurers (Heldke 2003) further commodify and consume “difference” when they travel and explore unfamiliar food and foodways. The figure of the Other is occasionally, and more often than not, exoticised, and his or her difference becomes a consumable and purchasable commodity. In the worst of scenarios, the Other becomes a figure to be mocked, insulted, or ridiculed. I acknowledge, of course, that not all 207

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food adventuring (Heldke 2003) television programmes do so, but there are those which do, and I propose in the final section of this chapter that there should be better ways of relating to, representing, and building connections with new cultures, people, and their respective food and foodways.

Chasing the authentic The activity of food adventuring (Heldke 2003) is inexplicably linked to the search for authenticity. Food adventurers are people who, according to Heldke, “go culture hopping in the kitchen and in restaurants” (2003: xv). However, I apply this notion even further to the current phenomenon of celebrity chefs and television personalities who travel in order to experience new culinary and cultural adventures. These food adventurers are often Westerners of Euro-American heritage (Heldke 2003: xv) and people who are “motivated by a deep desire to have contact with and to somehow own an experience of, an Exotic Other” (Heldke 2003: xvi). By exhibiting such a desire for contact with the Other, Heldke asserts that food adventurers carry out “cultural food colonialism” (Heldke 2003: xv), as their attitudes resemble those of Western colonisers travelling to foreign lands in search for commodities and resources to enrich their lives with. Food adventurers are thus equated with food colonisers as they set out for the ‘authentic’ commodity of food and the exotic cultural experience which it is intimately tied to. Most importantly, the colonialist attitude of food adventurers is reflected in the ways in which the search for the ‘authentic’ culinary experience essentialises and exoticises identities, as well as ignores or silences histories. This activity of food adventuring can thus be seen in contemporary media forms such as television travel programmes featuring celebrity chefs and popular food ‘experts’ and/or television personalities. In the first part of this chapter, I will demonstrate how food adventuring and the search for authenticity are the central preoccupations in a particular television programme, Bizarre World, featuring American celebrity food personality/critic, Andrew Zimmern (I conduct a detailed analysis of the opening sequence in every episode). In the activity of food adventuring, the concept of authenticity is linked to notions such as the past, purity, and novelty (Heldke 2003). I will first, therefore, elaborate upon these notions and how they can be seen in these food adventuring television programmes. I have conducted textual analysis on selected episodes and segments from four television programmes in this chapter, including Bobby Chinn’s World Café Asia, Jamie Oliver’s Jamie’s American Road Trip, and the late Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations, as they are widely broadcasted on Discovery Networks Asia-Pacific’s Travel and Living Channel (TLC) and therefore cast a wide viewership net on viewers from the Asian Pacific region. In my home country of Malaysia, these chefs and television personalities are well-known, and their television programmes command audiences who enjoy watching the dual nature of these television shows which feature a merging of two previously distinct genres of television programming, that is travel and food or cooking documentaries. Whilst acknowledging that this is not a media audience–focused study, I assert that this chapter puts forth some salient suggestions for how the activity of “food adventuring” (Heldke 2003) affects the communities, cultures, and cuisines which are sites of travel for tourists, travellers, and food adventurers. In this chapter, I also offer an in-depth look at the claims and assertions made by selected celebrity chefs and television personalities who take on the task of travelling to show viewers what are seen as ‘unknown’, ‘interesting’, and unfamiliar places and cultures. Even though the majority of the television programmes I have chosen are not Asian in nature or focus, the analysis which I present is generalisable and extendable to Asian-focused food and travel television programmes. Similarly, the in-depth analysis which I conduct on Bobby Chinn’s 208

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episodes of World Café Asia, which feature the Malaysian cities of Kuala Lumpur and Penang, serve to stand as examples of food and travel television programmes which describe and illustrate Asian food and foodways.

‘Authentic’ as ‘novel’ Travel is more often than not associated with the concept of ‘novelty’, of experiencing new things and meeting new people, eating new foods, and trying new experiences. Hence, one of the driving forces behind food adventuring is the search for novelty. Food adventurers are constantly on a quest for something new. However, these experiences more often than not are measured against the food adventurer’s criteria of what is authentic and what is not. For example, I draw upon the television programme Bizarre World, which features television personality and food critic, Andrew Zimmern, going in search of the ‘bizarre’ and ‘unfamiliar’. This television show is broadcast in the Asia-Pacific region on the Travel and Living Channel (TLC). I have chosen a quote from it in order to illustrate what I mean about food adventurers (Heldke 2003) and their quest for the new and unknown. In the opening sequence of every episode, for example, Zimmern introduces himself, saying: I’ve never been a mainstream kind of guy. I’m into exploring the fringes of a culture, especially when it comes to the food. I’m after the authentic experience; and figure, if you wanna learn what other people’s lives are really like, you need to dive face-first, into the most unusual and unexpected traditions around the globe. [emphasis mine] There are several noteworthy phrases in this quote which reveal how Zimmern asserts his own meaning of what is authentic and what is not. For Zimmern, what is authentic is located on “the fringes of a culture”, and because Zimmern has “never been a mainstream kind of guy”, he is thus a food adventurer who is willing to go off the beaten track, “into the most unusual and unexpected traditions” and places, in order to experience what he deems to be authentic. Thus, the authentic is what is novel to Zimmern, something “unusual and unexpected”, therefore ‘unfamiliar’. For Heldke, this figuring of what is ‘unfamiliar’, ‘exotic’, and therefore ‘authentic’ is problematic, because it is a surface-deep interest in a cuisine, based only on the fact that it is ‘unfamiliar’ and ‘novel’ (2003: 27). Heldke states: What we food adventurers ‘expect’, in the case of authentic food is, paradoxically enough, the unexpected and the unfamiliar; we expect the food of the other to be distinctly different from our own foods, and we tend flat-footedly to identify the unfamiliar elements as the authentic ones. . . . But to build one’s understanding of authentic cuisine upon a foundation of unfamiliarity is a quixotic move. . . . To understand another cuisine through the lens of my own unfamiliarity is at best a shallow approach and at worst a deep distortion of it, reducing the significance of the Other’s cuisine to something about my own. (2003: 27–28) Thus, the quest for authenticity reveals more about the food adventurer and his or her Self than it really does about the Other (Heldke 2003: 48). Similarly, “culinary tourism” (Long 2004), according to Molz, is really more about “the traveler’s performance of cosmopolitan competence” (2007: 91) than it really is about the learning and understanding of new cultures and cuisines. The food adventurer is thus a figure that is primarily interested in acquiring status and 209

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“cultural capital” through his or her food adventuring activities (Bourdieu 1984: 13), more so than he or she is interested in learning about a cuisine or culture. Most importantly, Heldke also draws attention to the “‘nonperspectival’ perspective” which Euro-American food adventurers adopt when they declare other cuisines and cultures as ‘unfamiliar’ or ‘exotic’ (2003: 19), that is, a perspective which is deemed to be the starting point, or the ‘blank slate’, the ‘benchmark’ in other words, “against which other cultures can be displayed” (Heldke 2003: xxi). In another paper, I discuss the Self/Other binary in more detail (Kong 2011: 46), but I shall outline it briefly here. The ‘Self ’ which I mention here refers largely to, as Heldke terms, Euro-American travellers and tourists who set out to experience the Other in places and countries perceived to be exotic and ‘off the beaten path’. There are, however, power structures at play in such exchanges and encounters between the Self and the Other. The Self, who is usually more often than not from a more economically and technologically advanced society, takes it upon himself or herself to discover and ‘uncover’ the Other’s country, community, or culture and to speak for the Other in terms defined by himself or herself alone. This is, of course, not to say that the figure of the Other is entirely silenced by the encounter, and in my paper, I attempt to reveal a more nuanced exchange between the Self and the Other (Kong 2011), which leads to a mutually beneficial and transformative experience for both parties. For example, in a few rare episodes of selected food and travel television programmes, I illustrate how the requisite food personality or celebrity chef demonstrates a keen desire to learn from the Other and makes an effort to listen, understand, and empathise with the Other (Kong 2011). Instead of the primary focus being that of the popular food personality or celebrity chef and his or her intrepid disposition, the focus shifts to the figure of the Other and the lived experiences, realities, and histories that accompany the stories of particular dishes, cooking methods, and recipes. The Self then finds himself or herself ‘transformed’, not necessarily in a holistic or transcendental manner, but as I have termed it, in a manner that at the very least, allows the Self to alter one’s initial way of thinking about, relating to, or speaking about the Other and his or /her respective food, foodways, and culture. This opens up possibilities for an exchange between Self and Other, instead of a power dynamic in which the Self is superior to the Other and is speaking on behalf of or for the Other. The Other is also presented as a figure that is not entirely powerless, who is aware of what they can do in such encounters with tourists and food adventurers, and who, in many circumstances, enact what I term as their own “protective strategies” (Kong 2011) and “staged authenticity” (MacCannell 1973) in order to benefit economically from tourism. These kinds of food exchanges and learning experiences about other cultures and foodways are those which should be portrayed more frequently; however, they do not occur all the time in such food shows and are more of an exception rather than the rule in the current genre of lifestyle television programming which features food and culinary tourism. Therefore, in the opening sequence of each episode of Bizarre World, when television personality and food expert Andrew Zimmern declares the authentic as “unusual and unexpected”, he is describing ‘authenticity’ from his own white, middle-class American cultural lens. This is assumed to be the universal, absolute position from which everyone else speaks – what Heldke terms “the wallpaper, as the default, as ground zero . . . different-in-principle because different-to-Us” (2003: 19). Authenticity is thus a concept which reveals more about the Self than it really does about the exotic Other. As Heldke asserts: For in the end, it is about us. The Other is interesting and important insofar as he or she serves to illuminate me, to render my life in the world more authentic. . . . My unfamiliarity becomes the standard by which I define the true identity of the Other. (2003: 48–49) 210

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Thus, the more ‘different’ and ‘exotic’ a cuisine is, the more ‘authentic’ and worthy it is deemed to be. However, it is also noteworthy that such novelty and exoticism have their limits. As Heldke describes: “We need to whittle the exotic down to size, so it isn’t too odd for us; we like our exoticism somewhat familiar, recognisable, controllable” (2003: 19). Thus, the unfamiliar and the exotic must not be overly unrecognisable, lest a cuisine become unappealing and overly foreign or different. Heldke terms this “domesticating the authentic” (2003: 19), and therefore, in food adventuring television programmes, the ‘exotic’ and ‘unfamiliar’ are always within the bounds and limits of what is considered the ‘norm’. In the same quote mentioned several paragraphs earlier (the opening sequence of each episode of Bizarre World), celebrity chef Andrew Zimmern also advocates “div[ing] face-first” into Other cuisines and cultures. This can be related to how Heldke describes food adventurers to be carrying out “cultural food colonialism” (2003: xviii) by assuming that they are “entitled to be anywhere and everywhere” (2003: 53). Food adventurers assume that they possess unlimited and unrestricted access to other cultures and cuisines. This colonising attitude ignores the fact that the food adventurer is an ‘outsider’ and might therefore not be welcome in such communities and cultures (Heldke 2003: 55). Thus, the food adventurer assumes that his or her presence is acceptable for the Other and that he or she has the right to explore and experience the Other’s cuisine and culture. Similarly, Zimmern also emphasises how there is a certain kind of authenticity and ‘realness’ to be found when he talks about his adventures as a foray into “what other people’s lives are really like”. ‘Authenticity’ is thus associated with what is deemed to be ‘real’ and seen to be ‘true’ – however, these are highly problematic terms, and ‘reality’ is a slippery and contestable term, for what is ‘true’ for one person, may not be so for another. Advocating a certain type or kind of reality is murky territory and does not hold true to the aims of showcasing the diverse cultures, food, and foodways of different communities and cultures around the world. Heldke does, however, propose a new kind of authenticity, which she terms “foodshed fidelity” (2003: 214). By the term foodshed, Heldke means to incorporate the entire process, community, and context behind the production and consumption of a cuisine, moving beyond a surface-deep image of an exotic or unfamiliar cuisine. According to Heldke, “[f]oodshed fidelity rejects authenticity understood as lockstep devotion to the way They do it ‘over there’” (2003: 215). Most importantly, she advocates a “personal authenticity” (Kivy cited in Heldke 2003: 215), as opposed to an ‘absolute’ authenticity which stresses ‘truthfulness’ and ‘faithfulness’ to a particular cuisine. “Foodshed fidelity” thus revises ‘authenticity’ as: not a fixed, immutable goal toward which we humans aim, but is itself under constant revision in light of new evidence, new understandings. Neither the goal nor the methods of attaining it are givens. They are achievements, the results of debate and discussion among members of the relevant community. (Heldke 2003: 215) Foodshed fidelity (Heldke 2003: 214) thus takes into account the diverse histories and multiplicities which a community possesses – for example, diasporic communities who modify their recipes and foodways in order to adapt to local conditions. Such a revised notion of ‘authenticity’ also considers the entire process of procuring and preparing a cuisine – for example, the difficulties in obtaining ingredients and the intricacies behind preparing and consuming a cuisine. Foodshed fidelity (Heldke 2003: 214) works beyond the surface-deep concept of authenticity as purity, truthfulness, faithfulness, novelty, or something located merely in the valorised notions 211

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of the past; instead, it considers a cuisine’s position in a particular context, space, and time, and recognises that there is no such thing as a real, true authenticity. Such a view turns away from the oft-committed mistake of freezing a particular culture, tradition, or community in a preferred, static image, often located in the past, and beyond necessary understanding or research into its history or context.

The commodified Other I shall now expand upon the conceptualisations of the Other which are inherent in the activities of food adventuring, that is, the commodified Other, who, in food adventuring programmes, has been turned into a cultural commodity which can be purchased, consumed, and experienced by the food adventurer. The commodified Other is a mystery waiting to be uncovered, like an unknown ‘ethnic’ restaurant tucked away in a remote corner of a town; a cultural resource which the food adventurer both literally and symbolically ‘feeds upon’ to nourish himself or herself (Heldke 2003: xxiii). As Heldke describes: [W]e [food adventurers] have our own ways of conceiving of the Other as a consumer commodity. . . . Adventurers transform the Other into a resource. . . . In short, we objectify the Other, in order that we may use them and their possessions (literal and figurative) to enhance our own lives – economically, culturally, socially. (2003: 48) This attitude of treating the Other as a cultural resource is what Heldke terms “cultural food colonialism” (2003: xvi), in which food adventurers assume that they have the right to explore the cuisines and cultures of the Other and that the Other is always available and consenting to such encounters (Heldke 2003: 53). The commodified Other in food adventuring activities is almost like a prize waiting to be won by the intrepid food adventurer – a trophy that can be displayed in the food adventurer’s trophy collection commemorating his or her adventurous, risk-taking attitude (Heldke 2003: xv). I will explore three aspects of the commodified Other: first, how the food adventurer takes it upon himself or herself to ‘uncover’ the hidden Other; second, the exoticisation of the Other through the use of essentialism, such as stereotypes and generalisations; and third, the mocking of the Other through the use of disrespectful, condescending language. These three aspects of the commodified Other are portrayed in Bourdain’s No Reservations (the opening sequence in every episode), Jamie Oliver’s Jamie’s American Road Trip (the opening sequence and Season One, Episode Three: New York), and Bobby Chinn’s World Café Asia (the opening sequence and episodes in Kuala Lumpur and Penang, episode numbers one and five, respectively).

Uncovering the hidden Other In food adventuring television programmes, the main aim of every episode – which features an expedition to a new location or culture – is to ‘uncover’ new culinary experiences and cultures which are underexposed or relatively unknown. This aim is thus carried out by the food adventurer or celebrity chef who is the host of the television programme. For example, the late celebrity chef Anthony Bourdain says in his programme No Reservations: “I’m hungry for more”. This emphatic line, uttered in the introductory scene of every episode of No Reservations, encapsulates the entire aim of food adventuring – that food adventurers are constantly “hungry for more”, that what they encounter and consume on a daily basis is inadequate and unfulfilling. This can 212

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be related to Heldke’s conceptualisation of food adventurers as people who believe themselves to have no culinary traditions or particular culture or race (Heldke 2003: xxi). Food adventurers thus conceive of themselves and their whiteness as boring and culture-less; hence, they venture out to find more interesting cultures and traditions, which can be found in the figure of the Other. Thus, Bourdain, a food adventurer, is “hungry for more”, and is all too willing and ready to experience other cultures and places in order to ‘consume’ them – both symbolically and literally. These culinary expeditions into other cultures and locations thus could be said to serve to satisfy his ‘hunger’ and to enhance his white palate, as bell hooks terms it, with “colorful Otherness” (1992: 21). In addition, the opening montage of images in No Reservations features Bourdain sliding across what appears to be an open expanse of frozen ice, skidding across the surface of the ice in brown leather boots – possibly signifying Bourdain’s fearless, do-or-die attitude and his readiness to encounter ‘unfamiliar’ experiences. Bourdain thus has “no reservations” about sliding across a surface of frozen ice, the same way he has no reservations about venturing out to ‘uncover’ the ‘unknown’,‘mysterious’ Other and to fulfil his “hung[er] for more”. These journeys and culinary adventures are thus challenges for the food adventurer – challenges of encountering difference and overcoming a fear of the ‘unknown’ Other. For example, food adventurers gain “cultural capital” (Bourdieu 1984: 13) when they consume exotic, unknown foods. In fact, the more exotic the food, the more “prestige” a food adventurer gains from the experience (Heldke 2003: 21), a further notch on his or her “foodie belt” (Heldke 2003: 80). Food adventurers thus “[collect] adventures – as one might collect ritual artifacts from another culture” (Heldke 2003: xv) in order to boost one’s own sense of achievement and accomplishment. Another celebrity chef who exemplifies the wanderlust and hunger of food adventurers in ‘uncovering’ the hidden Other is celebrity chef Jamie Oliver. His food and travel television programme, Jamie’s American Road Trip, was also broadcast on Discovery Networks Asia-Pacific’s Travel and Living Channel (TLC). Even though this programme focuses on America, I wish to draw attention to the specific imagery and choice of words portrayed in the introductory scenes of Jamie’s American Road Trip. Oliver starts by describing his reason behind travelling to America: Like many Brits, my first taste of America was being taken to Disneyworld as a kid. Twenty years on, I wanna get a real taste of the country that’s fascinated me ever since. And the only way I know how, is by cooking, tasting, and getting stuck into everything stateside. Raw and uncut, and without a guidebook, I’ll be on a one-man food quest, to be re-born in the US-of-A. By stating in this excerpt that he wants to get a “real taste” of America, Oliver is echoing the same sentiments which I discussed in the previous section of this chapter, that food adventurers are constantly chasing after an authentic and real experience. This can be related to what Allon terms “the experience industry” (2004: 56), in which economic goods are no longer the only commodities on sale; instead, experiences are being offered and sold to consumers who are hungry to consume more than just food. Even more so, the experiences that are on sale are packaged and presented as authentic experiences, which Oliver terms “[r]aw and uncut” and therefore seen as truthful representations of a ‘real’ America. These myths (Barthes 2000) of reality and authenticity are thus myths which are constantly emphasised and reiterated by food adventurers in their television programmes. Oliver is thus satisfying what he terms his “fascinat[ion]” with the ‘mysterious’ and ‘unknown’ America, the one which he has only known through Disneyland as a child. By going on his 213

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“one-man food quest”, Oliver exemplifies Heldke’s concept of the “food adventurer” (2003), uncovering and unearthing the hidden Other and satisfying his “fascinat[ion]” and desire “to get a real taste” of America. In fact, Oliver uses the exact word “quest”, in which Heldke states: “food adventuring is frequently described as a quest, and the food adventurer as an explorer; indeed, the rhetoric of the activity is often the rhetoric of conquest” (2003: xxiii). There is also a series of particular images which reify Oliver’s “quest” and adventure across ‘unknown’ lands. This series of images accompany Oliver’s statements noted earlier, a similar image which appears three times in less than a minute, interspersed amongst several other images: that which appears to be a Jeep or a four-wheel-drive vehicle driving across a desert. As viewers, we would assume that it is Jamie driving the vehicle, and we are given an extreme long shot of the vehicle, which appears tiny against a backdrop of towering desert mountains and an expanse of barren landscape. This series of images, which appears three times, unlike any other image which is not repeated, seems to signify Oliver’s true quest and adventurous spirit in blazing across desert sand dunes and exploring barren, ‘unknown’, and ‘mysterious’ landscapes like America’s deserts and rural areas. Furthermore, in the introductory scenes of Jamie’s American Road Trip, Oliver emphasises phrases such as “raw and uncut”, “without a guidebook”, and “one-man food quest”, further drawing upon the myth (Barthes 2000) and romanticised imagery of the lone traveller who overcomes all odds and challenges which are thrown at him; which, in this case, would refer to the food adventurer’s overcoming the strangeness and unknown danger of the exotic Other and his or her culture and the foreign lands he or she inhabits. Besides that, such imagery of the “one-man food quest” reinforces Heldke’s assertion that food adventuring is a primarily masculine activity – even if a food adventurer is female – characterised by quests and expeditions into the unknown (2003: xxiii). Similarly, “the rhetoric of conquest” (Heldke 2003: xxiii) also characterises the language of food adventuring and thus reifies its masculine nature, which celebrity chef Oliver has emphasised in his particular usage of phrases such as “oneman food quest”. It is also important to note that Oliver has expressed the desire to be “re-born in the US-of-A”. This quasi-spiritual experience can be seen in other food adventuring programmes as well, such as Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservation, and Andrew Zimmern’s Bizarre World. In these programmes, the white food adventurer proclaims a desire to be “re-born”, a baptism or resurrection of sorts, through his or her encounter with the exotic Other. Thus, once again, it is the Self who benefits from encounters with the Other; as Heldke states: “it is about us” in the end (2003: 48) and the food adventurer’s achievement and accomplishment at having uncovered and discovered the hidden Other, primarily for his or her own enrichment and benefit. Thus, in this section, I have shown how food adventuring is seen as a quest undertaken by the food adventurer, an expedition in which the aim is to uncover the hidden Other – much like uncovering hidden treasure – and to uncover truths such as the real and authentic experience. By treating the Other as a cultural commodity in which he or she can gain cultural capital (Bourdieu 1984:), food adventurers also commodify the Other by assuming that the Other is a resource which he or she has the right to purchase and consume, anytime and anywhere (Heldke 2003: 53). The commodified Other is similarly turned into a commodity by way of the food adventurer treating encounters with the Other as experiences which will enhance his or her identity and status. Like a notch on the food adventurer’s “foodie belt” (Heldke 2003: 80), the commodified Other is reduced to a resource which the food adventurer draws upon to enhance himself or herself. This exoticisation of the Other is hereby the focus of the next section, where I discuss how the Other is exoticised through images and words which essentialise, that is, which misrepresent and elide difference and multiplicities. 214

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Exoticising the Other In the television programme, World Café Asia, this exoticisation of the Other is starkly apparent in the ways in which food personality and restauranteur Bobby Chinn talks about the Other and attempts to cook and re-create the local dishes of a country. Bobby Chinn is an interesting figure to analyse, as he is ethnically Egyptian-Chinese whose restaurants are based in Vietnam. I suggest that his television persona acts in a manner similar to the Euro-American Self as expounded upon earlier, even though he is not Euro-American in ethnicity or nationality. His food and travel television programmes tend to be unpredictable and also shocking and insulting in some ways, as Chinn does not abide by rules or scripts and tends to be disrespectful whenever he feels a certain way about a particular dish, country, or culture. However, before I offer examples of scenes where Chinn does not abide by proper etiquette rules, I would like to take a detailed look at the introductory scene in Chinn’s television programme, World Café Asia. This is one of Chinn’s television programmes which he hosts, alongside World Café Middle East and Bobby Chinn Cooks Asia. The opening sequence of images features essentialised images of Asia and its culinary traditions, such as hawker vendors, people in Vietnamese cone hats, a wok, a Buddha statue, chopsticks, claypots, palm trees, and dim sum baskets. These images are all animated – an interesting fact which can be related to Baudrillard’s notion of “simulacra” and the “hyperreal” (1983, 1994) where: the disappearance of objects in their very representation [is the] hyperreal. Therein objects shine in a sort of hyperresemblance (like history in contemporary cinema) that makes it so that fundamentally they no longer resemble anything, except the empty figure of resemblance, the empty form of representation. It is a question of life or death: these objects are no longer either living or deadly. That is why they are exact, so minute, frozen in the state in which a brutal loss of the real would have seized them. (emphasis mine; Baudrillard 1994: 45) Thus, the usage of animated images in order to represent Asia exoticises the figure of the Other even more, as those images can be seen as empty and frozen signifiers which only serve to represent but never to mean anything more than a surface-deep, one-dimensional representation. Of course, I propose that there is also the possibility that the director or the producers of World Café Asia could not find real images of people or places which were authentic enough – thus the need for animated images, which suggests even more how those images are supposed to present a version of manufactured authenticity or reality. Most importantly, these images in the opening sequence of World Café Asia are all images which signify either a rural quality – through the hawker vendors and Vietnamese cone hats – or tradition and a sense of the past which has been carried on to the present day, for example, through the images of the wok, chopsticks, and dim sum baskets. This essentialisation of Asia is questionable, as these images do not represent the other cultures and culinary traditions of the other countries contained within the larger continent of Asia, for example, Indonesia and the Philippines. Furthermore, I contend that this erasure and selective filtering of difference further contributes to the exoticisation of the Other – that the Asian Other has been reduced to a selective representation of images which, in reality, might not represent him or her and their respective culture or way of life. The deliberate focus on images which signify the past and the rural are also exoticising as they lock the figure of the Other in an image of a Romantic, authentic past. In addition, such images of rural and traditional Asia reinforce binaries and inherent power structures, for example: West/East, developed/undeveloped, modern/backward, civilised/uncivilised. 215

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In privileging such images, Chinn’s television programme indirectly tells viewers to expect a version of ‘Asia’ synonymous with the past, and concepts such as rural, undeveloped, and authentic. Similarly, the exoticised Other is also apparent in the choice of locations which are featured in World Café Asia episodes. In the Kuala Lumpur episode (season one, episode one), Chinn states: “Fancy nightclubs and restaurants line the streets, but I’m going for something more authentic. This is Jalan Alor: the street stalls seen here offer some of the best food in KL”. Thus, Chinn demonstrates how he is a food adventurer by announcing his quest for the authentic and by frequenting places which will supposedly offer a more real and authentic feel of a country. True Asia, according to Bobby Chinn, is therefore not modern or progressive, but permanently rooted in the past and can only be truly found in authentic manifestations of culture such as night markets, street vendors, and anything non-commercialised and non-modern. However, one could argue that Jalan Alor is the street on which authenticity is performed for tourists, hence begging the question, what is really true, and therefore the real Malaysia or Kuala Lumpur? Chinn also frequently visits places where there are performances of authenticity – for example, the Peranakan Museum in the Penang episode (a heritage site which symbolises the Peranakan culture and community in Penang – refer to glossary) and the Dragon Boat Festival in the Kuala Lumpur episode. For Chinn, Asia is thus exotic, a playground of culture and a microcosm of authenticity – a Disneyland of performed and simulated authenticity (Baudrillard 1983: 23) in which such performances exoticise the Other and remove him or her from contemporary time and space. This form of manufactured authenticity is crafted for the “tourist gaze” (Urry 2002), which is hungry for supposedly authentic and real experiences. Thus, the figure of the commodified Other, in the hands of the “food coloniser” (Heldke 2003), becomes nothing more than a signifier for authenticity (Heldke 2003: 27; Barthes 2000), a “hyperreal” image (Baudrillard 1983, 1994), and one which is surface-deep and serves only to please and enhance the food adventurer. The format of World Café Asia is similar in every episode: Chinn tries his hand at cooking at least two or three local dishes in each, and it is the manner in which he cooks them which exemplifies Heldke’s “food colonialism” (2003). For example, in the episode in which Chinn visits the island of Penang in Malaysia, he prepares ‘carabu’ salad – a rather glaring error in the spelling of the name of the dish, which is supposed to be ‘kerabu’ salad – a vegetable and fruit salad containing local ingredients and flavours (see the glossary). Chinn prepares this salad in the midst of a bustling local market with no local guide by his side. Most importantly, he does not acknowledge the source of the recipe and performs as though he is the originator of and expert on the dish, pronouncing it to be “very simple to make: it’s hot; it’s spicy; it’s refreshing; it’s got a little twist to it”. After he has finished preparing the salad, he goes around the market, offering it to locals to taste, even asking one of them if they want the recipe. Chinn pays no acknowledgment to the original recipe which he obtained, as it would be obvious that he would have needed to obtain a recipe from somewhere or someone local. He demonstrates food colonialist behaviour by appropriating local recipes and passing them off as his own because he does not acknowledge the history or source of the recipe (Heldke 2003: xviii). Even if such recipes had been modified by inhabitants of a community, and its originator is thus impossible to track down (Heldke 2003: 129), Chinn could still have mentioned the particular community which favours the dish or elaborated more on the way the dish is commonly prepared and consumed. The figure of the Other and the community at hand are thus removed from their context and history in World Café Asia and are depicted only through generalising terms such as hot, spicy, and refreshing Asian flavours. By reproducing versions of such Asian dishes, Chinn is also demonstrating a food colonialist attitude by treating the Other’s cuisine as “a resource which [he] may mine, harvest, develop, exploit, or otherwise utilize” (Heldke 2003: 47). By cooking such dishes, and without local guides 216

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by his side, for example, in the ‘carabu’ salad scene in Penang, Chinn demonstrates colonising behaviour in the way that he assumes that he has the right to re-work and re-present a local dish. Chinn thus treats the ingredients as “raw materials awaiting refinement at the more capable hands and minds of colonizers” (Heldke 2003: 47), because he does not accord acknowledgment of the recipe and presents the dish as what he has cooked, thus that which has originated from him. As Heldke states, colonialist attitudes have always assumed that the culture of the Other is inferior to theirs, that it is not a “full” culture (2003: 53) worthy of recognition; therefore, it needs refinement and redevelopment. Most importantly, food colonialists operate on the condescending assumption that food “adventurers develop a cuisine simply by eating it and appreciating it” (Heldke 2003: 53). Viewers are thus coaxed into accepting that Chinn is demonstrating to them how to cook a local dish – he is the expert, he is the authority (due also to the fact that he is a professional chef and restauranteur), even though he is, in reality, an ‘outsider’ to the culture and cuisine. There are more examples of such scenes in episodes from Chinn’s food and travel television shows such as Bobby Chinn Cooks Asia. Lastly, by not including a local guide, Chinn reduces the chances of gaining a better understanding of the local culture and community. The divide between Self and Other is further highlighted, and there are no attempts to redefine the figure of the exotic Other by presenting the Other in a more contextually and historically situated manner. Chinn’s relationships with the people whom he meets on his food adventures are fleeting, and they do not go beyond the mere surface depth of food and the procurement and preparation of local dishes. The final section of this chapter will showcase how food adventurers mock the Other through the use of disrespectful and condescending language.

Mocking the Other Food adventuring can also reveal complex underlying attitudes, beliefs, and prejudices about different cultures, ethnicities, and nationalities. Often, celebrity chefs or food personalities on these food adventuring programmes let slip certain backhanded compliments, or even direct insults shrouded in the guise of sarcastic comments. One such example is Jamie Oliver on Jamie’s American Road Trip, when he visits Chinatown in New York (Season One, Episode Three) and says: I’ve been to Chinatown in Manhattan, and, and, you know, if you know which ones to go to, you can eat very, very well, but I think what’s beautiful about this is it’s just, it seems to be more vibrant, a bit cruder, and you know, a lot of these people don’t even speak English at all. So they’re like, it’s just, it’s like a little microcosm. For Oliver, the Other in New York’s Chinatown is, in his own words, “crude” and paradoxically “beautiful” precisely because of that crudeness. The charm of the Other thus lies in his or her being uncivilised and not being able to speak English, and Oliver, a white man, exhibits Orientalist tendencies of reinforcing the binaries between ‘West/East’, ‘Us/Them’, and ‘civilized/ uncivilized’ (Said 1995: 7) when he offers up this backhanded compliment about Chinatown in New York. This can be related to Chow’s critique of “Western anthropologists [who] are uneasy at seeing ‘natives’ who have gone ‘civilized’” (1994: 125), thus the need to “archaize” the native (1994: 126) in order to freeze him or her into static frames of reference located in the past. Hence, the Chinese Other in New York’s Chinatown is ‘authentic’ to Oliver precisely because he or she has stayed in his or her place, that is, has remained archaized, both physically in what he terms their “little microcosm” and in the fact that they cannot speak English. Of course, Oliver sees this place as ‘pure’ and ‘untainted’, so he tries to deliver his comment in a more nuanced way by 217

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describing it as beautiful. However, this particular strategy of exoticising the Other and offering backhanded compliments is a strategy of exoticism by way of compliments. This can be related to what Barthes states about exoticism: [E]xoticism here shows well its fundamental justification, which is to deny any identification by History. By appending to Eastern realities a few positive signs which mean ‘native’, one reliably immunises them against any responsible content. A little ‘situating’, as superficial as possible, supplies the necessary alibi and exempts one from accounting for the situation in depth. Faced with anything foreign, the Established Order knows only two types of behaviour, which are both mutilating: either to acknowledge it as a Punch and Judy show, or to defuse it as a pure reflection of the West. (Barthes 2000: 96) I contend that Oliver’s backhanded compliment about Chinatown in New York being beautiful is a strategy to defuse what he says about the Chinese community in New York’s Chinatown being crude and uncivilised because they do not speak English. In actual fact, Oliver is merely re-positioning the exotic Other in his or her place – crucially, however, the exotic Other remains where he or she is supposed to be, in their “native frames” (Chow 1994: 126). In addition, Chinn’s World Café Asia is another clear example of the mockery of the Other. In the Penang episode (season one, episode five), Chinn is in a mamak restaurant learning how to make roti canai (a popular flatbread dish which can be found in many Indian eateries in Malaysia). Chinn suddenly reproaches the man next to him who is teaching him how to make the dish, saying “that’s a linen shirt, buddy”, warning him to be careful not to touch his “linen shirt” with the bread dough. Chinn then goes on to say: “I think you gave me defective dough, I think that’s what this is about” when he fails at the task of making the bread. I suggest that for Chinn, admitting his own failures on camera was not what he wanted to do, so he conveniently blamed it on his local guide. Furthermore, when making teh tarik (a hot tea drink, by ‘pulling’ the liquid from two cups positioned at opposing heights), Chinn disrespectfully spills the tea onto the floor, does not apologise, and continues pouring the tea in a haphazard fashion, making a mess on the floor. He then says: “I’m outta here” and exits the room. The clear disrespect that Bobby Chinn displays in his television programme is indicative of what he thinks of the Other – that they are only cultural resources which are readily available at his convenience. Chinn’s disrespect by saying “I’m outta here” is also indicative of the food coloniser’s attitude and the assumption of his right “to be anywhere and everywhere” (Heldke 2003: 53), coming and going at his own convenience, regardless of whether the Other is open to such encounters or not. Chinn also offers a sarcastic comment with regard to the food hawker stall vendors in Penang. He says matter of factly: “To become a hawker is simple, learn a dish, perfect it, add your own unique twist to it, set up a cart, and voila! You become another member of the Penang hawker army”. The fact that Chinn downplays the hardships and challenges of the life of a hawker vendor is more evidence of his mockery of the Other: that “becom[ing] a hawker is simple” when in fact, the working conditions of hawkers demand long hours and hard work. He also shouts at a hawker stall vendor who ignores him, saying: “Hullo! NI HAO MA [How are you?!]! One or-dah [order]!” Chinn then says in an aside to the camera, “You’d think the British would have invented a queueing system here, but not in the Chinatown area”. By both mocking and insulting the Chinese language, Chinn goes one step further to insult Chinatown and the uncivilised nature of its patrons who do not know how to queue or take orders, even when they were formerly colonised by the British. Thus, according to Chinn, 218

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Chinatown is so primitive that it has not even adopted ‘Western’ concepts such as the “queuing system”. Chinn thus mocks the Other in order to reinstate his position of superiority and to reemphasise the binaries of Self/Other, West/East, and civilised/uncivilised. He therefore acts as though he is the expert “chef and restauranteur” (as he calls himself in the introduction to his television shows) and the people he encounters on his food and travel trips are merely Others who deserve little to no respect and acknowledgment.

Eating with the Other In these selected episodes and scenes of popular food adventuring television programmes, I hope to have offered a sustained analysis of the often unequal and imbalanced relationship between the Self and Other, particularly in the examples of celebrity chef Bobby Chinn’s portrayal and consumption of the cultures of Kuala Lumpur and Penang in Malaysia. Celebrity chefs and television personalities such as Andrew Zimmern, Anthony Bourdain, and Jamie Oliver also reify the concept of the cultural food coloniser (Heldke 2003) because of the ways in which they set out to discover and uncover different food cultures and communities. If this act of food adventuring was done in a more nuanced, culturally sensitive, and genuine manner, such problems of essentialisation and commodification of the Other would occur less and with more public awareness that consuming food should not mean consuming the Other person’s ability to speak for themselves and their historically situated lives and cultures. However, I acknowledge that the Other is not always a passive and submissive figure whom allows himself or herself to be exoticised and commodified. In fact, MacCannell’s concept of “staged authenticity” (1973: 595) asserts that the Other also plays a part in that which I have termed the ‘performance of authenticity’, that both the Self and the Other are in on this game and staging of authenticity (Kong 2011). Thus, the Other is not always at the losing end of the encounter, and he or she is not always passively exoticised and commodified. I acknowledge also that encounters between Self and Other are not always negative and inherently strife with imbalanced power relations and binaries. In fact, such experiences with the Other may actually affect the food adventurer in positive ways and transform the Self to encourage a more equitable “feasting with the Other” instead of “feasting on the Other” (Kong 2011). Nonetheless, it is with this chapter that I wish to elaborate upon the ways in which Other cultures and culinary ways of life can be misrepresented and misunderstood through the activities of food adventuring and its requisite quest for the new, the authentic, and the exotic. Encountering and consuming Others’ cultures and cuisines should, and must, be done in a more respectful, well-researched, and fair manner which takes into account the Other’s lived history and the particular time and space which they inhabit, not as a mere artefact or commodity to be consumed and purchased by intrepid, ‘hungry’ travellers.

Bibliography Abarca, M.E. (2004) “Authentic or Not, It’s Original”, Food & Foodways, 12(1): 1–25. Adema, P. (2004) “Vicarious Comsumption [sic]: Food, Television and the Ambiguity of Modernity”, Journal of American & Comparative Cultures, 23(3): 113–123. Allon, F. (2004) “Backpacker Heaven: The Consumption and Construction of Tourist Spaces and Landscapes in Sydney”, Space & Culture, 7(1): 49–63. Barthes, R. (2000) Mythologies. Translated from French by A. Lavers. New York: Hill and Wang. Baudrillard, J. (1983) Simulations. Translated from French by P. Foss, P. Patton, and P. Beitchman. New York: Semiotext[e]. Baudrillard, J. (1994) Simulacra and Simulation. Translated from French by Sheila Faria Glaser. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press.

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Jacqui Kong Bell, D.; Valentine, G. (1997) Consuming Geographies: We Are Where We Eat. London: Routledge. Bourdieu, P. (1984) Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste. Translated from French by R. Nice. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Briand, C. (2008) “The Performance of the Meal in 17th-century French Travel Accounts to New France: From Hospitality to Hybridity”, Food, Culture & Society, 11(2): 219–224. Chan, A. (2003) “‘La grande bouffe’: Cooking Shows as Pornography”, Gastronomica, 3(4): 47–53. Chow, R. (1994) “Where Have All the Natives Gone?”, in A. Bammer (ed.), Displacements: Cultural Identities in Question. Bloomington: University of Indiana Press, pp. 125–151. Counihan, C.; Van Esterik, P. (2008) Food and Culture: A Reader, 2nd edition. New York: Routledge. Davis, N. (2002) “To Serve ‘The Other’: Chinese-American Immigrants in the Restaurant Business”, Journal for the Study of Food and Society, 6(1): 70–81. Duruz, J. (2005) “Eating at the Borders: Culinary Journeys”, Environment and Planning D: Society and Space, 23(1): 51–69. Girardelli, D. (2004) “Commodified Identities: The Myth of Italian Food in the United States”, Journal of Communication Inquiry, 28(4): 307–324. Hansen, S. (2008) “Society of the Appetite: Celebrity Chefs Deliver Consumers”, Food, Culture & Society, 11(1): 49–67. Heldke, L.M. (2003) Exotic Appetites: Ruminations of a Food Adventurer. New York: Routledge. hooks, B. (1992) Black Looks: Race and Representation. Boston: South End Press. Hyman, G. (2008) “The Taste of Fame: Chefs, Diners, Celebrity, Class”, Gastronomica: The Journal of Food and Culture, 8(3): 43–52. Illouz, E. (2009) “Emotions, Imagination, and Consumption: A New Research Agenda”, Journal of Consumer Culture, 9(3): 377–413. Ketchum, C. (2005) “The Essence of Cooking Shows: How the Food Network Constructs Consumer Fantasies”, Journal of Communication Inquiry, 29(3): 217–234. Kong, J. (2011). “Feasting with the ‘Other’: Transforming the Self in Food Adventuring Television Programs”, Asian American Literature: Discourses and Pedagogies, 2: 45–56. Lash, S.; Urry, J. (1994) Economies of Signs and Spaces. London: Sage Publications Ltd. Lau, L. (2007) “Re-Orientalism: The Perpetration and Development of Orientalism by Orientals”, Modern Asian Studies, 43(2): 571–590. Long, L.M. (2004) “Culinary Tourism: A Folkloristic Perspective on Eating and Otherness”, in L.M. Long (ed.), Culinary Tourism. Lexington: The University Press of Kentucky, pp. 20–50. MacCannell, D. (1973) “Staged Authenticity: Arrangements of Social Space in Tourist Settings”, The American Journal of Sociology, 79(3): 589–603. Mehmetoglu, M.; Olsen, K. (2003) “Talking Authenticity: What Kind of Experiences Do Solitary Travelers in the Norwegian Lofoten Islands Regard as Authentic?”, Tourism, Culture & Communication, 4(3): 137–152. Molz, J.G. (2007) “Eating Difference: The Cosmopolitan Mobilities of Culinary Tourism”, Space and Culture, 10(1): 77–93. Mosley, D.M. (2004) “Baking Bread: The Roles of Taste in Colonialism”, Food, Culture & Society, 7(2): 49–62. Ruiz, V.L. (2008) “Citizen Restaurant: American Imaginaries, American Communities”, American Quarterly, 60(1): 1–21. Said, E. (1995) Orientalism. London: Penguin Books. Shields-Argeles, C. (2004) “Imagining the Self and the Other: Food and Identity in France and the United States”, Food, Culture & Society, 7(2): 13–28. Turgeon, L.; Pastinelli, M. (2002) “‘Eat the World’: Postcolonial Encounters in Quebec City’s Ethnic Restaurants”, Journal of American Folklore, 115(456): 247–268. Urry, J. (2002) The Tourist Gaze, 2nd edition. London: Sage Publications Ltd.

Media texts Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations – Laos (2008) [TV] Season Four, Episode Eleven. United States of America: Travel Channel. Bizarre World with Andrew Zimmern – Kalahari Desert (2009) [TV] Season One, Episode Three. United States of America: Travel Channel.

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Feasting on ‘the Other’ Jamie’s American Road Trip – New York (2009) [TV] Season One, Episode Three. United States of America: Travel Channel. World Café Asia [with Bobby Chinn] – Kuala Lumpur (2006) [TV] Season One, Episode One. United States of America: Travel Channel. World Café Asia [with Bobby Chinn] – Penang (2006) [TV] Season One, Episode Five. United States of America: Travel Channel.

Glossary Belachan Shrimp paste Jalan Local Malay name for ‘road’ Kerabu salad A fresh sweet-sour-salty-pungent blend of shredded/julienned vegetables and fruits (usually mango/cucumber) mixed together with a lime/fish sauce/belachan dressing Mamak Ethnic Indians who have converted to the Muslim faith either by choice or by marriage; the term can also refer to the popular local food stalls or eateries that are established and run by groups of Indian Muslims Peranakan A diverse community of the descendants of Chinese immigrants who married local Malay Malaysians in this context, giving birth to a whole new set of cultures, community, and traditions Roti canai A type of Indian flatbread served with a side of curry sauce or dal (a type of lentil stew) Teh tarik Literal translation meaning ‘pulled tea’. A hot/cold drink made from tea mixed with milk – the tea is transferred by pouring from one cup to another, from right hand to the left, and repeating the process, in order to ‘pull’ the tea, to aerate it and make it foamy and light

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16 ‘SAUCE IN THE BOWL, NOT ON YOUR SHIRT’ Food pedagogy and aesthetics in Vietnamese ethnic food tours to Cabramatta, Sydney Rick Flowers and Elaine Swan

Introduction Cabramatta is one of the jewels in Sydney – promoted as ‘A Day Trip to Asia’, this is exactly what you get, a whirl of colour and many languages, shops with exotic fruits and vegetables piled high, tastes of many authentic dishes. Our safaris are guided by experts who live in the area and are proud to show off their Vietnamese heritage, bringing us to their ‘finds’ – down little alleyways and tucked into the back of shopping areas. We visit on a Sunday when there is also a thriving unofficial market of people selling herbs and chopped lemongrass, dragonfruit and cured pork. A unique and inspiring place!

Highlights • • • • •

Our guides familiarise you with this wonderful suburb, sharing all the best places you’ll want to come back to. Start with a brunch of Banh Xeo – pancake filled with prawns and pork and many herbs – PLUS late lunch! Experience many tastes from roast pork and crackling to heavenly tropical fruit and wild colourful desserts Get all the ingredients you’ll need to create your own Vietnamese banquet at home Learn to eat like a local and where to get the best fabrics, cooking pots, and enjoy Vietnamese coffee. (Gourmet Safaris website, accessed March 2017)

We start our chapter with this quote taken from the website for Gourmet Safaris, an ethnic food tour company, because it illustrates how tourism aestheticises Vietnamese food and Cabramatta in southwestern Sydney. Rather than marketing representations, however, we explore how guides teach food aesthetics to tourees. In particular, we draw on our analysis of a tour called Vietnamese Gourmet Food Safaris. Thirty kilometres southwest from inner Sydney, Cabramatta is marketed variously as ‘Asia in Sydney’, ‘Vietnamatta’ and the ‘gateway to Saigon’. It has a 68% migrant 222

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population and this includes the highest concentration of Lao, Vietnamese, Khmer – some ethnically Chinese – migrants in Australia, totalling around 40,000 (Gwyther 2008; Carruthers 2008). Most arrived in the 1970s and 1980s as refugees in the wake of the second Indochina War. Initially, they were housed in hostels in Cabramatta. This was mainly because in the twentieth century Cabramatta had become a migrant transition zone for British, German, Greek, Italian and Yugoslav migrants. And eventually, the Vietnamese settled here. In the first 20 years of their arrival, high percentages of Vietnamese were unemployed and under-employed. Whilst problems continue to be entrenched, by the 1990s a new professional class of Vietnamese Australian doctors, lawyers and accountants emerged (Carruthers 2008). The arrival of Indochinese refugees challenged the Australian identity and the Australian suburb (Gwyther 2008). They ‘unwittingly confronted the suburban status quo through their concentrated settlement patterns’, Asian appearance and their cultural practices, from language, to religion, to their use of non-English shop signage, a sensitive issue in Sydney’s west in the 1980s (Gwyther 2008: 68). But these were the very features they turned to touristic advantage. Thus, Anglo-Australian and non-Indochinese tourists have been attracted to Cabramatta’s temples; religious festivals; Chinese gates; Vietnamese, Lao and Khmer restaurants; grocers; gold and fabric stores since the 1980s (Dreher 2006; Meagher 1998). But tensions mounted between media-sponsored racist and more cosmopolitan touristic perceptions of Cabramatta. The media played a large part in promoting fears about an exotic Vietnamese criminality. After ‘intense media scrutiny of youth gangs, drug dealing, shootings and murder’, tourism numbers dropped off in the 1990s (Dreher 2006). Cabramatta was seen as a Vietnamese ghetto – threatening, Other, deviant, foreign, ugly and dangerous; the ‘heroin capital of Australia’; ‘infested’ by Vietnamese drug crime, violence and gangs (Dreher 2006; Gywther 2008). Over 20 years, Vietnamese small businesses, the Chamber of Commerce and Fairfield Council worked to market Cabramatta as a cultural culinary tourism destination (Brook 2008). In 1998, Fairfield Council commissioned a video entitled Cabramatta: A New Story which proclaimed that ‘bringing tourists to Cabramatta clearly helps to break down racial barriers and misperceptions about the area and its people’ (Dunn & Roberts 2006: 201). From the start, the tourism strategy profiled food and food businesses, and in 1998, tourism authorities commissioned prominent Australian Malaysian food writer and chef Carol Selvarajah to lead food tours in Cabramatta. Over 1,000 people participated in the tours in two years (Meagher 1998). The New South Wales government and local businesses renewed their tourism strategy to ‘revitalise’ Cabramatta. In 1999, they produced a brochure showcasing restaurants, shops and recipes, promoted by a direct mail campaign to clubs, coach operators, schools and special interest groups and distributed by Vogue Living and Australian Gourmet Traveller (Meagher 1998). In the 2000s, food and tourism media heralded Cabramatta as a ‘gourmand destination’. In 2001, Gourmet Safaris established their food tours, run several times each year since then. In 2014, the council, in consultation with the local Chamber of Commerce and individual restaurateurs, launched a campaign to promote ‘signature dishes’ of local restaurants. The campaign was backed up with brochures, posters and social media coverage advertising local restaurants and ‘signature dishes’. Our chapter focuses on the work of the culinary tour guides. Their work matters because ethnic culinary tourism is promoted as a major driver of economic and cultural regeneration of racialised suburbs (Santos, Belhassen & Caton 2008). The extent to which culinary tourism addresses deep-seated structural and racist problems in Cabramatta is, however, greatly exaggerated, signalled, for instance, by a newspaper headline in the Sydney Morning Herald: ‘Food tourism transforming western Sydney communities’ (Kembrey 2014). In particular, we study the pedagogical work of the guides. To date, little scholarly attention has been paid to food pedagogy in culinary tourism. That said, there are food studies theorists 223

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who analyse taste education and the shaping of taste in various cultural domains from restaurants, to food festivals, to food media (Macdonald 2007, 2013a, 2013b; Ray 2007, 2011, 2014, 2016a, 2016b; de Solier 2005, 2013; Flowers & Swan 2015, 2016). Using concepts such as ‘pedagogues’, ‘televisual taste education’ and ‘gastronomic education’, these scholars interrogate the influence of food media and experts on shopping, cooking and eating practices, as well as their gendered and classed politics. Few, however, examine the implications of race, racialised food or racialised suburbs and the significance of racially minoritised food workers in structuring the taste of dominant groups. An important exception is Krishnendu Ray who, across his body of work, insists that racially minoritised restaurateurs – particularly from Indian and Pakistani backgrounds – mould the aesthetic and palatal taste of the largely white middle classes in New York City and their understanding of ethnic food. In insisting on the agency and influence of minoritised food workers, Ray’s study forms part of a wider project in food and tourism studies to valorise minoritised food work, both in the past (Leong-Salobir 2011) and today (Bunten 2008; Drew 2011; Hage 1997; Narayan 1997). Ray does not use the concept of pedagogy, but we interpret his use of terms such as the ‘shaping’ and ‘influencing’ of taste as evidence of the operation of food pedagogies. We are not saying that all restaurateurs set out to ‘teach’ their customers. But sometimes the effect is that customers learn from their work, both formally and informally. Accordingly, we apply Ray’s analysis to the case study of the work of two expert tour guides, Angie Hong and Peter Ngyugen. We extend his theory in several ways. First, we study a different occupational group – food tour guides as opposed to restaurateurs; second, we focus specifically on Vietnamese not South Asian food; and third, we shift geographical attention to Sydney with its specific Australian Asian racialisation processes. It is much clearer that tour guides are in the job of formal education compared to restaurateurs, although we suggest they enact informal education. Hence, the ethnic tour organisations in Sydney we study seek to educate participants, residents and even the media about ethnicised culture, racism and migrant histories (Flowers & Swan 2015; Swan & Flowers 2018). Their pedagogical work has to be sophisticated, given that Cabramatta occupies such an infamous place in the Australian white imaginary, persistently represented in racist ways as dangerous, insular and secretive (SBS 2012; Carruthers 2008; Dreher 2006). Furthermore, the work of the ethnic tour guides challenges the scholarly and popular assumption that minoritised migrant food workers are not interested in taste or beauty as Ray asserts. The guides educate tourists in how to shop, taste, eat and comport themselves, and in so doing tourists can learn to appreciate Vietnamese food as sophisticated, complex and skilled. It is not just ‘cheap food’ as often portrayed in the media. In this way, they counter racist stereotypes about food and culture and offer alternative representations of Cabramatta. Representations of ethnic food matter because they are often depoliticised, racist and overly celebratory, and reproduce social, political, economic and symbolic inequalities (Santos, Belhassen & Caton 2008). Alternative representations can challenge long-standing racism, and indeed, there has been a long history of local communities and businesses changing how people view Cabramatta (Dreher 2006). To make our argument, we structure the chapter as follows. First, we provide an overview of writing on taste education and food aesthetics; second, we introduce the tours and guides; and third, we discuss food aesthetics and taste education on the food tour.

Gastronomic education and food aesthetics In the following three sections, we introduce key scholars – Isabelle de Solier, Ken MacDonald and Krishnendu Ray. All three foreground food aesthetics and the politics of food expertise when theorising taste education. Whilst authors such as Carol Korsmeyer (2002) and Emily 224

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Brady (2012) are well known for their writing on food and aesthetics, these three scholars bring an analysis of aesthetics together with food pedagogy. We start with de Solier’s study of ‘gastronomic education’: how ‘foodies’ learn culturally legitimated food knowledge informally or formally from material media (2005, 2013). She moves beyond broad assertions about foodies’ learning of taste to highlight the range and types of food knowledges that make up gastronomic education. For example, it might be expected that food pedagogies in the media offer knowledge mostly about the material production of food and practical culinary skills. But de Solier stresses that the curriculum extends beyond these. Hence, gastronomic education encompasses aesthetic knowledge from how to flavour and style food; consumption knowledge about restaurants, chefs, cuisines, ingredients, producers and suppliers; and historical anthropological knowledge about food practices of cultural groups (2013: 49). In essence, she suggests that chefs provide production knowledge, while critics and food writers provide consumption knowledge. Foodies value the credentialised food expertise of haute cuisine chefs but also ‘traditional knowledge’ from uncredentialled family-taught chefs (2013: 63). Indeed, foodies admire traditional knowledge for its lack of professionalised skills and for being handed down through the generations: ‘cuisine as craft, not art (as in haute cuisine)’ (ibid). Overall, her work responds to a hoary question in food and media studies of whether television cooking educates viewers. Her argument is that yes, ‘televisual taste education’ does teach viewers, and not only practical and aesthetical knowledge but indeed goes further to inculcate ideologies of gender, class, ethnicity and nationality (2005: 479). To take an example, de Solier argues that culinary television teaches the aestheticisation of food. To illustrate she discusses the television programme Rockpool Sessions, presented by Australian chef Neil Perry, who teaches home cooks how to prepare the most elite form of restaurant cuisine using the practical culinary knowledge of haute cuisine recipes and techniques. But the programme additionally promotes knowledge about the aesthetics of food: from flavour aesthetics such as smell, visual appearance and presentation, all of which valorise the form of food over its function of feeding and nutrition. Accordingly, gastronomic education attends to two layers of meaning to food: its sensory properties and its stylistic properties. Thus, viewers can learn about the practical knowledge of cookery skills and the aesthetic culinary capital defined by TV chefs and critics, informed by culturally legitimate systems of food taste to aestheticise their domestic cooking.

Pedagogical entrepreneurs and aesthetic registers Whilst de Solier’s research identifies the variety of knowledges in gastronomic education and their elite food aesthetics, MacDonald’s ethnography of taste education (2007, 2013a, 2013b) focuses on one ingredient, ‘fine’ cheese, but across various ‘instructive sites’ (2013b: 304). In particular, he examines the taste practices of ‘pedagogical entrepreneurs’ and institutions from a maître de fromagers to a Cheese Museum in Gruyere, and a Slow Food Cheese Festival. His analysis focuses on pedagogues’ ‘practices of qualification’ (2013b: 296), by which he means the cultural practices through which brokers communicate specific meanings about cheese so that consumers create an affective relation to ‘fine’ cheese and change their cheese-buying habits. His focus is on the pedagogy of connoisseurship with its structure of authority to make judgements. Pedagogues have to display that they appreciate and distinguish a sense of taste. They are cultural brokers and arbiters of taste who not only provide knowledge of the product but also the means through which to recognise and engage in acts of distinction. The pedagogues do not work on their own but are guided by ‘an institutional and organisational structure responsible for attributing, stabilising and objectifying qualities’ (2013a: 94). Thus, social institutions and a range 225

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of actors reproduce and regulate new discourses, modes of education and prescriptive models of consumption. As a result, the taste aesthetics of the connoisseur cultivate the taste of cheese consumers and retailers and expand cheese markets transnationally through these ‘micro-pedagogical processes’. MacDonald attends carefully to how such food pedagogues teach retailers and consumers taste aesthetics. In essence, they inculcate them in the types of qualifiers which describe how cheese ‘should’ taste. Hence, their teaching focuses on drilling learners in a transnational prescribed language: a register of cheese. This ‘register of aesthetic terms’ covers physical, symbolic and aesthetic taste – and disciplines the palates of pedagogues and consumers alike (2013a: 98). Various seminars and maître de fromager classes indoctrinate ‘proper practices and registers of engaging with cheese, explicitly performing the proper vocabulary required to describe its qualities’ (2013b: 306). For instance, the Slow Food script describes broad categories such as nature, tradition, culture, and place, that is, the ‘language of naturalist aesthetics’ (2013a: 98). But the register also includes specific sensory and aesthetic descriptors such as ‘creamy, firm, unctuous’ (2013a: 97). Through this structured approach, consumers learn the proper way to talk about, categorise and taste cheese. Learners refine their taste but more importantly, develop their competence in a specific vocabulary, the ‘mastery of a register’ (Silverstein 2006, cited in McDonald 2007: 40). The mastery of the fine cheese register not only demonstrates knowledge of a commodity and a ‘characteristic way of talking’ about it but also serves to ‘index one’s membership in the social group that characteristically does so’ and ‘distinguish one from social groups that do not’ (ibid). The pedagogical experience trains bodies as well as language. For instance, the Cheese Museum ‘is designed to structure bodily movement, channel visitors through a series of sensorial encounters, and orchestrate a particular narrative of an object’ (MacDonald 2013b: 293). The maître fromager classes discipline the palates of MacDonald and his classmates so that they use the prescribed qualifiers to ‘translate sensory experience into language’ (2013b: 310), learning how to refine not only a ‘practiced tongue and nose’ but also an ‘aesthetic memory to assert sensitivity to quality’ (2007: 39). Ultimately, this kind of taste education aims to reduce consumer anxiety about gaps in their knowledge about cheese – its safety, authenticity and production (2013b: 308). As MacDonald puts it, the pedagogues train their learners in ‘providing comfort’.

Food design work Whilst de Solier and MacDonald study food elites and their food aesthetics, Ray examines the cultural production work of racially minoritised food producers. He challenges widespread assumptions that racially minoritised food workers are not interested in beauty nor skilled at aesthetics and creativity. Drawing on Sharon Zukin’s work (1995) on how racial and ethnic groups have shaped culture and cultural institutions in major US cities, he insists that they have made aesthetic changes not only to public institutions but also to aesthetic taste in food. Ray’s project is to recalibrate the sociology of taste to position racially minoritised food workers as agentic, creative taste shapers. Hence, Ray criticises food scholars who focus on the taste of white, middle-class consumers and ignore the ‘sensorial world of the immigrant’ (2011: 248). They ‘eras[e] subaltern palates, hands and imaginations’ and construct immigrants as subordinated, impoverished, suffering labourers (2011: 248). He calls for researchers to profile ‘the habits, memories, work and dreams of immigrant entrepreneurs’ (2011: 243) and their ‘designs on the world’ (2011: 248). Scholars overlook joy, pleasure and aesthetics because they imagine that minoritised people are suffering too much to care about taste. As a result, researchers not only ignore the aesthetics of individuals 226

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and families but also the larger ‘role of immigrants in the culture of consumption and the aesthetics of work’ (2016a: 3). To address the ‘cultural subservience’ of immigrants (2014: 388), researchers need to ‘pay attention to the good taste of poor people, especially immigrants, as we have done to the tastes of the rich and powerful’ (2016a: 3). Minoritised people are ‘turn[ing] the table on the dominant culture of taste’ (2016b: 194). To produce culture means that minoritised food workers mix taste and beauty with the practical. To get at these interactions, Ray uses the concept of design to encompass restaurateurs’ ‘aesthetics of work’ (2014: 389). The aesthetics of work range from designing the décor and layout of cafes and restaurants, to naming businesses and putting together menus, to recruiting staff and reproducing foods, flavours and ambience (2014: 389, 2011: 251). As he explains: By design, I mean not only the physical infrastructure of the restaurant, but also the concept, the name and the menu, and the ways of reproducing it through investment, recruitment of labor, recipes and cooking. I use the word design because of: (1) its ability to convey an attempt to remake the world within material and conceptual constraints; (2) its functionality – you have to deliver a certain kind of food, repeatedly, at a price, at a place; and (3) the fact that it relates the body to space, economics to aesthetics, habits to consciousness, and inhabitance in a locale to global gastronomic ‘discourse’. (2011: 251) Ray’s use of ‘design’ underlines the extent, scale and complexity of a restaurateur’s creativity, labour and skill. Moreover, minoritised food business owners do their aesthetic work in response to real and imagined white customers, critics, advertisers, bloggers and commentators through ‘transactions of taste’. They respond to white demand but are not ‘overwhelm[ed]’ by it (2011: 249). Not only have such transactions in taste built up historically, but they proliferate through contemporary eating practices and food media. This means that numerically and culturally, racially minoritised restaurants are of some consequence. And foodie discourse on ethnic foods is structured by minoritised aesthetics and taste in profound ways.

Tour guides’ aesthetic food pedagogy This literature raises a number of questions: What kind of transactions in taste happen on the tours? How do the guides represent the design work of food business or do aesthetic work on the tours? Do they teach sensory registers? To answer these questions, we turn to our wider study of ethnic food tours and, in particular, our participant observation of the Gourmet Safari tour to Cabramatta. In order to get at the finer details of the tour guides’ aesthetic work, we analyse our data through conceptual framing of food aesthetics culled from the literature and which includes gastronomic sensory, gustatory, practical, embodied and etiquette.

Gourmet Safaris Gourmet Safaris runs a wide range of ethnic food tours in Australia and international destinations. The CEO is Maeve O’Mara, the creator and co-presenter of TV programmes Food Safaris and Food Lover’s Guide, which air on the Special Broadcasting Service (SBS), Australia’s multicultural and multilingual public station. The Gourmet Safari food tours relate to the TV programme Food Safaris, which feature people shopping, cooking and eating ‘ethnic’ food. Experienced guides who have extensive food experience and expertise and local food knowledge front the tours. Many have led the tours for several years. 227

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The guides on the Vietnamese Gourmet Food Safari tour in which we participated were Angie Hong and her nephew, Peter Nguyen. A qualified engineer, Hong ran two well-known Vietnamese restaurants in Sydney for eight years and occasionally appears on cooking slots on morning television and in Sydney media. Nguyen arrived in Australia at the age of three, worked as manager in one of Hong’s restaurants and is a qualified engineer who now works at Ryde Council. Hong and Nguyen are not key players in the international connoisseur network or foodie elite such as the chefs, critics and maîtres de fromagers discussed by de Solier and MacDonald have more social capital than the chefs about whom Ray writes. The tours have run since 2001 with Peter at the helm for many of these. Lasting four hours, the tour visits a number of restaurants, markets, cafes and shops; costs $110; and provides opportunities for tasting, sampling, eating and shopping. The pre-tour information sent to us explains: We start with tea and some snacks (Vietnamese coffee and juice available to buy and try) – followed by an introduction and a brief ‘show and tell’ of some Vietnamese herbs and ingredients. Next, we tour the shops in central Cabramatta visiting bakers, fruit and veg merchants, a huge supermarket plus more followed by a light lunch at one of Cabramatta’s top local Vietnamese restaurants. We walk several blocks on this tour (at a leisurely pace) so it’s a good idea to wear comfortable walking shoes. Tour finishes around 3.30pm. Touree numbers range from 20 to 30 per tour and include families, small groups of friends and couples.

Vietnamese Gourmet Safari On Saturday morning, we meet at Ngoc An, a causal dining restaurant in Cabramatta at 11:00 a.m. On Arthur Street, just off the main street, a few minutes from the train station, it makes a good place to meet. Ngoc An is glass fronted with a bright yellow and green fascia, rows of clean Formica tables and tourism posters on the walls, and serves a range of Vietnamese food, either dine in or takeaway. As we walk in, we can see a few Vietnamese families eating and a group of people who are very obviously tourists. We are a large party of tourees of 28 people, mostly white Australians, aged between 30 and 45, couples and small parties of friends. We find out that some of the participants have holidayed in Vietnam and others are what Peter refers to as ‘Vietnamese food virgins’. At the restaurant, we are seated at tables of four and six and meet Angie and Peter, the guides. Angie is an older woman in her early sixties, well made up and dressed very distinctively with big sunglasses, red lipstick, pearl earrings, a necklace and several large rings. Peter refers to her as ‘Fabulous Angie’, and she is authoritative, charismatic and commands attention. Peter, in his early forties, wears a red and white company shirt and name tag and sports a portable microphone and speaker. They are both lively, confident, humorous speakers who hold the floor and a polished double act who have a fine line in banter. They have refined a well-developed curriculum on Vietnamese and Cabramatta history, politics, food and culture and over the four hours, they cover a lot of ground, introducing us to drinks, fruit, ingredients and dishes, taking us into food business and encouraging us to taste and shop. As we have written elsewhere, food tour guiding work is complex and encompasses multifaceted information giving, storytelling, shepherding and marshalling, emotional labour and body work (Flowers & Swan 2015; Swan & Flowers 2018). The depth of their skill in guiding can be understood given Cabramatta’s position at the

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intersection of diverse and competing representations and definitions: represented as an example of ‘multiculturalism gone wrong’ and as ‘multicultural success story’, an ‘Asian ghetto’ and a vibrant, diverse tourist attraction – an ‘exotic destination for cheap shopping and restaurants’. (Dreher 2006: 95) In this chapter, we focus on their teaching of food aesthetics, and we begin with a discussion of the guides’ use of gastronomic sensory vocabulary and compare this to food pedagogues such as the maîtres de fromager and celebrity TV chefs.

Gastronomic sensory register It is notable that in contrast to TV chefs and maîtres de fromager, Peter and Angie minimally express aesthetics through a gastronomic sensory vocabulary. We observed at most four examples in which they describe the taste and texture of food with sensory adjectives. To give examples: halfway through the tour, Peter marshals us to a small takeaway business on the main street. Talking his way fastidiously through each dish in the large heated countertop bain-marie, he tries to convey their flavour and texture to us, a group of non-Vietnamese neophytes. At one point, he gestures to a dish with fish sauce and then explains the taste: ‘Anchovy sounds strong. But it’s just the seasoning. And it really gives you a wonderful, salty-sweet and flavoured taste’. At another moment, he points to a pork belly dish cooked in coconut juice and labels it ‘chocolate meat’ to help us understand its texture: ‘it melts in your mouth’. Later on in the tour, when we visit a grocer’s shop, Peter tells us that Vietnamese coffee – made with condensed milk and coffee beans roasted in butter oil – tastes like ‘popcorn and butterish’. Whilst Peter repeats ‘salty-sweet’, a classic descriptor for Vietnamese cuisine, his expressions chocolate meat and popcornish are idiosyncratic and not part of the wider foodie ‘social organization of judgment’ (MacDonald 2007: 39). Neither he nor Angie reproduce the gastronomic sensory register for Vietnamese cuisine found on Australian TV programmes such as Luke Nguyen’s Vietnam and Masterchef and which circulates in international circuits of gastronomy and connoisseurship (Hage 1997; MacDonald 2013a and 2013b). This register typically qualifies Vietnamese food as pungent, aromatic, sour, fragrant, clean, fresh or redolent. To understand the guides’ limited use of sensory descriptors, we note that de Solier claims that non-elite ‘professional chefs’ find it difficult to describe tastes and smells. But it might be argued that they express an aesthetic sensibility and criteria through other forms. Furthermore, anthropologist Jon Holtzman cautions us about ‘EuroAmerican constructions of the sensuousness of food’ which underpin gastronomic sensory aesthetics (2006: 365). In drawing attention to class and race, our intention is not to essentialise, but rather to emphasise that Angie and Peter do teach us about food aesthetics even though they do not use a gastronomic sensory register.

Gustatory aesthetics To broaden our analysis of the aesthetics Angie and Peter convey, we draw on Jessica Jacques (2015) who extends ideas about food aesthetics to encompass the gustatory. By this, she means food’s flavour and its material properties and embodied sensory reactions to these, such as touch, smell, sight, hearing, thermoception and synaesthesia. Whilst her definition refers to broader food art practices, it illuminates how Angie and Peter teach us how to combine food and dishes aesthetically according to flavour and texture. As Ray argues, literal taste is an important and

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under-theorised aspect of food aesthetics, which too often stays at the level of the metaphoric or symbolic. Their aim is to advise us how to order dishes if we visited Vietnamese restaurants after the tour. An easy way to do this, Peter explains at our first stop, is to choose the restaurant’s ‘signature dish’. Here, Peter refers to a tourism strategy developed by the Council in consultation with the local Chamber of Commerce and individual restaurateurs to market certain restaurants for particular dishes through a monthly campaign, posters, social media coverage and a signature dish brochure with photographs and restaurant details. At our first stop, a large poster affixed to the wall and a sign on the door promote the crispy stuffed rice flour Vietnamese pancake, Bánh xèo, as the restaurant’s signature dish. Peter stresses, ‘when you come . . . to Cabramatta . . . Fairfield Council always has a signature dish on the door so that you can at least pick one [right] dish for your meal, okay?’ Peter assumes, probably quite rightly, that many of us would not know what to order if we were not accompanied by guides. By giving us this tip, he helps us to enhance our chances of a better palatal, sensory and aesthetic experience. As well as bolstering the tourism of the local area, he (and the Council) enable us to consume dishes collectively agreed to be the best version of a dish representative of Vietnamese cuisine in Cabramatta. In affirming the collective taste decisions of the restaurateurs and the Council, Peter shows us that the ‘design work’ of taste goes beyond the aesthetic decisions of single independent restaurateurs as discussed by Ray. Throughout the tour, Peter and Angie are concerned that we learn about gustatory aesthetics and understand how to combine Vietnamese food in ways that are culturally, palatally and sensorially appropriate. For instance, at the takeaway, Peter instructs us how to combine foods: to eat pickles with the pork belly and cucumbers and salads with the pork and lemongrass (‘because it’s very salty and sweet’). In explaining what goes with what and what follows what, Peter and Angie aim to reduce our anxieties about how to consume Vietnamese food by teaching us how to appreciate gustatory aesthetics. The reason most people go on ethnic food tours is because they don’t know what to buy, what to order, where to eat or how to eat (Flowers & Swan 2015, 2016).

Practical aesthetics The guides do not just express aesthetics in terms of gastronomic sensory or gustatory aesthetics. Towards the end of the tour, we visited a pho restaurant for our lunch. Cabramatta is famous for pho, a Vietnamese aromatic broth made from beef or chicken and eaten with flat rice noodles, bánh phở, thin slices of meat, herbs and salad leaves and condiments, traditionally eaten for breakfast in Vietnam. We trundle into a large bustling restaurant, with Vietnamese families and friends eating pho at long Formica tables, and we found seats at two tables organised for us at the back of the restaurant. Angie and Peter stand amongst us and take a slug of time to describe the preparation, cooking and consumption of pho. After introducing us to cumin, coriander and purple basil – ‘the three amigos that go with pho’, the guides explain that pho takes a lot of time and skill to cook and so is not eaten often at home. After encouraging us to smell cinnamon and Chinese cardamom spices, Peter and Angie describe in practical language, layer by layer, how the chefs make the pho we are about to eat. Taking us from the frying of onion, they emphasise the clarity of the broth which can’t be cloudy, drawing our attention to its aesthetics. They stress the importance of bone marrow, from bones which you get from a butcher and then wash and blanche to get the blood off, again in an aesthetic move. You have to add meats and keep the stock clear and add spices and simmer for at least four hours. In a restaurant, they explain, they have a big pot and let it go all night on the lowest heat. In the morning they get all the solids out and then you get a very clear soup and you can start seasoning with raw sugar, salt and fish sauce, half hoisin and half chilli sauce, like yin and yang. And you eat it with beansprouts, basil and lemon. 230

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The guides are keen to teach us about the labour, art and skill of the chefs and the quality of ingredients they use. In effect, they detail a recipe which conveys what Ray calls ‘toil and taste’: the combination of the sweat of hard work and the ‘aesthetics of work’, or what Mara Miele and Jonathan Murdoch (2002) call ‘practical aesthetics’. The concept of practical aesthetics, inspired by Gary Fine’s study of restaurant work (1996), refers to decision-making about the styling of food and which ‘animates the labour process’ of chefs and other restaurant workers (Miele & Murdoch 2002: 323). In evoking practical aesthetics, the guides educate us about the artfulness, sophistication and complexity of pho, countering the idea that pho is just a ‘cheap eat’, as often positioned in mainstream and social media. Unlike the maîtres de fromager, the guides don’t qualify the pho with a range of adjectives to prescribe the ‘correct’ taste but teach us about the chefs’ craft skills, style decisions and tacit knowledge. Here we emphasise the guides’ teaching or formal education and – connecting to Ray’s work – their cultural production and food design work, and that of the chefs whose food they encourage us to taste and eat. The guides may not be elite chefs or foodie writers, of whom de Solier writes – indeed they are racially minoritised food workers – but they are clearly concerned with instructing us in matters of taste and beauty.

Embodied aesthetics Having described how the pho is made, we now discuss how the guides teach us to use our bodies – eyes, hands, mouths, arms, tongues – to prepare, taste and eat various dishes. Tourists are often anxious about how to embody the right kind of comportment and bodily propriety when eating ethnic food, and this can be a reason why they participate in tours. To do this, first, we discuss how Angie and Peter show us how to assemble and eat our pho, disciplining our bodies so that we can appreciate its gustatory aesthetic. Waitresses place large bowls of steaming broth; plates with a generous mound of herbs and salad leaves garnishes; slices of lemon; and fish sauce, soy sauce and chilli sauce on the tables. As we pile herbs into the pho and choose how much sauce to put into the dish, Angie explains how we should taste and eat it: So the first spoonful, you understand the fresh rice noodle shapes and . . . the tenderised beef that’s used. . . . That will wash your palate. It will wash down your first mouthful. . . . Can you smell that aroma? Now you understand why we use a holy basil not the plain basil. . . . Yes. See, the beansprout, it gives you another crunchiness texture. Also, the beansprout cools it down for you as well. She educates us how to eat to appreciate the gustatory properties of the ingredients in the pho, ensuring that we understand how cleansing our palate will enhance our taste ability so that nuances of flavour and texture can be sensed. But she underlines that there is an aesthetic to this. We are being encouraged not just to chow it down but to appreciate the delicacy with which we should consume Pho. This entails leaning an aesthetic sensitivity towards the olfactory and the gustatory (Brady 2012). Thus, like the TV chefs of which de Solier writes, the guides not only teach us about production knowledge but also consumption knowledge, and in the case of the tours, consumption knowledge is not constructed by critics or elite chefs. The guides don’t just train our eyes, mouths and tongues but also our hands. Whilst Ray briefly mentions the sensory body of restaurateurs informing their recipes, and MacDonald refers to the disciplining of the palate in learning how to taste cheese, we show how the guides see the body as a site for aesthetics. To illustrate, we describe how Angie explains the construction of the Vietnamese pancake, Bánh xèo, made from rice batter and turmeric and stuffed with beansprouts, fatty pork, shrimp and spring onion, and eaten with herbs and lettuce leaves. We are all seated at tables and 231

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Angie stands in our midst, labelling a variety of herbs: perilla, basil and mint, and holding them in the air high above her head so that we can all see them. She then holds up a plate with a pancake on it and prises it open to reveal the tasty innards of beansprouts, vermicelli, shrimp and beef. So guys, I’m so hungry. Okay, so the way we’re eating them is to use your hands. You know, like use your hands and make a roll, like sang choi bow. . . . So . . . this pancake is cut into four pieces and you just help yourself, one piece to your plate, and then you break them into small pieces . . . so what you do is you get a lettuce leaf – and this one, because pancake is crispy, you fold it in half, like this. Put it inside, put the one perilla, and one mint, and then just cut a piece of pancake, put it inside, and fold it and dip it in your dipping sauce. Let’s have a go at it. From a functional eating point of view, it doesn’t matter how you eat the pancake. But we are taught carefully how to combine and assemble the herbs, pancake and lettuce in a specific sequence, controlling the amount of herbs and the pancake’s shape. Angie stresses the precision of the steps. In so doing, she attends with care to the visual aesthetics and gustatory aesthetics in the balance of ingredients and their respective size, volume and combination. The palatal taste depends on precision. Hence, we are inculcated in a particular demeanour so that we eat with care and enjoy the sensuousness, delicacy and balance of the food.

Etiquette aesthetics In this final section, we turn to the disciplining of our bodies in etiquette. First, we explore how we are taught to use our hands and fingers to make Vietnamese rice paper rolls – gỏi cuốn – made from rice paper, or bánh tráng, and stuffed with vegetables, meat, shrimp and vermicelli. We are seated in a smaller restaurant at tables of four, and Angie demonstrates how to assemble the rolls, and people strain from their seats to see what she is doing. It is a tricky process, and none of us is as adept as she is. People struggle to muster the ingredients – shrimp, beef, vermicelli and herbs – inside the sheet of moistened rice paper. To help us, she gives us tips: You have to go nice and tight. . . . Remember, you’re making spring rolls, not a doner kebab. [Laughter] Angie is concerned with teaching us not only how to prepare the rolls but how to do this aesthetically so that we don’t make them large and lumpen. She underlines this by referring to a popular takeaway food, the doner kebab, a pitta bread sandwich stuffed to the gills with slices of spit-roasted meat, an abundance of tomato, onions, lettuce and yoghurt sauce spilling out of the seams, and offering a very different visual aesthetic with the gaping pitta and its unruly oozing insides. Angie and Peter often use humour in their teaching, and here, Angie not only drills us into the visual aesthetic of the rolls but also insinuates that we lack a certain finesse and cajoles us into producing something more delicate. We have much to learn about the rolls, including how to eat them with the dipping sauce, nuoc cham, typically made from lime juice, sugar, water, fish sauce and chilli. Angie begins: So I don’t want to see any sauce in there. It’s called dipping sauce. Okay? When you dip, bring the sauce to the mouth. That way you don’t get the sauce on your shirt. Certainly please don’t have any fish sauce on the plate. Because your next roll is going 232

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to be really hard to handle. So you keep the plate dry please. Okay? Sauce in the bowl, not on your shirt . . . and then when you’re dipping them, you hold it like this. No, no, don’t hold it [there]. PETER:

Hold it up to your mouth. Hold it up to your mouth . . . Hold the bowl up to your mouth.

Angie and Peter direct us in several ways. First, with keen humour, Angie stresses the function and aesthetic of the dipping sauce. Second, she disciplines us in how we should use our hands, arms, mouths and head to eat the roll. Her instruction is about understanding the practicality of eating the rolls, the function of the implements and the sequence of the ingredients. But she insists on bodily propriety and aesthetic demeanour. The aphorism ‘sauce in the bowl, not on your shirt’ is a little infantalising because we need to learn our manners and stay clean, to ‘act in a manner’ that is appropriate (Coleman 2013: 23). In this way, Angie disciplines us in the embodied aesthetics of how to eat the food in a daintier manner in light of our gauche and ungainly ways. The guides train us that the ‘demeanour of the act of eating’ is important and that there are codes of etiquette we need to follow (Coleman 2013: 22). So it is not just our mouths and tastebuds but also our hands and manners that need disciplining. Our body needs to be taught how to assemble and taste and to appreciate visual and etiquette aesthetics. Angie and Peter are quite insistent that we learn to eat Vietnamese food with some manners, to follow codes of etiquette and eating demeanours in ways which have aesthetic dimensions and ‘concern physical and sensory characteristics’ (Coleman 2013: 23). Elizabeth Burns Coleman argues that etiquette can be understood as a social aesthetic, social because it is based on shared codes about interpersonal relations, and aesthetic because manners often have aesthetic qualities such as grace or elegance (2013: 69). Indeed, she writes that food etiquette entails the ‘manipulation of sensory qualities of life such as colour, texture, loudness and taste, and a fit between the world, other people and one’s behavior’ (ibid.: 71), all of which nicely encapsulates much of what the guides stress on the tours. Eating etiquette as taught by the guides regulates our comportment, making our own bodies more aestheticised, but also as Coleman stresses, means that we show respect for people. Although Coleman’s analysis of food etiquette as aesthetics is significant to our discussion, she neglects the racialisation of aesthetic rules around eating. Asian ways of eating such as slurping and eating with the hands are seen in the white imaginary as less civilised. White people believe that they have the proper table manners, with correct bodily conduct associated with whiteness. Historically, for example, in India, Singapore and Malaysia the woman in the colonial home was seen by the colonialists as the ‘arbiter of manners’ (Leong-Salobir 2011: 82). Indeed, civility and manners were part of the British colonial project (Swan 2010). The ‘(in)capacity for bodily control’ is, and has been, racialised (Roth-Gordon 2011: 2). In the words of Jennifer Roth-Gordon: understandings of race are centrally preoccupied with the ability to discipline ourselves and exhibit proper bodily control. White bodies are defined by their ‘natural’ proclivity towards discipline and their capacity for refinement and control, in contrast to nonwhite bodies that can be defined by excessive (or overly restrictive) consumption practices . . . and, especially, a lack of personal hygiene or bodily cleanliness. (2011: 213) Thus, Angie and Peter reverse the norms of who gets to dictate normative standards of etiquette and disciplining of bodies. They teach us that Anglo manners might need minding. 233

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Their attention to manners can be understood as an expression of aesthetics in the sense that, as Coleman argues, eating etiquette has a quality, not dissimilar to ‘qualities of proportion or symmetry’ (2013: 23) and, furthermore, can be understood as an expression of food design work. As Ray insists, he uses the word design because it relates the body to the aesthetic, and the guides’ work brings this to life.

Conclusion In this chapter, we build on studies of food pedagogy and aesthetics to extend Ray’s research on minoritised food workers’ cultural production and design work. His project is to decentre the white middle-class eater and to challenge us to recognise the creativity and taste of minoritised food workers. In our study of food tour guides in Cabramatta, Sydney, we introduce a new occupational group and racialised context to the growing studies on the agentic cultural production work of minoritised others and their aesthetic sensibilities and expressions (Bunten 2008; Drew 2011; Hage 1997; Leong-Salobir 2011; Narayan 1997; Ray 2011, 2014, 2016a, 2016b). In particular, we show how the guides attempt to teach us an aesthetic appreciation based on a range of food aesthetic forms and practices, which goes beyond current studies of food aesthetics and reference points for aesthetic judgement discussed by de Solier, MacDonald and Ray. Thus, our findings reveal that the guides demonstrate an aesthetic sensibility which includes attention to the preparation of food and its cooking, the design work and processes of aestheticisation of chefs and acts of tasting and eating. In so doing, they stress the sophistication and refinement of Vietnamese food and eating and heighten our understanding of aesthetic forms and expressions. They help us come to our senses. More specifically, we discussed how the guides foreground bodies as a site of pedagogy and aesthetics, teaching our bodies to appreciate gustatory, practical, embodied and etiquette aesthetics. In showing how bodies are central to their expression of food aesthetics, we extend de Solier’s and MacDonald’s work on taste education and Ray’s conceptualisations of design work and the aesthetics of work. Moreover, in disciplining our bodies, the guides turn the tables, to use Ray’s phrase, on who gets to teach manners and civility. In his analysis of the role that migrants played in ‘designing’ cultural tourism in Cabramatta, Scott Brook (2008) argues that Ghassan Hage’s influential critique of white food tourism neglects the role of various Vietnamese interest groups in shaping tourism development strategies. Our work adds to this argument, showing how Vietnamese Australian food tour guides help tourism in Cabramatta and influence and educate the taste of white Australian tourists. At the same time, we do not overegg the influence of the tour guides, the chefs and food workers or underestimate the power of elites and dominant groups in transactions in taste. Thus, as Carruthers (2008) argues, although Indochinese migrants are cosmopolitan and often more interculturally skilled than professional inner-city foodies, exploring each other’s food and sharing intercultural knowledge, ‘many can’t convert, or don’t wish to convert’ this expertise into elite foodie capital. Some, like Angie and Peter, are part of the rising Asian middle class who have created a role as cultural brokers. At the same time, Angie and Peter work for a powerful white Anglo TV presenter, food business person and food writer specialising in promoting various ethnic foods, and are subject to a number of economic, social and cultural power asymmetries on the tours and in the food industry. But the work of the guides is just one small part of the increasing wider food and arts cultural production and design work of racialised minorities in western Sydney, which includes emerging elite connoisseur producers and critics of Vietnamese food, such as chef and TV presenter Luke Nguyen and of Sydney’s Red Lantern. What our study and other research in this area show is that minoritised food workers such as the guides 234

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are influenced, but not overwhelmed, by dominant white tastes or bodies and are sophisticated, skilled knowledge and cultural producers, who come from a long line of minoritised transactors in taste and aesthetics. Furthermore, these transactions work on multiple registers, including the senses, linguistic, gustatory and bodily, all of which flesh out Ray’s concept of design work.

Bibliography ABS (2014). Where do migrants live? Australian Bureau of Statistics. Retrieved April 2017 from www.abs.gov. au/ausstats/[email protected]/Lookup/4102.0main+features102014 Brady, E. (2012). Sniffing and savoring: The aesthetics of smells and taste. In D. Kaplan (Ed.), The philosophy of food (Vol. 39). Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Brook, S. (2008). Cultural capital and cultural diversity: Some problems in Ghassan Hage’s account of cosmopolitan multiculturalism. Journal of Australian Studies, 32(4), 509–520. Bunten, A. (2008). Sharing culture or selling out? American Ethnologist, 35(3), 380–395. Carruthers, A. (2008). The Vietnamese in Sydney. Sydney Journal, 1(3), 102–109. Coleman, E. B. (2013). Etiquette: The aesthetics of display and engagement. Literature & Aesthetics, 23(1). de Solier, I. (2005). TV dinners: Culinary television, education and distinction. Continuum: Journal of Media & Cultural Studies, 19(4), 465–481. de Solier, I. (2013). Food and the self: Consumption, production and material culture. London: Bloomsbury. Dreher, T. (2006). From cobra grubs to dragons: Negotiating the politics of representation in cultural research. Cultural Studies Review, 2(2), 90–106. Drew, E. (2011). Strategies for antiracist representation: Ethnic tourism guides in Chicago. Journal of Tourism and Cultural Change, 9(2), 55–69. Dunn, K., & Roberts, S. (2006). The social construction of an Australian neighbourhood in Sydney: The case of Cabramatta. In W. Lei (Ed.), From Urban Enclave to Ethnic Suburb: New Asian Communities in Pacific Rim Countries. Honolulu, HI: University of Hawaii Press. Fine, G. A. (1996). Kitchens: The culture of restaurant work. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Flowers, R., & Swan, E. (2015). Multiculturalism as work: The emotional labour of ethnic food tour guides. In E. J. Abbots, A. Lavis, & M. L. Attala (Eds.), Careful eating: Bodies, food and care. Farnham, UK: Ashgate Publishing, Ltd. Flowers, R., & Swan, E. (2016). Seeing benevolently: Representational politics and digital race formation on ethnic food tour webpages. Geoforum. Retrieved from https://doi-org.ezproxy.lib.uts.edu.au/10.1016/ j.geoforum.2016.07.012 Gourmet Safaris (2017). Retrieved March 10, 2017 from gourmetsafaris.com.au/ Gwyther, G. (2008). From cowpastures to pigs’ heads: The development and character of Western Sydney. Sydney Journal, 1(3), 51–74. Hage, G. (1997). At home in entrails of the West: Multiculturalism, ethnic food and migrant home-building. In H. Grace, et al. (Eds.), Home/world: Space, community and marginality in Sydney’s West. Annandale: Pluto. Holtzman, J. D. (2006). Food and memory. Annual Review Anthropology, 35, 361–378. Jacques, J. (2015). The main issues on Gustatory aesthetics. CoSMo| Comparative Studies in Modernism, 6, 173–185. Kembrey, M. (2014). Food tourism transforming western Sydney communities. Sydney Morning Herald, 1st October 2014, p. 11. Korsmeyer, C. (2002). Making sense of taste: Food and philosophy. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Leong-Salobir, C. (2011). Food culture in colonial Asia: A taste of empire. Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge. MacDonald, K. (2007). Mondo Formaggio: Windows on the circulation of cheese in the world. Invited paper prepared for the workshop: Critical Fetishism and Value: Embodied Commodities in Motion, Amherst College, Massachusetts. MacDonald, K. (2013a). The morality of cheese: A paradox of defensive localism in a transnational economy. Geoforum, 44, 93–102. MacDonald, K. (2013b). The transnational life of cheese. In A. Quayson & G. Daswani (Eds.), A companion to diaspora and transnationalism. Blackwell: London. Meagher, R. (1998). Cabramatta tourism. Hansard NSW Parliament, Legislative Assembly, 2nd June 1998. Miele, M. and Murdoch, J. (2002). The practical aesthetics of traditional cuisines: Slow food in Tuscany. Sociologia Ruralis, 42(4), 312–328.

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Rick Flowers and Elaine Swan Narayan, U. (1997). Dislocating cultures: Identities, traditions, and third world feminism. London & New York, NY: Routledge. Ray, K. (2007). Domesticating cuisine food and aesthetics on American television. Gastronomica: The Journal of Food and Culture, 7(1), 50–63. Ray, K. (2011). Dreams of Pakistani grill and vada pao in Manhattan. Food, Culture & Society, 14(2), 243–273. Ray, K. (2014, Summer). The immigrant restaurateur and the American city: Taste, toil and the politics of inhabitation. Social Research: An International Quarterly, 81(2), 373–396. Ray, K. (2016a). Bringing the immigrant back into the sociology of taste. Appetite. Retrieved from http:// dx.doi.org/10.1016/j.appet.2016.10.013 Ray, K. (2016b). The ethnic restaurateur. New York, NY: Bloomsbury Publishing. Roth-Gordon, J. (2011). Discipline and disorder in the whiteness of Mock Spanish. Journal of Linguistic Anthropology, 21(2), 211–229. Santos, C., Belhassen, Y., & Caton, K. (2008). Re-imagining Chinatown: An analysis of tourism discourse. Tourism Management, 29(5), 1002–1012. SBS (2012). Once upon a time in Cabramatta. Film Documentary, Special Broadcasting Service Australia. Silverstein, M. (2006). Old wine, new ethnographic lexicography. Annual Review Anthropology, 35, 481–496. Swan, E. (2010). States of white ignorance, and audit masculinity in English higher education. Social Politics, 17(4), 477–506. Swan, E., & Flowers, R. (2018). Lasting impressions: Food tour guides, body work and race. Gender, Work and Organisation, 25(1), 24–41. https://doi.org/ 10.1111/gwao.12178 Zukin, S. (1995). The cultures of cities (Vol. 150). Oxford: Blackwell.

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PART 4

Food and health

17 UNCLE’S BODY Food, obesity and the risk of middle-class lifestyles in urban India Michiel Baas

You’re almost there, Uncle! Uncle’s body is sweating profusely as he pushes himself to clear the instructed twenty minutes on the cross-trainer. Amitabh, one of the floor trainers, encourages Uncle to “show some strength” and “not to give up now.” Uncle grunts and makes eye contact with his exhausted reflection in the mirror, his face dripping with sweat, stains of which are now also showing in his dark blue turban. Meanwhile, on a TV mounted to the wall above him, Bollywood videos starring the chiselled physiques of Farhan Akhtar, Hrithik Roshan and Ranveer Singh are shown on a never-ending loop. Dressed in a tight-fitting Nike t-shirt with some sort of cooling technology woven into the fabric, matching shorts and the latest Adidas running shoes, Uncle has sure come well-prepared. However, wearing the latest sports gear cannot conceal that he is desperately out of shape, something that was also confirmed to him upon enrolling in the gym. His weight and measurements taken, he was quickly given a workout plan as well as extensive dietary advice. He should instruct his wife and maid clearly, the gym’s manager had embossed upon him; the whey protein powder he could source from him directly. Now it was up to Uncle to keep it up. “You’re almost there, Uncle,” Amitabh’s voice booms over the Bollywood song blasting from the speakers. But to Uncle it is clear he is nowhere there yet. Satveer Singh was one of the regulars in the small neighbourhood gym in South Delhi in which I conducted ethnographic fieldwork for nine months between 2013 and 2014. Since Satveer, in his early fifties, was somewhat older than most of the gym’s clients, many would refer to him as “uncle,” a common and respectful way of referring to older men in Indian English. Satveer was like many men coming to the gym, looking to lose weight, work on their overall fitness and as one informant confided in me: “hopefully to build some muscle also.” Satveer’s or Uncle’s body does not need to be singled out here but instead should be understood as a more generalized or even standardized one trainers would frequently refer to in conversations about their clients. First and foremost Uncle’s body would be employed to describe a body that was out of shape, overweight or even obese to various degrees and out of touch with the lean, muscular ideal as propagated by male Indian movie stars (see also Baas 2016). It was clear that the influence of Bollywood was also key to understanding why in increasingly larger numbers Indians found their way to the gym. As one trainer suggested, “such bodies remind them that they are out of shape, that they are doing something wrong.” 239

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Besides participant observation in the previously mentioned gym, I also conducted interviews with trainers and others involved in the fitness industry in other Indian cities such as Bengaluru, Chennai, Mumbai and Patna. Throughout interviews and conversations it became clear that the idea of Uncle’s body was more than just one that resonated with a physical body belonging to a particular client whom trainers would encounter on the gym floor. Ideas of food consumption and nutritional habits, health risks associated with (sedentary) middle-class lifestyles and changing perceptions of what constitutes an ideal type male body would all converge in the evocation of Uncle’s body. What stood out in this was that while Satveer’s body may have previously referenced economic and social wellbeing, it was now suggestive of a failure to cope with a rapidly changing Indian society in which consumerism was ostentatiously rampant. As such Uncle’s body represented a serious health risk, something which an avalanche of recent newspaper articles and academic studies furthermore confirmed. This article is an attempt to make sense of the way discussions about food, health/fitness and the body in urban India are changing, especially within the context of being and belonging to the urban middle classes. For this I will particularly build on ethnographic material collected via conversations and interviews with gym clients and trainers within the earlier-mentioned gym and elsewhere in India. In the first section this chapter will engage with academic studies and publications that have appeared in popular (Indian) media that zoom in on growing concerns over obesity and related diseases such as hypertension in India. In the second part these discussions will then be connected with studies and observations of changing food habits among middle-class Indians. What I am particularly interested in is how decisions about food, health/fitness and the body are made in relation to the ostensible reality of middle-class lifestyles. Finally, in the third section I will show that when it comes to food and consumption, it is no longer sufficient to just focus on the transition from freshly prepared food to readymade products or from homemade meals to the popularity of eating out, but that the consumption of all sorts of health products deserves our attention as well. While informants generally consume such products for their alleged health benefits or potential to contribute to muscle growth, these products also come with health insecurities which touch upon more generalized concerns of food security in India. In the conclusion I will return to Uncle’s or Satveer’s body to show how increasingly this body represents a confusing interplay of conflicting discourses on food, health/fitness and the body itself. While on the one hand this body is believed to be in need of repair or even deserving of, as trainers would often phrase it, “a good beating” or “trashing,” on the other hand, does the route men like Satveer embark on lead to increasing insecurities and anxieties of a particularly middle-class variety.

Obesity and its discontents Recently an article in India’s largest newspaper The Times of India alarmingly headlined that while India continues to have the most underweight people in the world, it now also ranks fifth in terms of obesity. Reporting on a study which had appeared in The Lancet, it informs the reader that India currently has 102 million men and 101 million women who are underweight, combined representing over 40% of the global underweight population. China is ranked as a distant second here, representing 8% of all underweight men and over 12% of underweight women. Contrasting this with rampant obesity numbers, it also reports that while only 0.4 million Indian men were considered obese in 1975, accordingly in 2014 this number had surged to 9.8 million men (from 1.3% to 3.7% of the global male obese population). Obesity among Indian women appears even more extreme, with 20 million in 2014, or 5.4% of the total global obese population.1 Reports like this one appear frequently in Indian newspapers. Often accompanied with pictures of men who are not unlike earlier-mentioned Satveer, sporting a generous potbelly and/ 240

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or gorging on Indian snacks, the style of reporting is almost always a mixture of shock and amazement layered with fears and trepidation over the consequences of such developments. In particular the contrast between malnourishment and obesity is frequently employed to illustrate the growing disparity between India’s poor, who do not appear to profit from recent economic growth, and a growing urban middle class that does. Studies that appear in acclaimed medical journals such as The Lancet are often the source of such reports, though they are not always precisely in agreement. An article which appeared in the weekly magazine India Today in 2014, for instance, reported that India was found to be the third most obese country in the world.2 Also drawing upon a large-scale study published in The Lancet it informs the reader that India is just behind the United States and China in terms of obesity. In fact this study even speaks of a “global hazard list” of which India is one of ten countries with the highest number of obese people. The article then goes on to note that considering that India has 270 million people living below the poverty line, “obesity seems to be a distant issue.” However, as the article ominously warns, “India is under siege: junk food, alcohol and sedentary lifestyle are leading us to silent self-destruction” and that one in every five Indians can now be considered overweight or even obese.

Economic growth and middle-class lifestyles Articles such as the ones outlined earlier and countless others I encountered over the years all take note of the rising income of India’s middle classes and increasingly “sedentary” lifestyles. Tracing the literature on growing rates of obesity in India, one sees that warnings about this commence fairly early after the country liberalized its economy in 1991. An article in the International Journal of Cardiology in 1995, for instance, raises awareness of issues of diet, obesity and the prevalence of hypertension in South India’s urban population. Focusing on the city of Trivandrum (the state of Kerala’s capital), it argues that (without going into the study’s more intricate medical details) the populations studied might benefit from increasing physical activity and reducing fat consumption (Beegom et al. 1995: 190). Other studies conducted around this period reach similar conclusions. As the Nutrition Foundation of India argues in a report on obesity among the urban middle class in Delhi: “The problem [of obesity] appears to be increasing with affluence, urbanisation and industrialisation.” However, it adds that even rural populations may not be exempt (Krishnaswamy 1998: 23). Children are noted to be at risk as well. A 2002 study in Diabetes Research and Clinical Practice for instance, examines the prevalence of being overweight among adolescent schoolchildren. It notes how diabetes mellitus and cardiovascular disease are increasing in urban India and focuses on children from families with different socioeconomic backgrounds (see Ramachandran et al. 2002). A meta-analysis of different studies on childhood obesity in India takes a similar point of departure. It notes how developing countries are now faced with the double burden of the problem of underweight as well as obese children (Midha et al. 2012). Such remarks not only build upon the malnourishment vs. obesity divide that was noted earlier but are also about understanding how the quality, availability and consumption of particular foods has changed across various socioeconomic strata. One study that takes a longitudinal approach in this regard was published in Economics and Human Biology and examines the changes in body size, shape and nutritional status of middle-class Bengali boys in Kolkata over the period 1982–2002. While the detailed findings of this study are too extensive to properly summarize here, what is particularly interesting is the way it starts its introduction by noting how various countries in Asia, Africa and Latin America are passing through the phases of development transition at various speeds (Dasgupta et al. 2008: 76). Referring to the liberalization of India’s economy in 1991, it suggests the country is experiencing a transition in terms of disease patterns (epidemiological transition), 241

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demographic structure, dietary habits, nutritional status, lifestyles and activity patterns and socioeconomic and ecological conditions (ibid). Discussing the findings of various studies that have been conducted between 1994 and 2004 it then notes how increased consumption of energy and fat, together with reduced levels of physical activity in urban India, was found to be associated with an escalation of adolescent and adult obesity. This could then be linked to “an escalation of non-communicable diseases like non-insulin dependent diabetes, hypertension, coronary heart disease and other metabolic disorders” (ibid). It is clear that such studies fit in the broader framework provided by studies of nutrition, food and diet transitions (Popkin 1993; Bengoa 2001; Pingali 2006). Yet in the case of India they are not always in agreement. On the one hand there is Shetty’s (2002) study which connects the increase of milk, meat and oil consumption to economic growth and rising income; on the other hand there are studies such as Angus Deaton and Jean Drèze (2009) who argue that overall calorie intake seems to have declined in India over the past twenty-five years or so. While it should be noted that in the case of Deaton and Drèze the data used are far from the latest (their dataset does not extend beyond 2006), it is clear that developments as outlined earlier are quite bifurcated. The shift away from a diet consisting mainly of cereals to one that is more diverse and thus also more expensive (see also Tripathi and Srivastava 2011) is one that needs to be understood within the context of economic growth as a particularly middle-class phenomenon.3 More recent studies continue to note that the prevalence of obesity among urban Indians is alarmingly high (Deepa et al. 2009: 266) and take an interest in the “macro-level contextual factors” (Siddiqui and Donato 2016: 582) in order to understand how these are linked. What stands out is that with some notable exceptions (e.g. Solomon 2016) studies rarely engage with the lived experiences of middle-class Indians when it comes to food, health/fitness and the body. Drawing on ethnographic material, this chapter is an attempt to contribute towards a more exhaustive understanding of how urban Indians discuss and engage with questions related to this. It argues that although most informants (whether gym clients or their trainers) were well-informed of various health considerations with respect to lifestyle choices, such decisions were rarely made based solely on factual information. In fact, the “factuality” of food claims itself were frequently discussed and challenged based on personal experiences and anecdotal evidence, the latter of which often originated from articles in newspapers, magazines and online media. Social media, most notably Facebook, played a chiefly important role in this. What such discussions about food, health/fitness and the body produced was a more holistic understanding of how middle-class Indians engage with economic growth and a rapidly changing urban environment. The latter is not only coloured by the ever-increasing number of shopping malls opening its doors, new condo buildings announcing construction and the arrival of previously unavailable goods and services but also by impossible traffic conditions, concomitant air pollution and concerns over dengue (for which construction sites provide important breeding grounds). The urbanscape thus needs to be understood as one where questions of health and fitness are not only related to food intake but are also produced alongside developments that shape the city itself: from billboards featuring lean, muscular models (often Bollywood stars) advertising new products and services to its traffic, building sites and even changing climate conditions. In the subsequent sections I will only be able to touch upon these issues peripherally, but the conversations with clients and trainers I draw upon here are framed by these broader developments.

Participant observation in a small gym in Delhi Although the gym I conducted participant observation in was located in a typically affluent upper middle-class neighbourhood in South Delhi, it was itself rather spartanly equipped with relatively old exercise equipment. The reason it continued to attract a sizable number of affluent 242

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customers from nearby “colonies,” who could have also enrolled in newer and more luxuriously furnished gyms located in nearby shopping malls, was two-fold. For most customers being able to walk from their homes to the gym was something that was particularly appreciated, especially considering Delhi’s maddening traffic. Although some customers would still come to the gym by car for which it offered valet parking, often with the intention of heading off for business meetings elsewhere in the city afterwards, most would thus come to the gym on foot, a water bottle in hand and usually carrying one or two cell phones. Mentioning the presence of these cell phones is not only for illustrative purposes but touches upon the way many clients would engage with the space of the gym itself. Answering phone calls in the middle of a workout session was not uncommon. This also connects to the second reason clients preferred coming to this gym: many had built up long-term relationships with the current managers, the owner of the building the gym was located in and the other members who frequented the gym. As one female informant would explain her continued coming to this gym: “It’s where I feel at home.” The people who she would encounter in the gym were her friends and neighbours, men her husband did business with or simply people whom she considered to be of the same socioeconomic background. She counted the earlier-mentioned Satveer among these men as well. She knew where he lived, who his wife and children were and what kind of business he was in. Satveer himself, like some of the other men in the gym, was an independent contractor involved in construction projects in Noida and Gurgaon. Although the pounding music did not always allow for lengthy conversations, something which was furthermore discouraged by the floor trainers who were of the opinion that members should focus on their workouts, the gym did very much function as a social as well as networking space. Most members had known each other for a long time, were familiar with each other’s families, the festivals they celebrated and the various businesses they were involved in. Similarly, the trainers who patrolled the gym floor to help out with workout routines were also often well informed about such matters. In fact, relationships between trainers and clients would often be quite personal, and trainers would not hesitate to joke about a particular client’s progress in terms of weight loss, muscle gain or being able to stick to a particular diet. Yet there was a clear difference in socioeconomic backgrounds between clients and trainers. In contrast with the former, the latter would generally be of lower-middle-class backgrounds. Furthermore, trainers across gyms in India would often label themselves as “new” middle class, the newness of which mainly referred to the idea that belonging to the middle classes was a relatively new development for their families. This newness of the situation also extended to their professions itself: the boom in the fitness industry had created opportunities for young men like themselves who until a decade ago might not have considered such career trajectories (see also Baas 2016). The fact that they had the kind of bodies their clients desired to build, as well as the one-on-one training these clients would receive, meant that many trainers were able to considerably narrow the ostensible gap in socioeconomic and thus class difference. This would furthermore create the necessary space for clients to discuss concerns over their health and body quite openly while occasionally also challenging various “facts” about workout routines and diets because of alternative information (sourced through various means).

Discussing food and health In general, discussions about food would frequently interrupt workout sessions. Especially around the time of the wedding season (November to February)4 or important festivals such as Holi, Dussehra and Diwali, discussions would invariably revolve around “how to manage.” Traditionally rich in ghee (clarified butter), oil, sugars and carbs, India’s most festive and beloved foods were 243

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also thought to be its most problematic. Would gym members be able “to manage,” as they put it, outside these days, sticking to a simple diet of two rotis – preferably made from whole-wheat flour – and some sabzi (vegetables in Hindi), weddings and festivals would invariably “make a mess” of this. Rarely, however, were such conversations without interventions in terms of what is and isn’t healthy for one’s body or figure. A recurring topic of discussion here was the use of readymade products, now easily available in Indian supermarkets and neighbourhood stores, which were considered to be full of additives or even adulterated with ingredients that should not be in it at all. With respect to this, traditional home-cooked meals were considered to be “much healthier” and even beneficial to one’s health. What stood out as paradoxical in such conversations was that while such meals would contain ingredients that trainers would frown upon, at the same time these were considered to contain properties that might actually provide a healthy answer to particular types of ailments and concerns that clients struggled with. The use of jaggery5 (non-refined cane sugar) and ghee (clarified butter) serve as interesting examples to illustrate this further. As a key ingredient in Indian sweets, the healthy and unhealthy aspects of jaggery were often a topic of conversation between clients and trainers. While it would be acknowledged that Indian sweets – a very broad category encompassing a wide variety of often locally specific types – were not beneficial to one’s figure or weight and something that should not be part of any diet plan targeted at weight loss, it would also be noted that jaggery itself was not necessarily an unhealthy product. Clients and trainers alike would underline its capacity to act as a digestive agent which had the potential to cleanse one’s body. As a sweetener it was also much preferred over refined sugar, as it was assumed to contain an important amount of minerals as well. In a similar fashion, while ghee was often pointed at as an important reason “Indian food” was “so fattening,” there were also counter-voices who argued that it had in fact important health benefits to offer as well. On the one hand, foods and sweets “dripping with ghee” were considered synonymous with richness in taste and flavour, something which in the not-too-distant past would have also signified abundance, prosperity and wellbeing in terms of what such foods were held to reference. Yet, on the other hand, the notion of something “dripping with ghee” also helped illustrate how unhealthy such a particular food was considered to be. As one informant, a lady in her mid-thirties, once complained the morning after having attended a wedding, “all the food was dripping with ghee!” She had clearly been dismayed by this, yet considering that the “parents of the girl getting married” were close business friends of the family, she “had put on a show” and made sure she had sampled some of it. Now back in the gym she was “ready to work it off!” However, this was certainly not the only way ghee made its way into casual conversations in the gym in terms of its effect on health and the body. One trainer, for instance, actually pointed out that ghee had the capacity to reduce the risk of cardiovascular diseases because of its richness in conjugated linoleic acid (CLAA). As other trainers and dieticians would note during interviews, the replacement of traditional foodstuff with highly processed ones had led to an increase in the consumption of carbohydrates and transfats in India. The consumption of ghee was not only held to be “healthier” in this regard but its beneficial ayurvedic properties were noted as well. It is important to realize, however, that in general such ruminations about the un/healthy properties of particular foods and their ingredients were never the product of a purely factual engagement with the matter.6 Instead, trainers as well as clients would draw upon a vast array of sources ranging from anecdotal (“having heard” from family, friends or colleagues), to newspaper and magazine articles, to reports on TV, to research conducted online, and finally, in some limited cases, to taking specialized accreditation courses. In case of the latter such courses were targeted at trainers and other health professionals involved in the fitness industry, although I would occasionally also meet clients who had followed such courses in their free time. In general these courses 244

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would be offered by the larger gym chains such as the internationally operating Gold’s Gym or Talwalkar’s, which is India’s largest “local” chain. Such courses are typically rooted in the workout philosophy of a particular chain, and the dietary advice they would advocate would also be the product of this. This would generally be of two varieties: one oriented towards weight loss, the other towards muscle gain. Without going into the intricate details of such courses and the advice on workout routines or diets they would result in, it is important to situate the growth of availability of such courses within the context of the growth of the fitness industry itself. Because of this, the profession of fitness trainer has emerged as an alternative career path for lower-middle-class men in particular. The growth of the fitness industry itself is a particularly middle-class phenomena which builds upon a number of interlinked developments: increasing incomes, sedentary lifestyles, changing food habits and new ideas about the ideal type body. In the coming two sections I will provide a sketch of how these developments have produced a complex discussion around food habits, questions of health and fitness and ultimately of the body itself. Insecurity is key in understanding how these different topics come together in the way clients as well trainers engage with them.

Meat consumption, hygiene and food safety In an important overview on changing food habits in contemporary India, Michaël Bruckert starts his discussion with the paradox of India’s boom in meat production, making the country the largest beef exporter in the world, and the ruling party’s rhetoric against cow slaughter. He argues that mass production and consumption, directly related to increasing incomes, the commodification of goods and services and globalization itself, are now assumed to erode the food habits of middle-class Indians in particular (2015: 457). While an increase in meat consumption has often been noted when it comes to economic growth and concomitant development/food/ nutrition transitions (e.g. Popkin 1993; Bengoa 2001), it is particularly interesting to reflect on this within the context of India and the country’s close association with vegetarian lifestyles. In general, restaurants in India, whether low-end roadside eateries or high-end ones located in five-star hotels, are neatly divided along veg and non-veg lines. As a rule of thumb, restaurants are in principle always “veg” unless advertised otherwise. This does not necessarily mean that nonveg restaurants will not serve vegetarian dishes; it is just that the other way around this is unlikely to ever be the case. Caste is crucial to understanding this because of issues of (ritual) pollution, yet notions of hygiene play an important factor in this as well. While a person belonging to a Brahmin caste would not ordinarily consider having food in a restaurant where meat is prepared, others who are less strict about this might be concerned with the potential cleanliness of such a kitchen.7 In particular, small eateries serving food at a low cost rarely have the facilities to keep ingredients fresh for a long time. Within the complex makeup of urban India where food safety is often about questions of hygiene, the label of veg only is often also interpreted in terms of how trustworthy and thus hygienic a particular kitchen might be. Yet it cannot be denied that meat consumption, in particular that of poultry (Devi et al. 2014: 512), is on the rise in India. While no conclusive data are available on where and by whom precisely this meat is consumed, it is not hard to notice the ever-increasing number of restaurants opening their doors in newly built shopping malls and high-end market areas. Whereas more traditional “family restaurants” or those belonging to Indian chains such as Saravana Bhavan (originally from Tamil Nadu) and Haldiram’s (serving mainly sweets and snacks) invariably serve “veg-only” food, these newer restaurants deviate from the norm at two levels. First of all, unlike their predecessors, they almost always serve dishes with meat as well, without necessarily indicating this as part of their marketing strategies. In addition to this, the majority of such restaurants 245

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serve alcohol (unless located in so-called “dry states” which prohibit the sale of this). While the label of family restaurant would generally be indicative of it being a restaurant where no alcohol is served, together with the distinction of veg vs. non-veg, these are all indicators of which the use is gradually declining within an urban middle-class context. Discussing changing food habits with my informants who almost all hailed from uppermiddle-class backgrounds and who had often maintained vegetarianism either at home and/ or outside in the past, the abundance of available options, as well as the way these differed from what they were used, until recently were all part of the way they narrated concerns over their own health and body. While at home the use of readymade products had increased over time, frequently eating and drinking outside had to a certain degree become the norm. As such, the latter was often even equated with the very idea of living a middle-class lifestyle itself. At the same time informants would lament the abundant availability of choice. Managing “all these choices” would often be perceived as both complex and stressful and ultimately detrimental to one’s health. Besides going to the gym to work on one’s health, potentially lose weight and/or build muscle, it was clear that many were also experimenting with different diets, not necessarily only in terms of eating less but also eating differently. The growing consumption of organic foods and health products (or sports nutrition) needs to be understood in light of this (see also Dittrich 2009: 275). Yet like ambivalences about traditional Indian foodstuffs (e.g. jaggery or ghee), prepackaged food (in terms of their ingredients) and middle-class lifestyles (overeating during weddings and the festival season, or eating out in general), these new additions such as whey protein powders, CLAA tablets or vitamin tablets came with their own anxieties as well. Rumours about these products containing excessive amounts of sugar or simply being adulterated were aplenty within the gym, something clients and trainers both contributed to. In the final section I will show how this has contributed to a particular middle-class anxiety over food safety.

Adulterated food and questions of safety and security While no definitive figures are available, the India Brand Equity Foundation (IBEF) estimates that India’s organic food market is expected to increase three times by 2020.8 An article in the Economic Times mentions a figure of $1.36 billion by 2020, which in 2014 was estimated to be $0.36 billion in size.9 Estimates of the size of the health products market, including the sale of protein powders, are even harder to acquire. Companies such as Euromonitor International do offer access to a country report for India’s sports nutrition market on their website; however, considering how fragmented and complex the market is in terms of the number of brands competing, it is doubtful the report will be worth the asking price of $990.10 The visible presence of organic food shops and even the availability of whey protein powders and the like at kirana shops11 across urban India is an indication of its growing market and proliferation. For instance, the gym I conducted fieldwork in was housed in a building of which the floor above was dedicated to a sports nutrition shop selling a whole range of whey protein powders, muscle gainers, weight loss products and other types of health supplements. Across the road was a shop specializing in organic foods, including fresh produce, but also different types of organic rice, spices and cereals. A casual five-minute walk to the nearest market area would confront one with kirana shops not only selling basic household needs but also carrying different brands of protein powders and related products. Although readily available and professionally packaged and advertised, clients and trainers often voiced doubts about whether these products actually contained the ingredients listed. For instance, the manager of the gym of my fieldwork would repeatedly emphasize the danger of adulterated products. Therefore he suggested to Satveer and other clients that he would provide them with protein powders obtained directly from a reliable 246

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source. The way it worked, he explained, was that companies located on the outskirts of the city would import high-end protein powders abroad, “open the boxes, take out half, add some cheap powder and seal them as new.” It was a story which was repeated to me in other cities as well. Anecdotally one trainer explained how he had encountered a client in his gym who kept putting on weight although he was working out regularly. He had found out that the protein powder he had been using had been adulterated and that it contained “some kind of dough” which was “basically all sugars and carbs.” Food safety and food adulteration are considerable concerns in urban India. In Harris Solomon’s important study of food, fat and related illnesses in Mumbai, issues with the use of plastic and the adulteration of milk are discussed (2015, 2016). At the start of Solomon’s article on patterns of food adulteration in urban India, his research assistant complains that “[e]verything is wrapped in plastic now. . . . Everyone is getting cancer here. . . . The chemicals go into food” (2015: 177). Like plastic, milk can also not be trusted, as it is often perceived to be diluted with unsafe tap water (2015: 178). While Solomon is interested in the way people assess, accept and refuse food in the context of food adulteration (ibid), I found it particularly interesting to ask how such doubts and concerns – especially where it concerned health products themselves – fitted in with the way informants discussed changing food habits in general. What such discussions and considerations resonated with most of all were more general concerns over middle-class lifestyles that all in one way or another related to changing notions of health/fitness and the body. Stories of adulterated protein powders, the ineffectiveness (and even dangerous side effects) of weight loss products and the untrustworthiness of health supplements were not only inserted to cast doubt on their effectiveness or reason not to use them but also, in more general terms, to contest if, as one informant once said, “any of it made any difference anyway.”

Conclusion Satveer was a regular customer the first few months I conducted participant observation in this small neighbourhood gym in South Delhi but then gradually started coming less frequently. When I asked one of the trainers, he shrugged and commented that this was often the case with clients, whether young or old. “They come and start all enthusiastically but forget that to see results takes a long time,” he added not unsympathetically. It was the shorter version of an analysis I would hear time and again. Trainers never seemed all that surprised when customers stopped coming to the gym, and the managers that I interviewed would generally estimate that a third to half of their paying customer base would rarely ever find their way to the gym. As one trainer in a high-end gym in Mumbai explained, “They all come with the idea of six-packs but none are willing to make the effort.” Flexing his own biceps in the mirror he added that “it takes genuine dedication to get there.” Especially his younger clients would ask for a shortcut with which he meant the use of steroids and growth hormones. He himself had used these in the past but would not recommend them to his clients. “We are a high-end gym, I would not want word to get out that we deal in such stuff here.” While the use of steroids and growth hormones in Indian gyms was not a focus of this chapter, it does fit in with broader questions of food safety and the risk of living middle-class lifestyles. It is clear that concerns over obesity have gradually become more prominent in relation to such lifestyles. Both academic publications and those appearing in popular media zoom in on such concerns, and although the growing number of gyms in urban India and the availability of organic foods and health products indicate that such concerns are shared by a growing number of Indians as well, most studies continue to predict a further rise in obesity levels. What stood out from my daily interaction with clients and trainers in one gym in particular is that decisions with regard to 247

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food, health/fitness and the body are taken within the context of a rapidly changing Indian urban landscape. Changing food habits, from using readymade products in the kitchen, to an increase in meat consumption, to frequently eating out, provide one frame through which we can understand why obesity is on the rise. Economic growth and rising income not only give impetus to such changing lifestyles but also provide middle-class Indians with the means to enrol in gyms and purchase health products. Yet the urbanscape which is the setting for economic growth and the provider of rising incomes is also the site of growing insecurities about the quality as well as risk of middle-class lifestyles. Increasingly worse traffic conditions, associated alarming rises in air pollution and the danger of dengue and its close association to building sites are all ingredients in this mix. But the new ideal of lean, muscular physiques often visibly present in the urban space on billboards advertising a whole range of products produces other dilemmas and insecurities as well. Whey protein powders and other types of health supplements may be available across urban India, but their quality and effectiveness are often uncertain. As such, concerns over these products, which many middle-class Indians have started consuming on a daily basis either to supplement or replace part of their meals, should be examined within the broader context of food adulteration, as this has been an issue for decades (see also Solomon 2016: 120–121). In recent years India has witnessed an avalanche of food- and health-related publications, the most famous one of which must be Rujuta Diwekar’s Don’t Lose Your Mind, Lose Your Weight (RandomHouse India, 2009). The author has advised various Bollywood stars, and Kareena Kapoor has written the foreword. Meanwhile American “celebrity fitness trainer” Krish Gethin collaborated with Hrithik Roshan for his workout guide titled The Bodybuilding.com Guide to Your Best Body (Simon and Schuster, 2013). More recently the same author also published Bollywood by Design (Om Books International, 2015), this time with a foreword by another Bollywood star, John Abraham. It shows a growing connection between Bollywood and the fitness industry, which will no doubt reverberate in the way middle-class Indians engage with questions of food, health and the body. Yet as trainers also warn, many of the diets advocated by Bollywood stars and their “celebrity” trainers are not only tailor-made for a particular person but also for a (temporary) situation: the shooting of one particular movie. Not only were clients rarely successful in emulating such training and dietary regimens, but trainers would occasionally even label them as detrimental to clients’ health, leading to unhealthy decisions in terms of extreme dieting and substance abuse. While this sketches a particularly worrisome scenario that might in the end only affect a relatively small group, it remains to be seen what the broader consequences are of a highly charismatic and influential movie industry on the health and fitness ideals of a growing middle-class population. Studies of obesity and its related diseases would be wise to incorporate such considerations in their research design in order to better understand how various aspects of changing food habits, concerns over health and fitness and the body, as well as the broader spheres of influence, are linked in this.

Notes 1 Article available here: http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/life-style/health-fitness/health-news/Indiahas-most-underweight-people-ranks-5th-in-obesity/articleshow/51658193.cms (visited 01–12–2016). The study the article draws upon is titled: ‘Trends in adult body-mass index in 200 countries from 1975 to 2014: a pooled analysis of 1698 population-based measurement studies with 19·2 million participants,’ by NCD Risk Factor Collaboration (authors mentioned at the end of the article). The Lancet, 387(10026), 1377–1386. 2 Article available here: http://indiatoday.intoday.in/story/obesity-india-weighs-third-on-obesityscale/1/365876.html (visited 01–12–2016). The study the article draws upon is titled “Global, regional, and national prevalence of overweight and obesity in children and adults during 1980–2013: a systematic

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3

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6

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analysis for the Global Burden of Disease Study 2013”, The Lancet, 384(9945), 766–781. It lists nearly 150 co-authors with Christopher Murray, director of the Institute for Health Metrics and Evaluation (IHME), leading the analysis. It does not lie in the scope of this chapter to provide a more detailed analysis of the growth and socioeconomic composition of the Indian middle classes itself. The chapter does agree, however, that also within the context of being and belonging to the middle classes there are significant income differences, which also translates in the use of “lower”, “middle” and “upper” middle classes. The customers who frequented the small neighbourhood gym in which I conducted fieldwork belong to the upper category of the middle class. India’s wedding season is both regionally and temporally specific. While in general a significant portion of the weddings in Delhi happen during the cooler months of November to February, it is also dependent on auspicious dates which are fixed based on Indian astrology and, in general, dependent on the position of the moon and the earth. In 2017, for instance, May and June had a number of such days which means there will be higher number of weddings than is usually the case in these months. Made of sugarcane, jaggery is, in its essence, non-centrifugal or non-refined cane sugar. As a concentrated product it usually contains date, cane juice and/or palm sap without having had the molasses and crystals separated. It is a key ingredient in many of India’s sweets. With “purely factual” I am referring to a Weberian ideal type here. Food sciences rarely provide conclusive answers when it comes to the concerns and/or benefit associated with a particular food or ingredient. Even so, trainers and dieticians I interviewed also rarely engaged with these studies. Vegetarianism is generally associated with Brahmins and others who fall in the broader category of twice-borne or upper/forward castes. While this itself concerns a rather crude essentialization (see also Caplan 2008: 120), middle-class informants across India did reproduce this “divide” within conversations about this topic in terms of who they would consider to be vegetarian. IBEF does not provide source material information for the way they have calculated different growth scenarios of the Indian food market. Figures can be found here: www.ibef.org/industry/indian-foodindustry.aspx (visited 6–12–16). Article can be found here: http://economictimes.indiatimes.com/industry/cons-products/food/ organic-food-market-growing-at-25-30-awareness-still-low-government/articleshow/49379802.cms (visited 6–12–16). See here: www.euromonitor.com/sports-nutrition-in-india/report (visited 6–12–16). Kirana shops are small neighbourhood retail stores selling mainly everyday items. Although supermarkets are on the rise, the bulk of Indian groceries continue to be purchased at such shops.

Bibliography Baas, M. (2016). ‘The new Indian male: Muscles, masculinity and middle classness.’ In K.A. Jacobsen (ed.), Routledge Handbook of Contemporary India. New York: Routledge, pp. 444–456. Beegom, R., Beegom, R., Niaz, M.A. and Singh, R.B. (1995). ‘Diet, central obesity and prevalence of hypertension in the urban population of South India.’ International Journal of Cardiology, 51: 183–191. Bengoa, J.M. (2001). ‘Food transitions in the 20th–21st century.’ Public Health Nutrition, 4(6A): 1425–1427. Bruckert, M. (2016). ‘Changing food habits in contemporary India. Discourses and practices from the middle classes in Chennai (Tamil Nadu).’ In K.A. Jacobsen (ed.), Routledge Handbook of Contemporary India. New York: Routledge, pp. 457–474. Caplan, P. (2008). ‘Crossing the veg/non-veg divide: Commensality and sociality among the middle classes in Madras/Chennai.’ South Asia: Journal of South Asian Studies, 31(1): 118–142. Dasgupta, P., Saha, R. and Nubé, M. (2008). ‘Changes in body size, shape and nutritional status of middle-class Bengali boys of Kolkata, India, 1982–2002.’ Economics and Human Biology, 6: 75–94. Deaton, A. and Dreze, J. (2009). ‘Food and nutrition in India: Facts and interpretations.’ Economic and Political Weekly, xliv(7): 42–65. Deepa, M., Farooq, S., Deepa, R., Manjula, D. and Mohan, V. (2009). ‘Prevalence and significance of generalized and central body obesity in an urban Asian Indian population in Chennai, India (CURES: 47).’ European Journal of Clinical Nutrition, 63: 259–267. Devi, S.M., Balachander, V., Lee, S.I. and Kim, I.H. (2014). ‘An outline of meat consumption in the Indian population – A pilot review.’ Korean Journal for Food Science of Animal Resources, 34(4): 507–515. Dittrich, C. (2009). ‘The changing food scenario and the middle classes in the emerging megacity of Hyderabad, India.’ In H. Lange and L. Meier (eds.), The Middle Classes. Dordrecht: Springer, pp. 269–280.

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Michiel Baas Diwekar, R. (2009). Don’t Lose Your Mind, Lose Your Weight. Delhi: RandomHouse India. Gethin, K. (2015). Bollywood by Design. Noida: Om Books International. Gethin, K. and Roshan, H. (2013). The Bodybuilding.com: Guide to Your Best Body. New York: Touchstone. Krishnaswamy, K. (ed.) (1998). Obesity in the Urban Middle Class in Delhi. Delhi: Nutrition Foundation of India. Midha, T., Nath, B., Kumari, R., Rao, Y.K. and Pandey, U. (2012). ‘Child obesity in India: a meta-analysis.’ Indian Journal of Pediatrics, 79(7): 945–948. Pingali, P. (2006). ‘Westernization of Asian diets and the transformation of food systems: Implications for research and policy.’ Food Policy, 32(3): 281–298. Popkin, B.M. (1993). ‘Nutritional patterns and transitions.’ Population and Development Review, 19(1): 138–157. Ramachdran, A., Snehalatha, C., Vinitha, R. Thayyil, M. Sathish Kumar, C.K., Sheeba, L. Joseph, S. and Vijay, V. (2002). ‘Prevalence of overweight in urban Indian adolescent school children.’ Diabetes Research and Clinical Practice, 57: 185–190. Shetty, P.S. (2002). ‘Nutrition transition in India.’ Public Health Nutrition, 5(1A): 175–182. Siddiqui, Md. Z. and Donato, R. (2016). ‘Overweight and obesity in India: Policy issues from an exploratory multi-level analysis.’ Health Policy and Planning, 31: 582–591. Solomon, H. (2015). ‘Unreliable eating: Patterns of food adulteration in urban India.’ BioSocieties, 10(2): 177–193. Solomon, H. (2016). Metabolic Living, Food, Fat and the Absorption of Illness in India. Hyderabad: Orient BlackSwan. Tripathi, A. and Srivastava, S. (2011). ‘Interstate migration and changing food preferences in India.’ Ecology of Food and Nutrition, 50(5): 410–428.

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18 SHAPING NUTRITION The role of state institutions in the production of nutritional knowledge in Maoist China Renée Krusche

Introduction The history of food in China has been discussed by different authors and from many different angles (Anderson 1988; Simoons 1991; Swislocki 2009), but the development of nutrition science and knowledge as a fairly new branch of science is still a very under-researched field, especially for post-1949 China. Joseph Needham and Gwei-Djen Lu offer only a short overview of historical nutrition knowledge in their 1951 essay A Contribution to the History of Chinese Dietetics. Western nutritional science has been discussed in China since the beginning of the 20th century, as Seung-Joon Lee shows in his paper on The Patriot’s Scientific Diet, Mark Swislocki’s Nutritional Governmentality or Zheng Ji in his Historical Materials in Modern Chinese Nutrition Science (1995). In the past few years a growing body of literature on Chinese medicine (Hanson 2011; Taylor 2011; Andrews 2014; Lei 2014) has emerged, as well as on the Chinese health care system and ideas of disease in the 20th century. Nevertheless, there has not been much elaboration on the topic of nutrition knowledge, especially in the beginning of the People’s Republic of China (PRC). This chapter outlines the publication efforts undertaken by the Ministry of Health (founded in 1950) to develop basic nutrition knowledge and improve the nation’s health. The communist government of Maoist China did care about healthy food – just as much as any other nation – as shown in the distribution of knowledge on nutrition science in the 1950s. Nutrition was understood as one part of the health and prevention work to prevent disease in the PRC. This kind of prevention work not only included food sanitation but also the communication of basic content and daily intake requirements in a sufficiently nutritional diet catering to the body’s needs. The idea of hygiene – of food, environment and behaviour – as a new modernity in China for improving the nation’s strength was taken up by Ruth Rogaski in her book on hygiene (weisheng 卫生) in the treaty port of Tianjin in north China and shows how governing sanitation and health issues can lead to improved living situations. Lee offers a similar set of strategies dealing with hygiene that was meant to be utilized in order to improve Chinese health in an increasingly globalized world. In his paper on the ‘Patriot’s Diet’ he discusses exemplarily the enforced advertisement for the consumption of wheat and coarse rice in the first half of the 20th century as a reaction to several issues: first, the stigma of the ‘sick man of Asia’ who was weaker and smaller than the Western powers, and second, health issues such as malnutrition and beriberi. Nutritional 251

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work was done to not only cure the population but in turn to strengthen the nation, and this idea was continued in the PRC again. As far as the involvement of the state in nutritional matters goes, Swislocki coined the term nutritional governmentality which in the context of the PRC serves as a means to an end: a stable, well-supplied and educated population that can support the developing industrial sector of the PRC. Swislocki introduces nutritional ideas and the state’s coping during the late Qing dynasty and shows changes in the understanding of hunger and malnutrition in turn-of-the-century China. The governmental institutions of late imperial China as well as the Republic (1912–1949) were both involved in nutritional policies, heavily influencing nutritional research, production and supply. Apart from the focus groups of these governing efforts (Vernon 2007), this responsibility of the state continues on in the Maoist period. Swislocki offers a thorough examination of how hunger (i.e. malnutrition) was perceived over time. The shift from focusing on the deficiency issues of nobility in Qing to the famine issues of lower-class Chinese in the Republican era shows a remarkable shift in perception as well as scientific assessment. Just as in other countries, (Collingham 2011) in Republican China the wars in the first half of the 20th century led to a rationing system for the population as well as the soldiers (Lee 2015: 4). These historical circumstances were the starting points for more nutritional considerations and the introduction of research on food in order to supply troops and the population with sufficient nourishment (Lee 2015: 4), such as the sudden emergence of food processing, including rice-milling (Swislocki 2011: 20). After the end of the Chinese civil war nutritional science was further developed and spread by the authorities as a means to improve the population’s health and guard it against harm and sickness resulting from low-quality or insufficient food. This chapter argues that Maoist nutritional information for professionals and laypeople was meant to build an awareness of the body and its functions and the correct scientific nutrition in order to build a strong nation where production and stability were ensured. Of course, nutrition was not the only part of a heathy lifestyle. Physical exercise, sufficient rest, socializing and proper working conditions also figure into a healthy environment, according to Maoist sources. Food as the object of scientific research was seen as a sum of nutritional parts. This changed the perception of it from a whole entity to a structure of parts with certain functions. The scientifically proven methods of building a healthy diet with all the important components at the body’s disposal became the focus of nutritional science and information on nutrition. Different methods are mentioned for quantifying the nutritional value of foods and personal needs, for example, via calculating daily calorie needs from body size, activity levels and weight. Food became fuel for body functions and a predictable part of daily life, for the individual itself as well as for the state that had to plan for its acquisition and production.1 In the spirit of mass mobilization and the extermination of the four pests in the 1950s (the four pests were rats, sparrows, flies and mosquitos), people were mobilized for increased efforts towards health on a grassroots level. By supplying the population with information on health, hygiene and nutrition, a lot could be achieved in this way with little monetary input, as intended by the second five-year-plan (Kraus 1979: 187). The information about this scientific idea of a ‘good’ diet and its correlation to health had to be communicated by various means and media. Apart from mouth-to-mouth propaganda, written and painted media were the primary channel of disseminating nutrition knowledge. This route will be reconstructed in this chapter by looking at publications from the analysed era and the histories of the institutions involved, as this offers insight into the spread of institutionalized nutrition knowledge. Two different nutrients will serve as case studies of how nutrition knowledge was standardized and communicated in print media. Original information on healthy living and food in the early 1950s was imported from the West and the Soviet Union when Russian publications were translated as a basic canon of foreign 252

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knowledge, as Xi Gao shows in her paper on Foreign Models of Medicine in Twentieth-Century China. However, knowledge was not only transmitted via text but also by Soviet experts residing in China who participated in the establishment of a health system (Gao 2014: 185–202; Lucas 1980: 471, 477). From the 1950s until the 1970s nutrition studies and food administration remained relatively small parts of the Ministry of Health, although there was a huge increase in health care work and a buildup of a hygiene infrastructure that was unprecedented.2 Still, a number of publications on nutrition can be found, especially in the 1950s, to such an extent that even during the disastrous Great Leap Forward, discussions on healthy food arise in newspapers like the Ministry of Health– adjoined Jiankangbao 健康报. Due to scarcity of materials, the period of the Cultural Revolution will not be covered here.

The Ministry of Health as the driving force in shaping knowledge on nutrition Before the founding of the PRC, public medical and hygiene work – which included food sanitation and rationing – of the Guomindang and later the Chinese Communist Party was mainly concentrated on the military sector and urban centres, as the Sino-Japanese War and later the Civil War produced many wounded and sick patients and the infrastructure needed was available in cities. A first step in establishing a fundamental system for the spreading of health knowledge was the assembly of doctors from all over the country to provide for the growing demand for medical personnel in the first half of the 20th century (Chen 1993: 26f., 32).3 To accommodate the newly emerging medical schools and professionals, materials were published by the military to provide a basis for learning. At the end of the 1940s, according to the post-Mao History of Healthcare and Hygiene in China (Zhongguo weisheng baojian shi 中国卫生保健史, 1993), 776,220 books on medical topics had been published, additionally 126,750 volumes of magazines and 2,400 volumes of picture material were supplied (Chen 1993: 77). These huge amounts of publications indicate the dire need for theoretical material covering many hygiene aspects. The main attention of the resulting military construct was focused on the recurring theme of prevention work, for example, the prevention of epidemics which tended to infect crowded military camps and flourish in places with low hygienic standards (Chen 1993: 43, 63). But medical personnel not only took care of diseases and minor ailments (blisters, swellings) that occurred during warfare and the Long March, they also made sure the soil on which the companies rested was clean and saw to clean drinking water and sufficient edible food.4 A centralized and government-led health system as a basis for knowledge dissemination was possible when a stable state emerged from the conflicts between nationalists and communists. Thus, when the PRC was announced in 1949, the responsibility of providing for the population’s health, especially the workers and peasants as they formed the basis of the new state’s production cycle, fell to the new leaders. At first the 1950 newly established Weishengbu 卫生部 – the Ministry of Health – mainly focused on the fight against communicable diseases so these threats would no longer affect the population. Large-scale prevention work was the main focus (Gross and Fan 2014: 106–125), just as it had been before 1949 in the military, which makes the handbooks and articles designed to improve on people’s individual health through diet so intriguing. One can argue that those publications also fall into the category of prevention work, though on a much smaller scale, as they want to improve health situations to build a strong body and immune system and thus avoid diseases. If each individual followed those suggestions, the mass would become healthier and stronger, as per the background intention. 253

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In the 1950s food hygiene work in the Ministry of Health specifically was coordinated by the health care office Baojianchu 保健处, part of the public health bureau Gonggong weishengju 公 共卫生局5 and strongly influenced by the paradigm of ‘learning from the Soviet Union’ (Lucas 1980: 463). It was concerned with nutrient problems in the population and with the solution to this issue (Weishengbu bangongshi ting 2013: 23). This was seen as the basis for a good immune system which could in the end prevent diseases from spreading. To avoid incorrect processing of food and food poisoning through germs, food hygiene examinations were introduced in 1953, as well as nationwide nutrition inspections in different parts of China in 1959 and later in 1982, which tried to establish how good the Chinese health actually was, testing not only the nutritional standard but also correlating diet to the population’s physical state (Chen 1993: 129–130). The fact that examinations like these took place illustrates the increasing awareness of the importance of the quality of people’s diets. It should be noted though that the improvements recorded in the 1980s examination cannot solely be attributed to an improved health care system or enhanced knowledge about food, but possibly to higher living standards and increased food availability. Another sub-department of the Ministry of Health involved in the distribution of nutrition knowledge was the hygiene propaganda department Weisheng xuanchuan chu 卫生宣传处, existing between 1951 and 1961. It was responsible for health propaganda in the cities as well as in the countryside and factories. The focus on urban centres declined, and the countryside became the main focus in the early years of the PRC. Not only education material but also the education in schools was conducted by this bureau. In order to guarantee the unity and standard of publications on hygiene and health, this propaganda department introduced a review process for all intended works (Weishengbu bangongshi ting 2013: 27). The influence of this administrative system nevertheless waned over time, especially in the struggles with the red guards, as well as when during the 1960s and 1970s most hygiene-related responsibilities of state organizations were handed down to the lowest levels. This loss of state control culminated in a stoppage of knowledge production and a stagnation in dissemination at schools, which directly translates into publication gaps. The examined materials on nutritional advice are not limited to publications for professionals in the health care system but also include newspaper and magazine articles that were meant for everyday use and the education of the broad population. The nutritional knowledge published in text form mostly is composed of biomedical knowledge that was acquired through translations and from foreign sources, but also through the direct exchange between Chinese and foreign experts, especially Soviet (Gao 2014: 196ff.). In her paper on foreign medical systems in China, Gao elaborates deeply on how foreign nations influenced the Chinese medical system. A lot of the knowledge from the West had been imported during Republican times already, when the nationalist government handled medical education in exchange with different nations and when different medical systems were imported. Chinese medicine knowledge is not mentioned in these publications. They simply seem to act as transmission vehicles for the new biomedical knowledge, not as a way to disseminate traditional medicine. This new knowledge was published in papers such as the Jiankangbao or Popular Medicine (Dazhong yixue 大众医学). The biweekly newspaper Jiankangbao was published by the Ministry of Health–adjoined Jiankangbaoshe 健康报社. The newspaper was founded in 1931 in Ruijin, Jiangxi Province, and eventually moved to Beijing. From its start in 1931 it was edited by the military medical office and stayed under military control until the founding of the PRC. It was the official newspaper of the Northeast Army and the People’s Government in 1949 only to become the mouthpiece of the PRC’s Ministry of Health in 1950. The Jiankangbao went through phases when it was not published, especially before the founding of the PRC and during the Cultural Revolution when 254

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most publishing houses stopped production. Back then publishing ceased for 13 years and was taken up again in 1979 (Weishengbu bangongshi ting 2013: 182). The biomedical and nutrition knowledge dissemination described here seems to have mainly happened in a top-down way, which is a logical consequence of the idea of nutritional governmentality that was part and parcel of the young state aspiring to establish an advanced society. Efforts of state building included the dissemination of standardized medical knowledge pursued by the Ministry of Health that provided personal and institutional continuity in the form of its members. But the Chinese authors and translators of the published texts also pose a form of continuity, as they are the product of pre-PRC education, and thus the knowledge itself continues on, as some of the examined handbooks published in the 1950s are re-edited reprints from the late 1940s or earlier.6 When considering this personal continuity, it becomes obvious that the year 1949 does not pose a major rupture in defining correct and legitimate knowledge, neither in general hygiene nor in nutrition hygiene. Many of the publications used in this research were released by the People’s Medical Publishing House (Renmin weisheng chubanshe 人民卫生出版社). It mainly published material on health and hygiene. Founded in 1953 in Beijing, it functioned as the publishing house to the national Ministry of Health (Weishengbu bangongshi ting 2013: 184f).7 Its frequent publications throughout the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s can be tracked by looking at the announcements in the Jiankangbao, which offers a short overview of People’s Medical Publishing House publications on many issues. The topics related to health span Chinese medicine to birth control and include translations from Russian and English sources, as well as the reproduction of some Qing Dynasty books. Due to this publishing house’s responsibilities and tasks, it had a far-reaching influence on the production of knowledge and the resulting literature. It was charged with the implementation of Ministry of Health policies, the introduction of medical knowledge from the Soviet Union and with the merging of theory and practice to improve and spread both. Furthermore, it had to introduce Soviet research results, publish teaching materials and spread and improve knowledge on medicine and pharmaceuticals, as well as develop medical books for experts as well as popular books. The compilation of dictionaries and thus the determination of medical terms was another task of the People’s Medical Publishing House (Weishengbu bangongshi ting 2013: 184). This makes it one of the main authorities in the publication and dissemination process, as well as responsible for the standardization of any printed health knowledge. The other authority on spreading health knowledge is the health propaganda department of the Ministry of Health.

The case of vitamin C As one example of how nutrition advice is given in the sources by the People’s Medical Publishing House and of how nutritional governmentality manifested, vitamin C – ascorbic acid – will be discussed as a case study. Avoiding vitamin C deficiency – especially during the winter months – to promote overall health ranks fairly high up in the pro–vitamin C consumption arguments of most authors. Within the materials examined, many different vitamins are discussed (e.g. vitamin A, B-vitamins and vitamin D). Vitamin C is commonly declared to be one of the most important vitamins. It is mostly called weishengsu C 维生素C or weishengsu bing 维生素丙 within the concerned paragraphs. Some publications also point to its other terms, such as weitaming C 维他 命C, mianju suan 免疽酸 and [ascorbic acid] kanghuaixue suan 抗坏血酸. This way the term is standardized and explained to the audience, as was the task of the editing instances, introducing a concept which did not have any equivalents in Chinese medical theory until the introduction of the Western medical terms. Most chapters on vitamins are structured in a very similar way. First, 255

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they describe the chemical compound, then the symptoms of a deficiency – illustrating the need for said vitamin – and in the end sources of said vitamin. Vitamins in food and the knowledge of their usefulness for a healthy body empower the individual to avoid deficiencies, as needed foods can be consumed without having to check with a physician. In the case of vitamin C, the deficiency – scurvy – is explained by giving a more or less thorough insight into its symptoms. Bleeding gums, a weakened immune system and fatigue only comprise a few of the obvious signs of this disease (Diubiuk 1956: 12; Shu 1956: 9). Scurvy is sometimes called sailors’ disease, seeing that historically sailors often suffered from this deficiency when at sea due to the lack of fresh plant food (Wang 1950: 142–145; Weng 1960: 52). By utilizing this circumstance, the authors take up a mostly Western maritime observation and transfer it into Chinese, although perhaps making the case that the lack of fresh produce in the winter months would have been much more understandable to the Chinese reader, as not only sailors were prone to scurvy. Especially during the winter months with little vitamin C available, many people succumbed to its symptoms. The translation Yinshi yu jiankang 饮食与健康 – originally in Russian – emphasizes the need to supply oneself with fresh produce. It suggests raising garden vegetables and collecting wild herbs – vegetables suggested for growing include greens, green onions, fennel and carrots (Diubiuk 1956: 13). The positive effects of vitamin C on the body are not mentioned very often, but Huang Zhengguo 黄氶国, author of the Jianming yingyang xue 简明营养学, lists a few: a bolstered immune system, improved digestion of plant matter and an improvement in energy burning can be expected by people who ingest enough vitamin C (Huang 1950: 10). Apart from these advantages, the chemical reason why a lack of vitamin C is so disadvantageous is explained in a Dazhong yixue article by Wang Xunyi 王巽义, according to which it is necessary for maintaining the binding connections between cells. These binds break up when the body lacks vitamin C, which causes bruising and bleeding, and finally symptoms of scurvy, the author states (Wang 1950: 142–145). The problem with vitamin C – and all authors agree on that – is its water solubility and its instability. Water that is used for cooking and then discarded can diminish the vitamin content, and heat destroys the vitamin’s structure. Also, it has to be ingested and the body cannot produce it, which has the human organism solely relying on vitamin C consumption to meet the required amount. In Shu Xincheng’s publication, for instance, vitamin C, with its strong adverse reaction to alkali and oxygen, especially in combination with copper utensils, is praised as a compound that increases appetite, helping with teeth development, protecting the circulatory system and improving the immune system. Another source discussing similar attributes of vitamin C is the handbook Shipin weisheng 食品卫生 from 1957. Not only is vitamin C susceptible to heat, it also breaks down due to oxidization if food is cut up or stored for too long. Adding sour substances to foods should help to preserve vitamin C and diminish the loss in nutrition (Liu 1957: 12). Because it is so unstable, many of the examined texts give a range of processing suggestions. The list of suggestions from Diubiuk for handling food in order to preserve vitamin C runs along as follows: 1 2 3

If vegetables are cooked with peel, vitamins are preserved better; they should be peeled after cooking. Peeled vegetables should not be soaked in water or cooked in it, because the vitamins will leak into the water and be lost. Vegetables should be put into the pot after boiling a soup and not be cooked at high temperatures, as they lose nutritional value. 256

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4 5 6 7 8 9

Vegetables should be cooked in enamel or aluminium pots; they should not be cooked in tin pots, as vitamin C is destroyed once it comes in contact with copper or iron. When cooking vegetables, they have to be immersed in water and covered with a heavy lid to avoid air getting in. The longer the vegetables cook on the stove, the more vitamins are destroyed The water vegetables were cooked in should not be discarded, but used as it contains vitamins from the vegetables as well as minerals. Ready dishes should not be standing aside for too long, especially not on the stove or next to the fire, as vitamins are lost there as well. Alkali should not come in contact with food, because it damages vitamin C and B1. (Diubiuk 1956: 14–16)

Vegetables that contain a sufficient amount of vitamin C and thus have to undergo this special treatment during cooking include potatoes, cabbage, winter rape, carrots, tomatoes, Chinese yam, spinach, green onion, fennel, celery, mustard leaves, bean sprouts, chilli peppers, cauliflower, radish, fresh peas, cucumber, green beans, etc. Fruits that are suggested to be eaten raw are citrus fruits (e.g. tangerines and lemons), berries and rose hips, persimmons, bananas, etc. It should be mentioned that the information within the materials utilized for this chapter was meant for all of China. There are no references to regional specifics and possible differences in diet between different places. As a way of preserving vitamin C in vegetables for the winter, pickling them is often mentioned, especially white cabbage. The vitamin content in pickled vegetables can be enhanced by preserving it in brine, according to the authors. All publications agree that the solution to a vitamin C deficiency is simply the increased consumption of vitamin C–rich foods. Shu Xincheng concedes that it is possible to take vitamin pills, but he also insists that this scientific discovery does not really work as a long-term solution. In his eyes the vitamins contained in the foods eaten rate much higher than artificially produced vitamin pills (Shu 1956: 52). It can also be observed that vitamin supplements became more and more common when looking at the advertisements in newspapers. After this assessment of availability, the only question that remains to be answered is: How much vitamin C should be consumed? The authors give several possible ratios. The daily intake for adults should be 75 mg, according to a 1960 article by Weng Deli 翁德立. Pregnant women are advised to have 100 mg/day and breastfeeding women even 150 mg/day. Children, especially infants directly after birth, are said to need quite a lot of vitamin C. If the requirements cannot be met by mother’s milk or food ingestion, supplements are recommended: 30 mg/day is the minimum, but some experts advocate 25–75 mg/day. At three to seven years of age 75 mg/day is recommended (Weng 1960: 52). Diubiuk, on the other hand, recommends 50 grams of vegetables a day as a sufficient amount to cover a person’s vitamin C needs. Other sources suggest between 30 and 100 mg of vitamin C per day, but again increased amounts for pregnant and breastfeeding women are suggested. These two groups also get special attention where protein is concerned. According to the authors, the importance of vitamin C in the population’s diet explains itself by looking at the symptoms of deficiency. A weakened immune system is easy prey for bacteria and viruses, a good breeding ground for infectious diseases and fatigue influences work performance and cognitive functioning. Vitamin C is explained in a lot of detail, and the authors employ easy-to-understand language to explain chemical processes within the body. The information becomes accessible in that way and applicable to everyday life. Issues are discussed in a simple manner, as most texts are intended for students or health workers. The striking thing which proves the fact that one entity controlled the release of these sources is the identical vocabulary and argumentation in a variety of texts dedicated to vitamin C. 257

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The case of protein Chapters and articles about protein tap into the idea of protein as an important macronutrient for building strength, lending itself perfectly as one compound in food to build a healthy national body. This idea has been the focus of worldwide discussions for a while, as evident in Carpenter’s discussion of The History of Enthusiasm for Protein. In some form the protein discussion has survived until today, especially for sport-savvy people who are very rigid in meeting their daily protein requirements for optimal muscle development. Urban Jonsson describes the period between 1950 and 1974 as under the influence of the ‘protein deficiency paradigm’ in his paper The Rise and Fall of Paradigms in World Food and Nutrition Policy (Jonsson 2010: 134–136). As far as the question of actual protein deficiency goes, it should be said here that mostly a deficiency in protein only occurs when there is a severe calorie deficit, meaning that protein deficiency often is a sign of starvation. It seems befitting, then, that many of the Maoist articles on nutrition emphasize protein quite strongly. Still, other macronutrients – fat and carbohydrates – are not forgotten in this discussion. Protein is not singled out, but rather it is seen as part of a group of nutrients that is needed for optimal functioning of the human body. Nevertheless, proteins gain importance in one aspect as opposed to fats and carbohydrates: they are understood as building blocks of the human body and thus necessary for growth and building a healthy population. They are also the material muscles consist of, so an increase in protein intake sometimes is equalled with an increase in strength and vigour. Interestingly, whereas paragraphs on vitamins focus on deficiency symptoms a lot and press for sufficient intake, paragraphs on protein do not tend to raise this issue as much. This could be expected, given that there seems to have been an inherent fear of protein deficiency in the West in the 1950s (Jonsson 2010: 134–136). Protein deficiency is touched upon by [Chen] Feirun 陈 费润 in his How to Manage Public Dining (Zenyang banhao gonggong shanshi 怎样办好公共膳食) from 1954, stating that it is accompanied by oedemas especially in the feet and legs and that these symptoms are easily extinguished by increasing the ingestion of food and thus protein ([Chen] Feirun 1954: 4–6). Opposed to a deficiency stands the notion of an overdose of protein that is described by Shu Xincheng, who discusses excessive protein intake and its adverse effects on health. Too much of this macronutrient is said to cause problems with the metabolism, as the kidneys cannot process all of the ingested protein. The result is a loss of nutrients that will cause ill health to the body. Too little protein, though, might obstruct growth and results in low energy levels (Shu 1956: 35). The Dazhong yixue article What’s Adequate Nutrition? (Zenyang shi heli de ying yang? 怎样是合理 的营养) insists that while protein might be an important nutrient and it is necessary to consume enough of it, too much will also lead to health issues (Zhang 1950: 118–119). The underlying reason for protein’s importance is its role as building blocks of muscles and tissues. Protein itself consists of amino acids, and several sources list the different amino acids and even their English translations. All authors talk about the difference between the kinds of amino acids: essential and non-essential, the first being mandatory to ingest and the later just optional as the body can produce them itself (Zhang 1950: 118–119). This leads to different preferences where food is concerned, depending on amino acid contents. The structure of carbohydrates and fats is different from amino chain structures, which means that they cannot form proteins, but are responsible for the energy level, whereas proteins can provide energy but are originally meant for building and mending the body in growth, development and repair processes. Some authors concur that it is possible to utilize protein as an energy source, but the breakdown of protein can cause some damage to the body, which is why energy should be derived from fats and carbohydrates. 258

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The question that interests most authors is that of quality. What protein has the best quality for the human body? And how available is it? Amino acids can be found in different foods, and that is where the issue of quality arises. The basic distinction between ingested amino acids is their origin. Are they derived from plant or animal matter? The latter is mostly seen as superior to the first one, but when looking at the discussion it becomes apparent that not only the quality of the amino acid itself but also environmental and economic factors play a role in deciding which protein is most suited for consumption. As a rule, within the examined articles mostly no judgement is passed on whether people should consume more animal or more plant protein. They only insist that animal proteins carry complete amino acid chains, whereas plant proteins do not. The need to consume complete proteins rates high on most authors’ radars, so Shu Xincheng prefers eggs, lean meats and soy (Shu 1956: 33), because fish, grains and vegetables are considered to only contain incomplete proteins. He does not insist on not consuming incomplete chains of amino acids, but in order to attain the full spectrum of proteins, it is necessary to consume both meat and plant foods. A 1965 Jiankangbao article published by the Nutrition Institute of the Chinese Academy of Medical Sciences and a 1979 article in the Dazhong yixue by Yang Guangqi 杨光圻 (Yang 1979: 3–4) display the same tone and vocabulary, lending credibility to the standardization argument. The first publication offers short and comprehensive explanations of macronutrients and minerals (Zhongguo yixue kexueyuan yingyang yanjiusuo 1965: 4). The latter gives a brief overview of the historical development of the Chinese cuisine as primarily vegetarian. This is seen as preventing cardiovascular diseases effectively but lacking in good and sufficient protein sources, giving rise to the need for careful introduction of animal proteins, or, as other articles discuss as well, soy protein. According to several authors, soy proves to be the cheapest protein alternative, before dairy, meat or eggs. Soy products such as tofu, soymilk, soy bean powder and biscuits made from bean flour are all valid protein supplements. As far as this frequently mentioned distinction goes, an article by Wu Shunde 吴顺德 from November 1979 discusses the differences and the importance of each (Wu 1979: 23). He sees animal protein as easily digestible, thus possessing high nutritional value, as opposed to plant protein, which is difficult to digest. The author explains that animal protein is the best source for essential amino acids as they suit the human physiology best. The only problems are its availability and the price, which is mostly not economical. It is recommended that the increase in animal protein should be the focus of future endeavours to improve the Chinese diet and be adjusted to the rising living standard. Plant proteins should be combined to form the complete set of amino acids so that no deficiencies can arise. In the end it is concluded that a diverse choice of foods should be available, especially in public canteens, so all needs are covered and no lack in protein can occur. One article in the Dazhong yixue from December 1959 elaborates on the same topic, stressing that plant protein’s only difference to animal protein is the way it should be consumed. If one mixes plant proteins together during consumption, there should not be a problem, meaning full sets of amino acids can be formed manually (Tie 1959: 452). The amount of the daily protein intake varies between people, but approximately stays the same among the different publications. Pregnant and breastfeeding women, as well as children and infants, should consume higher dosages of protein than older people (Shu 1956: 34). Wu Shunde suggests a daily protein requirement of 1.3 g of protein per kg bodyweight, which is higher than the suggestions in other publications. Usually protein suggestions are 1 g of protein per kg of bodyweight per day. He furthermore states that an intake below 1g per kg in the long run leads to adverse effects, such as loss of strength and weight, anemia and oedema. Shu Xincheng offers a thorough view on how people’s daily protein intake should be assessed. As far as calculating daily protein requirements goes, Shu suggests two different methods. First, by 259

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looking at the daily caloric intake, 10% to 15% of the daily calories should be coming from protein, 55% to 70% from carbohydrates and 20% to 30% from fats. For a diet of about 2400 kcal this would result in 60–90 g of protein a day. The second method depends on the weight of the individual concerned as explained earlier.

Conclusion The diet resulting from these views on nutritional values and bodily functions consists of building blocks that have to be combined according to the individual’s needs, leading to calculable plans for breakfast, lunch and dinner to provide sufficient energy and raw materials. Different kinds of meal plans – with high, average and low protein contents – are offered in the books and journals examined. Not only a list of all the ingredients and measurements is given, but also the time of day at which the food should be consumed (Huang 1950: 23–26). Plans that suggest one bowl of porridge or noodles and one egg for breakfast, one and a half bowl of rice or one bowl of noodles in soup with additional meat, vegetables, oil and salt for lunch and dinner are delivered to the audience (Shu 1956: 67) or that breakfast and lunch should consist of plenty of protein, such as meat, fish, eggs, curd and peas, combined with vegetables and porridge. Dinner should then consist of dairy, vegetables and grains or rice (Diubiuk 1956: 30). But not only chemical compounds determine whether a food should be included in the daily diet. Economic considerations have to be taken into account as well. The seasonal availability and the financial strain put on the population is a factor that is not dismissed in these publications. Instead, they argue for using materials that are available, such as beans as a protein alternative, fermented cabbage for vitamin C and so on. Nutrition advice in Maoist China is based on a seemingly very young organizational system, with the state as its head and publishing houses and medical personnel as its arms. From this construction, a basic body of books and texts appears to supply the audience with information on how to nurture their bodies ideally. It becomes clear from the discussion at the beginning of this chapter, though, that the basis for this system was laid during the Republican era. The difference in Maoist times was the extent to which knowledge was published and disseminated, making a wide dissemination of nutritional knowledge possible by relying on mass mobilizations (Lee 2015: 30–32) and institutionalization. A nutritional picture emerges in which food is not food anymore, but thanks to modern science, the sum of its parts. Certain parts are needed for specific tasks within the body. Scientific methods can determine what compounds are contained in different foods and how much the human body needs daily to function at an optimal level. The fact that food is not seen as a whole anymore, but that the focus is shifted towards its components, results in meal plans and food suggestions that can be compared to medical prescriptions: if this symptom occurs, take that nutrient; to receive the most benefits from your food, the meal has to contain the following nutrients. While it seems practical to just supplement nutrients with pills, most authors considered here advocate the consumption of nutrients via food. The human body is described as a machine that needs fuel,8 but instead of an assortment of food, energy and building materials are on the menu. This development in thinking about the body and anything that it is fed offers the possibility for both outside and personal control. As the body’s needs can be measured, so can the quantities of the fuel needed. State planning and building become much more accurate if it is possible to determine beforehand how much crops need to be harvested to feed the nation properly in order to obtain the maximal outcome of healthy workers and optimized bodies. Another upside to this realization is the issue of responsibility. If a well-balanced diet can be communicated by the leadership, then the responsibility lies with the 260

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knowing individual to nourish the body for optimal health and in turn for optimal production, making it a group effort to strengthen the nation. To sum up this chapter, it can be seen that food is broken down into fragments with different functions, simply due to the scientific possibilities of examining and measuring a person’s health and their requirements. It can also be seen that the information is not new, as a few of the books examined are re-publications from pre-PRC times combined with new research efforts or are written by people educated pre-1949. While the personnel of the Ministry of Health was all Chinese, knowledge of the materials observed was imported from the West and the Soviet Union instead of using local knowledge. Interestingly, all handbooks on nutrition stay on the biomedical path and do not introduce Chinese medical knowledge as a supplementation, but this has to be the subject of future research on the topic of Chinese medical nutrition advice and nutritional governmentality in the Maoist period. There are, nevertheless, Chinese medicine publications that talk about dietary cures for diseases, such as the Changjian jibing minjian yinshi liaofa (常见疾 病民间饮食疗法) from 1964 by Zheng Qiming. See also Rogaski (2004: 304–305).

Notes 1 For some exemplary information on how the CCP government governed food supplies in Shanghai, see Swislocki, M. (2009) Culinary Nostalgia. Stanford: Stanford Univ. Press, 176–218. 2 This is also evident in the educational realm as an article in the Jiankangbao about two open letters to the Ministry of Health by concerned professionals on the issue of sufficient dietetics classes for aspiring doctors and hygiene personnel suggest: 营养工作中的问题急待解决, in: Jiankangbao, 18.6.1957, No 545, and within the five-year-plans, which concentrate on increasing the numbers of hospital beds and medical personnel, Kraus (1979: 42–47, 95–96, 187–188). 3 For more information on the Republican medical education system, see Lucas (1980) and Gao (2014). 4 For example, the Disi yezhanjun houqin weishengbu 第四野战军后勤卫生部, Chen (1993: 63). 5 The public health bureau was established in 1949; renamed the Weisheng fangyi si 卫生防疫司 in 1953, it changed in rank and was reorganized so that the formerly subordinated health care office, established in 1954, was split from its structure and stood alone. The health care office was closed down in 1964 and re-opened in 1985. Weishengbu bangongshi ting (2013: 23, 31, 36). 6 That is, Shu (1956) and Chen, F. (1954). Also compare both editions of the Zenyang banhao gonggong shanshi 怎样办好公共膳食 (Chen, F. 1951: 12–13 and [Chen] Feirun 1954: 4–7). The books are basically the same, but when looking at the paragraph on proteins, one can see that the later edition has a whole paragraph with some additional information in form of tables and a Russian quote. 7 The People’s Medical Publishing House was the result of merging the military-adjoined Huadong yiwushenghuoshe 华东医务生活社 and the Dongbei yixue tushu chubanshe 东北医学图书出版社 into one, and it is still in existence today and now is one of the main publishing houses for medical knowledge according to their website. See www.pmph.com. 8 This metaphor is not new in the Maoist era, see Lei (2009: 482f).

Bibliography Anderson, E. N. (1988) The Food of China, New Haven: Yale University Press. Andrews, B. (2014) Medical Transitions in Twentieth-Century China, Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Carpenter, K. J. (1986) ‘The History of Enthusiasm for Protein’, in: The Journal of Nutrition, July 1, Vol.116, no.7: 1364–1370. Chen, F. (ed.) (1951) Zenyang banhao gonggong shanshi 怎样办好公共膳食, Shanghai: Zhonghua shuju chuban. [Chen], F. (ed.) (1954) Zenyang banhao gonggong shanshi 怎样办好公共膳食, Beijing: Renmin weisheng chubanshe. Chen, H. (ed.) (1993) Zhongguo weisheng baojianshi 中国卫生保健史, Shanghai: Shanghai kexuejishu chubanshe. Collingham, E. M. (2011) The Taste of War: World War Two and the Battle for Food, London: Allen Lane. Diubiuk (1956) Yinshi yu jiankang 饮食与健康, Shanghai: Xinzhishi chubanshi. Gao, X. (2014) ‘Foreign Models of Medicine in Twentieth-Century China’, in: B. Andrews and M. Brown Bullock (eds.) Medical Transitions in Twentieth-Century China, Bloomington: Indiana Univ. Press: 173–211.

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Renée Krusche Gross, M. and Fan, K. (2014) ‘Schistosomiasis’, in: B. Andrews and M. Brown Bullock (eds.) Medical Transitions in Twentieth-Century China, Bloomington: Indiana Univ. Press: 106–125. Hanson, M. (2011) Speaking of Epidemics in Chinese Medicine: Disease and the Geographic Imagination in Late Imperial China, New York: Routledge. Huang, Z. (ed.) (1950) Jianming yingyang xue 简明营养学, Shanghai: Xinan yixue shushe. Jonsson, U. (2010) ‘The Rise and Fall of Paradigms in World Food and Nutrition Policy (Commentary)’, in: World Nutrition, June, Vol.1, no.3: 128–158. Kraus, W. (1979) Wirtschaftliche Entwicklung und sozialer Wandel in der Volksrepublik China, Berlin: Springer-Verlag. Lee, S. (2015) ‘The Patriot’s Scientific Diet: Nutrition Science and Dietary Reform Campaigns in China, 1910s – 1950s’, in: Modern Asian Studies, February, Vol.49, no.6: 1–32. Lei, H. L. (2009) ‘Moral Community of Weisheng: Contesting Hygiene in Republican China’, in: East Asian Science, Technology and Society, Vol.3: 475–504. Lei, H. L. (2014) Neither Donkey Nor Horse: Medicine in the Struggle Over China's Modernity, London: University of Chicago Press. Liu, L. (ed.) (1957) Shipin weisheng 食品卫生, Beijing: Renmin weisheng chubanshe. Lucas, A. (1980) ‘Changing Medical Models in China: Organizational Options or Obstacles?’, in: The China Quarterly, September, no.83: 461–489. Needham, J. and Lu, G. (1951) ‘A Contribution to the History of Chinese Dietetics’, in: Isis, April, Vol.42, no.1: 13–20. Rogaski, R. (2004): Hygienic Modernity: Meanings of Health and Disease in Treaty-Port China, Berkley: University of California Press. Shu, X. (1956) Wo zenyang huifu jiankangde 我怎样恢复健康的, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju chuban. Simoons, F. J. (1991) Food in China: A Cultural and Historical Inquiry, Boca Raton: CRC Press. Swislocki, M. (2009) Culinary Nostalgia: Regional Food Culture and the Urban Experciense in Shanghai, Stanford: Stanford University Press. Swislocki, M. (2011) ‘Nutritional Governmentality – Food and the Politics of Health in Late Imperial and Republican China’, in: Radical History Review, Spring, no.110: 9–35. Taylor, K. (2011) Chinese Medicine in Early Communist China, 1945–1963: A Medicine of Revolution, London: Routledge Curzon. Tie, J. (1959) ‘Zhiwuxing shiwu neng gonggei renti bixu de danbaizhi ma? 植物性食物能供给人体必需的蛋 白质吗?’, in: Dazhong yixue, December. Wang, X. 王巽义 (1950) ‘Weishengsu shi zenyang faxiande? 维生素是怎样发现的?’, in: Dazhong yixue, October 8. Weishengbu bangongshi ting (eds.) (2013) Weishengbu lishi kaoji 1949–1996 nian 卫生部历史考记 1949–1996 年, Beijing: Renmin weisheng chubanshe. Weng, D. (1960) ‘Kangxuebing 坏血病’, in: Dazhong yixue, February. Wu, S. (1979) ‘Dongwu danbaizhi yu zhiwu danbaizhi 动物蛋白与植物蛋白’, in: Dazhong yixue, November. Vernon, J. (2007) Hunger: A Modern History, London: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. Yang, G. (1979) ‘Shanshide danbaizhi 膳食的蛋白质’, in: Dazhong yixue, January. Zhang, H. (1950) ‘Zenyang shi heli de ying yang? 怎样是合理的营养?’, in: Dazhong yixue, October 8. Zhongguo yixue kexueyuan yingyang yanjiusuo (1965) ‘Danbaizhi, zhifang, tang he wujiyan 蛋白质, 脂肪, 醣和无机盐’, in: Jiankangbao, June 11.

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PART 5

Food and state matters

19 “PROTECT AGRICULTURE AND FOOD SAFETY!” Transnational protests against preferential trade agreements in East and Southeast Asia Cornelia Reiher During the last decade, the number of preferential trade agreements (PTAs)1 in Asia has increased rapidly. Their scope and coverage have broadened dramatically, with recently negotiated PTAs not only touching upon tariffs for agricultural products but also on behind-the-border measures such as food safety regulation and domestic agricultural policies. Accordingly, food safety issues such as genetically modified organisms (GMOs) or bovine spongiform encephalopathy (BSE), food security and food sovereignty have become prominent issues around which anti-PTA protest movements are mobilizing. PTA negotiations in many Asian countries were accompanied by acrimonious protests by consumer and farmers’ organizations (among others) who feared a degradation of food safety standards, farmers’ livelihoods, an increase in the power of transnational agri-food corporations (TNCs) and a decline in food security, sovereignty and justice. Since these movements tackled problems of agricultural trade and the global agri-food system, the protests themselves became increasingly transnational and entangled with peasant and consumer movements in other Asian countries and beyond. However, the literature on transnational social movements and the alter-globalization movement has often overlooked Asia in favour of Europe and the Americas. Furthermore, although there exist some studies on protest in individual Asian countries (Kim 2009; Kim 2014; Pye and Schaffar 2008; Reiher 2017; Smeltzer 2009), a transnational perspective focusing on Asia is missing. Therefore, in this chapter I will discuss the role of farmers and consumers in anti-PTA protests in East and Southeast Asia and the transnationalization of these movements. I show how protests against bilateral PTAs in Southeast and East Asia in the first decade of the 21st century set the ground for protests against transregional PTAs like the Trans-Pacific Partnership (TPP) by creating networks of people and knowledge. In order to do so, this chapter will first provide an overview of agricultural trade, its liberalization and movements against PTAs and the World Trade Organization (WTO) in East and Southeast Asia. It then discusses three prominent anti-PTA campaigns to examine linkages between actors, issues and visions in the realm of food and agriculture: protests against the US–Thailand FTA in Thailand, the campaign against the US–Korea FTA (KORUS) in South Korea and antiTPP protests in Japan. These three PTAs differ in terms of scope and progress. While the US-Thailand FTA negotiations were stopped in 2006, KORUS came into effect in 2012 despite strong protests. With regard to the TPP, it is important to note that this multilateral transregional agreement was signed in 2016, yet in 2017 the United States dropped out of the agreement, and 265

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in March 2018, an agreement without the United States was signed by eleven countries but is not yet in effect.2 As a Japanese Studies scholar, I will analyse these campaigns and their transnational character from the perspective of consumer and farmers’ organizations from Japan who are involved in anti-PTA protests. I will particularly draw on publications by the Japan Family Farmers Movement (Nōmin Undō Zenkoku Rengōkai, short: Nōminren), a member organization of the transnational peasant organization La Vía Campesina (LVC), and by the Consumers Union of Japan (Nihon Shōhisha Renmei, short: CUJ), a member organization of Consumers International (CI). A perspective from Japan is insightful for studying the transnationalization of the movement against PTAs in East and Southeast Asia, because civil society organizations from Japan have engaged in transnational protests against agricultural trade liberalization through the WTO and PTAs since the late 1990s and have helped to establish transnational networks in East and Southeast Asia ever since (Chan 2008). At the same time, Japan is one of the drivers of PTAs in the region and, just like South Korea and Taiwan, a major food importing country with a comparatively low food self-sufficiency ratio and a high dependency on food imports. Furthermore, Japan’s food sector is strongly interconnected with food producers and processors in East and Southeast Asia (Sekine and Bonnano 2016). The campaigns and their related networks introduced here are both nationally and transnationally connected, and they all draw on transnational cooperation and the mobility of people, resources, knowledge and ideas to support their claims; to improve their mobilizing strategies; and to increase pressure on governments, international organizations and TNCs. The chronological presentation of the anti-PTA protests shows how during the past decade, this transnationalization of anti-PTA movements in Asia has intensified and built on experiences with previous campaigns. At the same time, many national campaigns emphasize the importance of domestic agriculture and their country’s sovereignty and mix their arguments with food nationalism and protectionist arguments. I argue that these two simultaneous dynamics – transnationalization and a retreat to nationalist rhetoric in food-related protests against PTAs – are two aspects of the same process: the increasing globalization of agricultural trade and the corporate agri-food system (McMichael 2013). Therefore, in order to understand agricultural trade liberalization through transnational and transregional PTAs, it is important to bring back into the analysis the perspectives and agencies of those whose everyday lives are affected by the liberalization of agriculture and food, yet who are excluded from negotiations: consumers and farmers.

Food and agricultural trade in Asia The globalization of food production and trade has increased rapidly since the 1990s. Between 1990 and 1998 the value of food products that were internationally traded more than tripled, with global food sales valued at around US$ 8 trillion in 2008 (Clapp 2012: 7, 9). McMichael (2013: 41) calls the current global agri-food system a corporate food regime, because it is dominated by corporations at times even more powerful than states. Corporatization has brought about more inequalities and a concentration of power among a few transnational agri-food businesses and retail companies (IAASTD 2009: 67). Corporate entities increasingly define voluntary quality and safety standards for food that often undercut public standards (Hobbs 2010). They sue states to compensate for profit losses they ascribe to environmental and health legislation, which they consider to be non-tariff barriers to trade (Echols 2001) or push smaller agri-food companies, farmers and retailers out of business (Swinnen 2007). Around 450 million smallholders and another 450 million farmworkers find themselves struggling for their livelihoods up against a few powerful companies (Berne Declaration 2013: 13). 266

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Asia accounts for nineteen percent of total global food and agriculture exports and thirty-one percent of total food and agriculture imports. However, Asia cannot produce enough food to support its growing population due to limited arable land, water scarcity, low farm yields and environmental and soil degradation, among other factors (Chew and Soccio 2016: 1). Asia is not only part of global agricultural trade flows but also party to prominent intra-Asian flows. While China, India, Indonesia, Malaysia, Thailand and Vietnam are major producers and exporters of agricultural commodities, Japan and South Korea rank fifth and thirteenth on the list of global food importers (WTO 2016). In 2014, agriculture accounted for 1.2 percent of gross domestic product (GDP) in Japan and 2.3 percent in Korea (World Bank 2016). Both Japan and Korea have a very low food self-sufficiency ratio (based on calories), with Japan sitting at 39 percent in 2012 (MAFF 2013) and Korea even lower at 26.7 percent in 2010 (APIP 2014). Thailand’s agriculture, on the other hand, makes up about ten percent of Thailand’s GDP (World Bank 2016). Thailand is among the top exporters of agricultural products such as rice (twenty-four percent of global exports), sugar (fifteen percent of global exports), shrimp and processed food products. Japan is the second biggest export market for Thailand’s agricultural products (Chew and Soccio 2016: 13). In the last couple of decades, a number of commodity traders and fast-moving consumer group companies with regional and global ambitions emerged in Asia and joined the ranks of global players. At the same time, the region also has the smallest land holdings in the world and the highest number of smallholders. Therefore, many Asian governments have pursued a policy of food self-sufficiency by controlling agricultural trade, for example, via import quotas. Recently, however, agriculture seems to have shifted from agricultural protectionism towards a greater integration into global value chains by promoting agribusinesses rather than supporting smallholders (Chew and Soccio 2016: 5–8). In 2015, twenty food corporations from Asia made it on to the list of the world’s top 100 food producing and processing companies. However, the majority of these companies was from Japan (Rowan 2015). Since the 1990s, Japanese corporations have drastically increased their foreign direct investment with the help of Japanese official development assistance (ODA) and formed joint ventures with local corporations in East and Southeast Asia to secure the import of agri-food products to Japan (Sekine and Bonnano 2016: 31, 32). Wang (2018) even speaks of a Japanese food regime in East Asia. Against this backdrop, agricultural trade liberalization became an important strategy of governments and corporations in East and Southeast Asia to promote integration into the global agri-food system. While the General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade (GATT) had primarily focused on the elimination of tariffs, the Uruguay Round’s Agreement on Agriculture already targeted some “beyond-the-border issues” such as export and other subsidies on agricultural goods (Peet 2009: 185). This was advanced further by WTO-related agreements. The WTO Agreement on Agriculture (AoA) contributed to great changes in agricultural trade, including a shift of power from states to the private sector and the emergence of global value chains, a trend even more promoted by bilateral and regional PTAs (Burnett and Murphy 2014: 1075). After the failure of the WTO’s Doha Round, WTO member states also subsequently decided to make use of PTAs to safeguard against possible failures of trade rounds, as well as to push for trade liberalization at a faster and broader pace (Peet 2009). Asian countries were comparatively late in joining the global bandwagon of bilateral trade agreements. Since the early 2000s, however, many Asian governments have concluded PTAs to enhance their own competitiveness and to achieve better market access (Smeltzer 2009: 13). PTAs increasingly move beyond their WTO commitments in addressing “beyond-the-border” issues that affect domestic regulation and standard setting. PTAs thus overlap not only with multilateral and domestic regulatory governance but also increasingly with transnational regulations, leading to a “noodle bowl” of increasingly complex agreements 267

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in Asia (Baldwin 2011). With regard to food and agriculture, PTAs simultaneously touch upon agricultural tariffs and standards for food safety, health and environmental issues (Gueye 2004). With their low food self-sufficiency rate and weak agriculture, Korea and Japan have traditionally defended their agricultural markets and were often accused of using food safety standards as non-tariff barriers to agricultural trade to hinder market access. However, both countries came under pressure to change their protectionist stance when they started to negotiate PTAs with large economic powers, such as the United States and the EU (Webster 2008; Yoshimatsu 2012).

Farmers and consumer movements against the WTO and PTAs in East and Southeast Asia While many economists, government officials and representatives of the institutions governing global trade seem to operate on the assumption that the liberalization of trade contributes to economic growth that benefits everyone, the alter-globalization and the anti-PTA movement are challenging this assumption (Peet 2009). Protests against PTAs and the conditions of agricultural trade are closely related to the alter-globalization and anti-WTO movement that started in the 1990s. Both movements share their criticism of the global trade system, neoliberalism and the increasing control of global commodity markets exercised by TNCs. While peasant organizations argue that PTAs endanger the livelihood of family farmers and the future of small-scale agriculture (LVC 2015), consumer organizations have mobilized against PTAs and the WTO mainly because they fear that consumer protection and food safety standards would be lowered in the name of free trade (Della Porta et al. 2006: 7, 8; Reiher 2017). Campaigns against PTAs are often supported by temporary domestic and transnational networks that overlap with other campaigns focusing on single issues such as the anti-GMO movement or the food sovereignty movement. Because trade is a transnational issue, several domestic movements act together to change the trade governance system (Martinez-Torres and Rosset 2010: 151). Although most networking activities of social movements against PTAs in Asia remain local and domestic, movements with regard to food, agriculture and PTAs in East and Southeast Asia have become more transnational over the last decade. Transnational and transregional cooperation fulfil diverse functions such as overcoming scarce resources, increasing pressure on governments, gaining access to negotiations and meetings and learning from experiences in other countries (Keck and Sikkink 1999). Recent scholarship on transnational food movements has focused on the food sovereignty movement (FSM) and La Vía Campesina (LVC), the largest transnational peasant movement originating in Latin America. Founded in 1993, LVC is committed to working collectively to defend peasants’ rights in the context of trade liberalization (Martinez-Torres and Rosset 2010: 157). One of LVC’s central goals is to withdraw agriculture from the WTO regime. Accordingly, LVC also opposes PTAs because it considers them “instrument[s] of oppression, part of a larger economic structure that disadvantages the South against the North, the peasant against the transnational grain trader, and local cultural preferences against global consumer culture” (Burnett and Murphy 2014: 1070). As an alternative to the expansion of capitalist agricultural production and neoliberal globalization of agricultural markets, LVC introduced the concept of food sovereignty, which, in its current form refers to peoples’ right to healthy and culturally appropriate food produced through ecologically sound and sustainable methods, and their right to define their own food and agriculture systems (Desmarais 2007). LVC proposes localized food systems to bridge the distance between producers and consumers and an alternative international trading system based on food sovereignty, trade rules that permit the protection and support of small-scale producers, supply 268

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management, commodity agreements and quotas in support of food security and sustainable livelihoods. The concept of food sovereignty has spread globally, and a number of governments in Latin America, Africa and Asia have integrated the concept into their constitutions (Burnett and Murphy 2014: 1068, 78). LVC and its member organizations play an important role in anti-WTO and anti-PTA protests in Asia. LVC started activities in Asia in the Philippines in 1993. In 2004, the global secretariat of LVC was moved to Indonesia. Membership of LVC in East and Southeast Asia is heterogeneous and consists of landless peasants, tenant farmers, sharecroppers and rural workers in countries like Malaysia, Thailand and Vietnam, as well as small and part-time farmers located in Japan and South Korea. Today, Asian organizations are among the “most numerous, most vibrant and politically influential groups within LVC” (Borras 2008: 274). Members of LVC’s East and South East Asia chapter include the Korean Women Peasant Association (KWPA) and the Korean Peasant League (KPL), Assembly of the Poor (AOP), the Northern Peasant Federation (NPF) and Alternative Agriculture Network (AAN) from Thailand, and Japan’s Family Farmers Movement (Nōminren). These organizations meet regularly in different countries in Southeast and East Asia, visit local farmers and peasants and organize joint workshops and protests (Nōmin 2004). The following anti-PTA protests show how LVC member organizations from Asia have rallied against the WTO and PTAs for more than a decade, both domestically and transnationally.

Thailand: protests against the US–Thailand FTA The first major protest against a PTA in East Asia was the movement against the US–Thailand FTA in 2005 and 2006. As an agrarian exporter, Thailand has long supported trade liberalization. From the early 2000s, Thailand’s government had promoted export-oriented agriculture and agri-food businesses. Thailand’s transnational agri-food businesses like Charoen Pokphand (CP Group) profited from these policies. In the long term, this agricultural agenda led to a structural transformation of agriculture; to a decrease in independent smallholders; and to an increase in capital-intensive production, monoculture crops and high-cost inputs such as herbicides, fertilizers and hybrid seed, as well as contract farming. Although this transformation was accompanied by rural development programmes, community funds and debt-restructuring schemes, inequalities in rural Thailand grew (Pye and Schaffar 2008: 48; Heis 2015). Smaller protests against agricultural trade liberalization through PTAs were organized by LVC’s member organization, Assembly of the Poor (AOP), against the ASEAN–China FTA that came into effect in 2004, because fruit and vegetable farmers feared that they could not compete against cheap agricultural imports from China (Pye and Schaffar 2008: 49). They also opposed the Thailand–Australia FTA that came into effect in 2005 because they expected a negative impact on dairy farmers (Biothai 2007: 38). The Thailand–Japan FTA that entered into force in 2007 was criticized for forcing peasants into export-oriented agriculture (Nōmin 2005). These experiences with PTAs inspired mass protests against the negotiation of the US–Thailand FTA in 2006. The US–Thailand FTA was criticized because it was considered an instrument used by the United States and TNCs to maximize their own benefits only and because negotiations were opaque and undemocratic. Peasant organizations especially feared a rapid increase in imports of highly subsidized and cheap agricultural products from the United States on Thailand’s market. They also criticized the liberalization of genetically modified (GM) products that would pave the way for the domination of biological resources and monopolizing the control of agri-food businesses (Biothai 2007: 38, 39). Anti-PTA rhetoric was closely tied to the logic of national sovereignty versus US and TNC dominance, the defence of the nation and criticism of the United 269

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States captured in slogans like “selling out to the US”. This was especially discussed with regard to selling patents of Thai jasmine rice to US companies (Pye and Schaffar 2008). Protests were led by FTA Watch, a network of NGOs, civic associations, scholars, farmers’ networks and networks of people living with HIV/AIDS founded in 2003. The organization coordinates analysis and advocacy on international trade issues. After FTA Watch had achieved at least limited access to information during the negotiations of the Japan–Thailand FTA in 2003, an even broader alliance called the “Network of Eleven People’s networks against FTA” was created during the US–Thai FTA negotiations. The network mobilized a large number of people, among them members of FTA Watch, AAN, AOP, consumer organizations, student federations and labour unions (Biothai 2007). In January 2006, FTA Watch mobilized 10,000 protesters in Chiang Mai, where the sixth round of the US–Thailand-FTA negotiations took place. The large number of protesters was unprecedented. They swam across a river to reach the hotel in which the negotiations were taking place, broke through police lines and nearly stormed the meeting. This led to the premature closing of the talks, which were shifted to a different location (Pye and Schaffar 2008: 43, 44, 50). Because then Prime Minister Thaksin Shinawatra was deposed after a coup d’état in September 2006, the US–Thailand FTA was never signed. The new government, however, continued to promote trade agreements and signed the PTA with Japan. But even after the large protests against the US–Thailand FTA, intellectual property rights to genetic and bio-resources and especially to seeds and food sovereignty remain important issues in anti-PTA campaigns. LVC members like AOP continued to rally against PTAs, like the EU–Thailand FTA in 2013. However, these campaigns never again reached the size of the Chiang Mai protests (LVC 2013). With regard to the transnational dimensions of the protests against the US–Thai FTA, LVC member organizations like AOP have sought solidarity from LVC. For example, during a meeting of LVC’s Southeast and East Asia chapter, members of AOP strongly criticized the Thai government for turning Thailand into a rice exporting country. Rice exports, they argued, not only caused the incumbrance of peasants, because most of the profits were used for pesticides and fertilizers, but also harmed rice farmers in other Asian countries. This account impressed delegates from Nōminren, a Japanese member organization of LVC. Nōminren began to reflect on Japan’s activities in Thailand and the Japan–Thailand FTA and spread information about the negative effects of PTAs in general and specifically about the Japan–Thailand FTA among their members in Japan and expressed their solidarity with peasants in Thailand (Nōmin 2005). In addition to this exchange of knowledge and expressions of solidarity among LVC member organizations from other Asian countries, AOP participated in transnational protests against trade liberalization in Cancún in 2003 and Hong Kong in 2005, for example. After joining the massive protests against the sixth WTO Ministerial Meeting in Hong Kong, the delegation from Thailand claimed that they had adopted some of the tactics used by the Korean Peasant League in Hong Kong, who had jumped into Hong Kong Harbour, in their own struggle against the US–Thailand FTA (Pye and Schaffar 2008: 40). Besides tactics, the alternatives to agricultural trade liberalization proposed by peasant organizations in Thailand were also inspired by the transnational food sovereignty movement’s idea of localized food systems. LVC member AAN, for example, proposes peasant subsistence and, drawing on the concept of agrarian citizenship, stresses a close relationship to nature and between consumer and producers. AAN argues that because small-scale and independent farmers cannot compete in a market dominated by large corporate companies, they aim to establish alternative marketing circuits and stress that local products and varieties are healthier than imported foods. Therefore, as LVC suggests, fair trade, direct marketing of agricultural products, producer cooperatives, community-supported agriculture (CSA) and green markets can help farmers to regain power over the definition of agricultural and food practices (Heis 2015). 270

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South Korea: candlelight protests against the KORUS FTA beef agreement Just like their Thai counterparts, South Korean LVC member organizations have protested against agricultural liberalization, Korea’s membership in the WTO and the government’s promotion of bilateral free trade agreements since the early 2000s (Burmeister and Choi 2012: 247). At the same time, the South Korean government abandoned its multilateral approach to trade in favour of bilateral PTAs (Kim 2003: 385). With the goal of establishing at least one bilateral PTA per continent to overcome regional trade barriers, Korea’s first PTA with Chile came into effect in 2004. More bilateral PTAs with Columbia, Singapore, Peru, India, the EU and the United States followed. They were all opposed by the agricultural sector because they included a reduction of tariffs on agricultural products. Protests from civil society organizations representing farmers, however, could not prevent the ratification of any of these PTAs. This is also true for KORUS, the US–Korea-FTA. Initially only the agricultural sector and Korean beef producers opposed KORUS. Later, however, protests against KORUS developed into one of the largest anti-government protests Korea had experienced in the past two decades (Kim 2009: 143). These mass protests caused a major delay in the ratification of the agreement that had already been signed in 2007 but was not ratified until late 2011 (Seliger 2015: 284, 85). Protests started when, in April 2008, the Korean President Lee Myun-Bak allowed beef imports from the United States. But the Korean public was very concerned about BSE (bovine spongiform encephalopathy). For this reason, South Korea had previously banned US beef imports in 2003 after the first US case of BSE. In 2006, however, South Korea agreed to a protocol that allowed imports of US boneless beef from cattle less than thirty months old3 (Jurenas and Manyin 2010: 3, 4). The 2008 agreement allowing all American beef imports was covered in a Korean television programme that questioned the safety of US beef and the reliability of BSE testing. Furthermore, it presented US beef as highly risky. According to Kim (2014) it was this programme that stirred protest, because Korean citizens feared an increased BSE risk for Korean consumers (Kim 2014: 235). While in 2006 and 2007 farmers led the protests, the resumption of US beef imports saw the anti-KORUS protests reach a nationwide scale in 2008 with more than 300,000 people participating (LVC 2012: 11). On May 2, more than 100,000 people gathered in Seoul for candlelight protests against KORUS and US beef imports (Kim 2009). Candlelight protest had emerged a decade earlier in South Korea as “a peaceful and nonviolent way to express people’s opinions”. People held candlelight vigils every night after May 2 until the end of August to demand the nullification of the KORUS beef agreement (Kim 2014: 238). Major strategies of the protesters included holding street demonstrations; attacking conservative media; promoting online impeachment; spreading information on BSE; boycotting US beef; and joining official politics such as congressional hearings, scientific debates and legal confrontations. Protests were organized via the Internet, and civil society organizations joined the protests just one week after the first rally. Professional activists and ordinary citizens alike formed the People’s Council against Mad Cow Disease. CSOs mobilized their members to participate and left-wing media to disseminate their opinions (Kim 2014: 239). Politicians from opposition parties organized assembly member groups to oppose the KORUS FTA; scientists, lawyers, social scientists and physicians organized a KORUS FTA academic task force to provide analysis and scientific expertise (LVC 2012: 11). This task force was created to inform the public of the risk of US beef and to attack the government’s claim that US beef was safe. On June 10, 2008, several hundred thousand people joined the protest, and the police constructed barricades to protect the Blue House (Kim 2014: 239). The opposition to the KORUS beef agreement and KORUS itself primarily called for food labelling that would enable consumers to make informed food choices (Kim 2009). Others, 271

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however, considered the reopening of the Korean beef market as an offence to Korean national pride and an infringement on national sovereignty and Korea’s economic sovereignty and democracy in general (Kim 2014: 247; LVC 2012: 5). Cultural, nationalist and anti-American claims were linked to the beef issue to achieve a ban on US beef imports. This anti-Americanism linked to food imports was by no means new. Several prominent food safety scares have been associated with American imports and other Korean-American trade confrontations. Additionally, conflicts stemming from the American military presence have stoked a rise in anti-Americanism in Korea (Burmeister and Choi 2012: 253). To address rising public pressure, the Korean government pursued talks with the United States to find ways to defuse these concerns without “renegotiating” the beef agreement. However, they could not reach a satisfying arrangement beyond voluntary standards (Jurenas and Manyin 2010). Then President Lee also apologized for the decision to import US beef and fired the Minister of Agriculture, Forestry and Fishery and other government officials. Yet these actions failed to appease people’s anger and anxiety, and as the protests continued, the government decided to take a hard-line approach against candlelight protests by calling street demonstrations illegal, arresting protesters and protest leaders and violently breaking up demonstrations. In August, protest leaders called for an end to the candlelight protests because of the government’s harsh reaction and its unwillingness to nullify the US beef deal (Kim 2014: 240). Although the agreement to import US beef was not rescinded, the movement achieved some changes: the Korean Assembly introduced new legal measures to protect citizens from food contamination, and many government committees started to include civil society organization members and ordinary citizens (Kim 2014: 242). The protest against the KORUS beef deal shows that activists could play an important role in disseminating information and forming opinions (Kim 2009: 148). The protest against the KORUS beef agreement also had a transnational dimension. It spread beyond local, national and global boundaries. Koreans abroad participated in online activism and organized protests in seventeen cities, including New York, Los Angeles, Paris, London, Sydney, Taipei and Sao Paulo (Kim 2009). Many NGOs and notables around the world supported the Korean candlelight protest. Protesters based their campaigns on information about BSE from the United States and UK to stress that US beef was highly risky. Having learned about prions, the major agent of mad cow disease from various scholars and scientific publications from the transnational scientific community, they argued against the government’s decision to allow the import of meat from cattle older than thirty months (Kim 2014: 242). Transnational networks and knowledge were also an important source of inspiration for the alternatives to agricultural trade liberalization that farmers’ organizations in Korea developed. In particular, the LVC member organizations were not satisfied with the changes in food safety regulation and continued their opposition to the WTO and PTAs. Just like peasant organizations from Thailand, KPL’s and KWPA’s visions for agriculture in Korea state a clear opposition to imported food that is considered less safe and healthy and a threat to traditional Korean cuisine. Instead, they emphasize domestic, local and sometimes traditional agricultural products. The KWPA’s kitchen garden initiative, for example, is an attempt to promote the direct marketing of regional and seasonal specialty crops produced by women farmers. This local initiative was connected with LVC’s international seed saving campaign, as consumption of these regional specialty foods saves indigenous seed varieties (Burmeister and Choi 2012: 254). Because of their leading role at protests against WTO Ministerial Meetings, the Korean farmers’ organizations were experienced in mobilizing people. For example, they mobilized more than 1,000 Korean peasants to travel to Hong Kong to protest against the WTO (Nōmin 2005). They also collaborated closely with other LVC member organizations, especially from Japan, during and after the protests against KORUS (Nōmin 2011a). Nōminren and CUJ members travelled to 272

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Korea and participated in the demonstrations against KORUS, closely observed the developments with regard to PTAs, organized conferences to discuss KORUS and later TPP (LVC 2012: 3) and protested together against agricultural trade liberalization, for example, at the APEC Ministerial Meeting in Niigata, in 2010 (Nōmin 2010). In short, the anti-KORUS protests in South Korea strongly contributed to the transnationalisation of protests against PTAs through connecting people, spreading new knowledge about BSE and PTAs and introducing new mobilizing strategies. One protest campaign that built on these enhanced transnational networks, knowledge and experiences is the protest campaign against TPP in Japan.

Japan: transnational protest against the TPP Just like South Korea, Japan is known for agricultural protectionism and a strong opposition to any kind of agricultural trade liberalization (Naoi and Kume 2011; George Mulgan 2015: 3). Japan currently has bilateral PTAs with fifteen countries and ASEAN. Five PTAs are under negotiation (MOFA 2018). The Trans-Pacific Partnership (TPP) agreement is probably the most ambitious PTA Japan has negotiated over the past years. Although the agreement was signed in early 2016, US President Donald Trump left the treaty in January 2017 (Baker 2017). In March 2018, eleven member states signed the Comprehensive and Progressive Agreement for TransPacific Partnership (CPTPP), or TPP 11, without the United States. The TPP was originally formed in 2006 as the Trans-Pacific Strategic Economic Partnership – a free trade agreement now in effect between Singapore, New Zealand, Chile and Brunei. In 2008, the United States, along with Australia, Peru and Vietnam, joined the negotiations. Malaysia followed as the ninth negotiating partner in October 2010, while Canada and Mexico entered the TPP talks in October 2012. Japan followed in July 2013. In 2011, Japan’s government announced the decision to enter into consultations toward participating in the Trans-Pacific Partnership negotiations with the countries concerned. The decision was welcomed by most of the business community but strongly opposed by the agricultural lobby; the Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry and Fisheries (MAFF); farmers’ organizations; and the Central Union of Agricultural Cooperatives (JA Zenchū). They were particularly vehement in their stance against the TPP because it aimed (at least theoretically) at abolishing all tariffs on agricultural products. Nevertheless, in March 2013, Prime Minister Abe Shinzō declared that Japan would join the TPP negotiations. It did so at the eighteenth TPP meeting in Malaysia, in July 2013. Since 2011, a broad alliance of opposition parties, labour unions, consumer and agricultural organizations have rallied against the TPP. Most of the rallies were jointly organized by agricultural and consumer groups who are members of the Stop TPP! Network founded in 2011. Japan’s agricultural cooperatives, for example, collected 11.7 million signatures on a petition opposing Japan’s participation in the TPP in 2011 (George Mulgan 2013). TPP opponents feared a death blow to Japanese agriculture and a degradation of food safety standards (amongst many other problems). In the discourse on the TPP, food safety issues were linked to agricultural trade and especially to the threat that TPP could pose to Japan’s agriculture and farmers’ livelihoods by abolishing tariffs on rice, beef, pork, sugar and dairy products (Reiher 2017). While many member organizations of the Stop TPP! Network perceived the TPP as a problem related to the neoliberal trade system and TNCs, they simultaneously fell into a rather nationalist rhetoric. Just like in Korea, a number of food safety issues like GMOs and BSE have been linked to American food imports and were considered a “threat to the health of Japanese consumers”. The movement against the liberalization of food additives or the rice market in the 1980s and 1990s had brought forward very similar arguments as the TPP opponents, calling these earlier agreements 273

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a “jeopardy to the future of Japanese agriculture” and an “American occupation of Japanese stomachs” (Maclachlan 2002: 191). Responding to the transnational character of the TPP, the movement in Japan was also transnationally connected. As pointed out earlier, the anti-TPP campaign could already build on transnational networks created earlier at anti-WTO protests and through LVC and linked consumer and peasant organizations from many countries that were negotiating the TPP. The consumer organization Nihon Shōhisha Renmei (Consumers Union of Japan or CUJ), for example, invited international specialists on trade and food safety to Japan to discuss the TPP and cooperated with international civil society organizations. CUJ members have also participated in TPP negotiation meetings. One of CUJ’s members could only access the meeting with the help of Public Citizen, an NGO from the United States, with whom CUJ cooperates. Individual organizations from countries negotiating the TPP and other Asian countries formed a transnational anti-TPP network that consists of CSOs from all countries negotiating the TPP. Members include Thailand’s FTA Watch, Oxfam and CASE – a consumer organization from Singapore, amongst others. Since most of these organizations have only limited financial resources, members cannot always travel to the negotiation meetings. Thus, network members who attend the special events for civil society stakeholders share information via mailing lists. The network’s member organizations also planned joint advocacy strategies and protests (Uchida 2013: 3). Although South Korea was not involved in TPP negotiations, members of Japanese consumer organizations frequently travelled to South Korea to speak with consumer activists about their experiences with the KORUS. They hoped to learn from their experiences and their mobilization strategies and to draw conclusions on the possible impacts TPP could have on Japanese consumers. According to the Korean consumer activists, the negative effects of KORUS were overwhelming. They called for a joint Japanese-Korean movement against TPP. Consumer organizations in Japan included the Korean experience in their arguments against TPP (Ōno 2013; Yamaura 2013). While many transnational activities are organized by individual organizations and oriented towards groups in Asia, members of LVC’s global network like Nōminren also participate in protests coordinated by LVC. LVC addresses TPP as a problem because it threatens national sovereignty and farmers’ livelihoods, and increases the power of TNCs (LVC 2015). In order to increase protests and networks within Asia, Nōminren has organized workshops in Tokyo and invited members from other countries from East and Southeast Asia to discuss PTAs, TPP and economic cooperation in the Asia-Pacific region in general (Nōmin 2011b). Likewise, LVC coordinated joint protests against the TPP by peasant and agricultural organizations in countries that negotiated the TPP like Canada and Japan. LVC’s Southeast and East Asia chapter also organized joint protests and press releases. Under the coordination of LVC, organizations from countries that were negotiating the TPP signed a joint petition and published a booklet on the TPP in which they state their opposition (LVC 2015). Just like their counterparts in Thailand and Korea, opponents of PTAs in Japan consider localized food systems a solution to the shortcomings of the current food trade system. Nōminren, for example, called for a boycott of all imported food, regardless of its place of origin and whether it is considered “safe” according to current Japanese standards. They propose direct selling of local produce as a strategy to avoid the consumption of imported foods (Reiher 2017). Not only farmers’ organizations but also local governments and the MAFF proposed the direct selling of local produce through the concept of chisan chishō (Hirata Kimura and Nishiyama 2008). However, these ideas go back to the 1970s when the teikei system, a grassroots-initiated farmer–consumer partnership, was initiated as a solution to multifaceted risks such as pesticides 274

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and agricultural chemicals rooted in modernized lifestyles (Kondoh 2015: 147). This reflects that global ideas about alternatives to the liberalization of agricultural trade were appropriated to local contexts, concepts and practices.

Conclusion: transnational protests and localized visions for the future of Asia’s agri-food system Food security, agriculture and food safety play important roles in anti-PTA protests in East and Southeast Asia. While standards for BSE became the most important issue in South Korea, import tariffs for agricultural products were more important in Japan and Thailand. All antiPTA campaigns introduced here criticized the lack of transparency in PTA negotiations, the dominance of TNCs and many of the features of PTAs that interfere in domestic politics. Consumers and farmers in the three countries have argued that PTAs threaten people’s right to safe food, consumers’ health and the livelihood of family farmers, and argue that the future of small-scale agriculture is endangered by the onslaught of imported agricultural goods. They all share a tendency to incorporate anti-Americanism, but to varying degrees. However, each country has its particular laws and political and social contexts that allow or constrain protest. Protests against PTAs in Thailand and Korea were only one aspect of a larger political crisis that went far beyond anti-PTA protests. All campaigns were based on coalitions composed of a wide variety of civil society organizations, farmers associations, businesses and trade unions, both domestic and transnational. The campaigns draw on transnational cooperation, solidarity, resources, knowledge and ideas to increase pressure on governments and TNCs. The individual campaigns introduced here show how during the past decade, the transnationalization of anti-PTA movements in Asia has intensified, beginning with anti-WTO protests as part of the alter-globalization movement emerging in the late 1990s and intensifying through protest campaigns against individual PTAs. Anti-PTA campaigns and their related networks have been both national and transnational. Transnational knowledge is referred to in individual campaigns in order to support the claims of the movement or by copying successful mobilization strategies from other campaigns. LVC member organizations in particular share similar concepts for alternative food systems and the future of food and agricultural trade. These ideas, however, are appropriated to already existing local concepts, practices and campaigns. Although transnational cooperation and solidarity work across national borders within and beyond Asia, the alternatives offered by individual campaigns remain oriented towards the local. LVC as a transnational peasant organization strives to change the international governance of agricultural trade by lobbying UN organizations and by creating resilient food systems at the local level (Burnett and Murphy 2014: 1075). However, many national and local campaigns against PTAs only emphasize domestic produce and local consumer–producer partnerships, often mixed with food nationalism. The latter seems to be stronger in South Korea and in Japan than in Thailand, possibly due to the low food self-sufficiency ratios of the former. However, considering the interrelatedness of food importing countries like Japan and South Korea with food exporting countries like Thailand, interregional agricultural trade cannot be ignored when studying protests against PTAs in East and Southeast Asia. Against the backdrop of complex global food chains and the transnational food sovereignty movement, the analysis of agriculture, trade and food movements in the region has to consider local, national and transnational contexts and entanglements in order to understand the character of its current corporate food regime and the potential for change.

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Notes 1 I use the term preferential trade agreements (PTAs) to emphasize that these trade agreements are not about free trade, but offer trading partners only partial trade liberalization in selected fields. However, the term free trade agreement or FTA is part of the official names of some of the PTAs this chapter deals with. Thus, in these cases, I use the official denomination. 2 When this manuscript was submitted in May 2018, the parliaments of the member states still needed to ratify the agreement. 3 At the time, the under-thirty-months-old criterion was based on the widely held view that cattle younger than thirty months were less susceptible to mad cow disease (Jurenas and Manyin 2010: 4).

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20 AGRICULTURE, FOOD SECURITY AND THE TRANS-PACIFIC PARTNERSHIP Stability and change in Japanese agricultural policy making Thomas Feldhoff Introduction Japan’s agricultural sector is in an ongoing process of decline, a process that is not untypical of industrialised nations. But despite the diminishing economic importance, controversial agricultural issues are still very likely to prompt public outrage in Japan. This is linked to a nationalist discourse and political narratives alluding to land and soils, natural landscapes, food culture and tradition and belonging to the Japanese nation. The combination of identity politics and history, food culture and food security objectives, with solid patronage networks for farmers, caused the rise of vested interests. George Mulgan (2000) stressed that agrarian power even helped to produce a distinctly pro-rural bias of post-war Japanese governments. Paradoxically enough, food security has been the most popular argument in favour of protectionist policies, while these policies caused production efficiency declines. Public policy theory provides an explanation about why it is not easy to change established policy paths in order to revitalise the agricultural sector: punctuated equilibrium theory argues that policy changes are usually rather incremental in nature, because policy communities seek to maintain the status quo, and it is only under certain circumstances that long periods of stability are punctuated by short but intense periods of change. This requires a focusing or triggering event, hence punctuated equilibrium: an event that attracts high levels of public attention creating a situation in which an issue reaches the top of the political agenda. In the case of Japan’s agricultural sector, the prospect of a mega-regional trade agreement is identified here as a potential triggering event. In an attempt to bring his economic growth and structural reform plans back to life, Prime Minister Abe embarked on the Trans-Pacific Partnership (TPP) negotiations, and at the same time, his government aimed to push for major domestic agricultural sector reforms. The TPP negotiations created new challenges for food and agricultural businesses in Japan as issues related to agriculture broke out of the narrow policy community, which has intentionally limited policy debate and the scope for policy change for many decades; “the zombification of Japanese farming” (Gōdo 2014) has been the most noticeable outcome of this. 279

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Based on a literature review, including governmental and non-governmental documents, policy reports and briefings, secondary data analysis and an in-depth look at the recent media coverage, this chapter analyses how Japan’s politics of preserving the national food culture and food security relate to institutionalised patterns of power and authority. It asks questions about the changes of farmers’ political power in the context of punctuated equilibrium theory in policy studies. In particular, the chapter argues that the prospect of a mega-regional trade agreement could have served as an event triggering transformative agricultural policy change, yet the government failed to develop and implement a coherent agricultural reform strategy mainly for political and vote-seeking reasons. The policy community’s responsiveness to reform pressures is strong enough to prevent outsider groups promoting alternative agendas that might threaten the status quo. Thus, the persistence of particularistic policies epitomises the sustained stability of collusive structures. The chapter closes with an assessment of recent policy amendments in the context of the TTP negotiations and the broader political and social contexts. Today, we know that the TPP will not come into effect as negotiated because in January 2017, shortly after his inauguration, President Donald Trump withdrew the United States from the agreement. However, the focus here is on aspects of agenda setting, policy formulation and legitimation, and not the actual implementation, which was far from clear at the time of writing. Considering the strategic significance with a view towards China as a non-TPP party, Japan pushed forward talks for bringing an “11-member TPP” without the United States into force (The Japan Times, 2017).

Policy persistence and change: a punctuated equilibrium perspective Public policy making is inherently difficult because of the multiplicity of policy actors, the political incentives that motivate and influence how these actors interact in the policy process, and the conflicts that often arise over policy outputs and the evaluation of policy outcomes (Kraft and Furlong 2015). This is aggravated by an increasingly complex political system that makes it ever more difficult for policy issues to be insulated from the wider political process (Baumgartner and Jones 1993: 43). Evidence from public policy studies nevertheless suggests that the tendency to maintain previously implemented policy paths and to make rather incremental changes is very strong. Under certain circumstances, however, very quick and dramatic change is possible. As Baumgartner et al. (2014: 59) put it, “[s]tasis, rather than crisis, typically characterizes most policy areas, but crises do occur”. The aim of punctuated equilibrium theory is to explain these long periods of stability punctuated by short but intense periods of change (Cairney 2012: 175). With regard to stability, the focus is on both agenda setting and policy communities. As observation capacities and observation spans are limited among decision makers, most public policy issues lack sufficient attention to make it to their agenda. Policy communities, based on stable policy area specific relationships between public officials and interest groups, have an interest in protecting a policy monopoly by framing their field in a particular way, limiting the ability of outsiders to engage and minimising external interest. “As a result, policymaking tends to be incremental and based on previous agreements between a small number of participants” (Cairney 2012: 176). Broadbent (2002) and George Mulgan (2005) argued that Japanese policy actors are deeply embedded in long-term relationships of mutual obligation with special interests. The precise configurations and memberships differ by policy field, but the institutionalisation of patronage networks is what creates the equilibrium: policy communities facilitate the interaction of different stakeholders and their exchange of information and resources. On the basis of a common cognitive order concerning the nature of policy problems and the responses required to these policy issues, they try to maintain the status quo. This also includes fixed and closed 280

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agendas and the delineation of insider and outsider groups. The agricultural policy community, in particular, has been very effective in maintaining and defending a policy monopoly, resulting in a very long period of policy stability. In fact, the post-war Japanese economy was based on a two-tiered system consisting of a highly inefficient sector of industries bolstered by subsidies and protection from international competition, as well as a sector of internationally competitive companies yielding high growth rates (Woodall 1996; Pempel 1998). Agriculture clearly belongs to the first category but, somewhat bizarrely, has continued to play a pivotal role in the political economy of the country. Throughout the post-war period, the sector enjoyed powerful policy backing from the conservative Liberal Democratic Party (LDP); government organisations such as the Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry and Fisheries (MAFF); and the agricultural business community and their nationwide organisations; otherwise, it would have collapsed under the pressures of structural change (George Mulgan 2000, 2005, 2006a; Maclachlan and Shimizu 2016; Nakamura 2001). Yet sometimes, under the right circumstances, punctuated equilibrium suggests that policy change represents a major departure from previous paths and the policy monopoly is destroyed. Most importantly, sudden peaks in external attention may cause policy makers to respond with profound policy change. A triggering event that attracts high levels of public attention is geared towards creating a situation in which an issue reaches the top of the political agenda. During the TPP negotiations, adverse effects on parts of the agricultural sector seem to have become politically and also socially feasible – in the Cabinet Office under the leadership of Prime Minister Abe Shinzō; the Ministry of Economy, Trade and Industry (METI); and even within the conservative LDP. The prime minister strongly pushed for the agreement to become a key instrument of his structural reform programme, which is the third arrow of the notorious “Abenomics” strategy to unleash economic growth. Obviously, the expected economic gains from the greater flow of goods, services and investments across the Asia-Pacific region were very appealing – and enabled decisive political actors to draw attention to these advantages, even at the expense of agriculture-related issues. Therefore, interdependencies between politics and agricultural policy actors need to be examined carefully. Economic fundamentals, as analysed in subsequent parts of this chapter, underpin the recognition that their influence massively outsizes their actual economic impact. As punctuated equilibrium theory suggests, “venue shopping” is an important element in the process of policy shift. That means the attempt to seek more sympathetic audiences in other venues, such as the broader business community represented by METI and the Japan Business Federation (Keidanren), and to shift policy images from seclusion to openness. Then the successful redefinition of a policy problem prompts an influx of new actors, more “outside” involvement and the further likelihood of profound policy change (Cairney 2012: 198). However, missing this rare window of opportunity for major punctuations, Japan has not made sufficient progress in formulating and implementing a coherent agricultural policy reform and even reasserted certain key tenets of the politics of agriculture. Before assessing agricultural policy in the context of the TPP, its dominant image, origins and institutional arrangements are presented in the next section.

Washoku, rice and the origins of Japan’s national food identity Washoku, the traditional dietary culture of the Japanese, was designated as an Intangible Cultural Heritage by the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) in December 2013. For the Japanese government, this designation implies a long-term commitment to preserve culinary traditions and the diversity of ingredients “strongly rooted in the terroir” (Nippon.com 2014). Drastic changes in Japanese food consumption in the post-war years, however, are directly linked to the continuous decline in the demand for domestic produce. 281

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Nevertheless, rice continues to play an important role, and it is no coincidence that the Japanese word for “rice”, gohan, also means “meal”; and it is no coincidence that rice has featured “as the most contentious agricultural trade liberalisation issue in the postwar period” (George Mulgan 2000: 26). External pressure to open up the rice market was time and again perceived as a threat to the very cultural foundations of the country (Blaker 1998: 216). In fact, discourses linking Japan’s national identity to traditional food, particularly rice, have been elaborated over time by an influential policy community to make a strong argument for the continued protection of agriculture. With an increasing population and limited natural opportunities to broaden the basis for domestic production, this was linked to the supporting idea of food security, which has been a major topic on the agenda of policy makers well before and ever after World War Two (Balaam 1984; Harris 1982; Ogura 1976; Tanaka and Hosoe 2008; MAFF 2013). Aside from its traditional importance for the Japanese diet, rice also permeates ceremonial and ritual activities relating to Japan’s indigenous religion, Shintoism. For example, the daijōsai is the central feature of the ceremonies surrounding the emperor’s accession to the throne. This offering of the first cuttings of rice to the Imperial Ancestress can be traced back to the seventh century. But it was only in the Meiji period (1868–1912) that the ceremony was put centre stage of national ideology construction (Picken 1994: 84–86). The restoration of imperial power in the aftermath of Japan’s reopening to the world ushered in during these years, a time of rapid industrialisation, modernisation, urbanisation and the emergence of ultranationalist groups. Ancient Japanese mythology began to be approached as history, part of it being the conceptualisation of the Japanese nation as a family, the emperor-headed ruling structure and the unbroken lineage of the imperial family (Hunter 1992: 171–172). When Sato (1918: 445) noted, “ever since the foundation of the Empire 2,600 years ago, rice culture has been handed down from generation to generation as the most important agricultural occupation of the country”, he implicitly referred back to the year 660 BC. According to the Chronicles of Japan (Nihon shoki), the mythical first Emperor Jimmu ascended to the throne that year. From 1872 to 1948, 11 February was a public holiday commemorating his enthronisation (Empire Day, Kigen-setsu), and it was re-established as the “National Foundation Day” (Kenkoku kinen no hi) in 1966. It thus remains a symbolic representation of the spirit of national unity and traditions linked to the “rice culture” of the country. British historian Eric Hobsbawm (1983) pointed to the fact that “history” has always been an important instrument for the formation of modern nation-states, providing narratives of coincidence for myth and reality. “Invented traditions” emerged from the attribution of particular importance for special occasions in order to trace the continuities of national history to the myths of origin. Centenary celebrations, the worshipping of heroes or deified men and traditional ceremonies are important memorial rituals used to represent national unity and address the “nation-state community” as a whole. Evans (2002: 4) considered wet rice cultivation a major source of community building in Japan. He noted that the pre-industrial communality of traditional village life “tends to be idealized as [a] model of harmony and cooperation”. Ultimately, any collective identity formation based on “history” is linked to exclusion and thus is a double-edged sword: on the one hand, it works as an integrative or centralising force as it helps to foster the ideology of unity; on the other hand, it fosters discrimination against the “outsiders” and bears potential for conflict and isolation. Ideas of the cultural and behavioural distinctiveness of the island nation are widely contemplated in the so-called Nihonjin-ron, which literally means “Discussions on Being Japanese”, and is still reproduced and transmitted into modern identity discourses (Wilson 2002). Apart from historical legacies and cultural traits, there has also been a geo-deterministic argumentation linking the “rice culture” to specific Japanese land use patterns determined by 282

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the physical geography of the island nation (i.e. geomorphology, climate and soil conditions). Agricultural suitability is, in fact, restricted as “mountains limit the cultivable regions to the coastal plains, pockets of lowland, basins and valleys – no more than 16.3 per cent [of the total land area] in all” (Kolb 1971: 466). Looking at challenges arising from Japan’s small-scale rice culture tradition, Sato (1918: 445) asserted, “[t]he future welfare and strength of Japan, not to speak of advancement in civilisation, depend much upon how the question of rice culture is solved”. When putting Japan’s obsession with self-sufficiency, particularly with regard to rice but also other critical natural resources, into this context, one rationale for governments to launch costly support programmes emerges. National food security and identity have been framed as a major national concern by the dominant agriculture policy community despite the fact that diet diversification, commercialisation demands, global networks of production and trade liberalisation have fundamentally transformed Japan’s food supply systems (Honma 2015). Moreover, the Japanese application to acknowledge washoku as an UNESCO Intangible Cultural Heritage was based on defining washoku in sociocultural terms, “as sets of practices and values that link foodways to social relationships, (. . .) and express deep cultural affinities for rituals and patterns of communal life” (Bestor 2014: 60).

Agricultural protectionism and the politics of agriculture in Japan Insistence on either cultural-historic or geo-deterministic interpretations tends to overshadow the social, economic, political and governing contexts of public policy making in contemporary Japan. Bestor (2014: 61) concludes, The protection and promotion of cultural heritage, as a bureaucratic process, transforms loosely coordinated cultural features – such as aesthetics, historical referents, daily life and practice, social ritual and social hierarchy – into matters of government policy and official definitions. Diverse cultural and social practices are moved from the realm of relatively unselfconscious daily life into bureaucratically defined categories of distinction and differentiation, projected on a global screen of cultural identities (nationally defined) and cultural politics for national recognition, as well as to promote domestic goals of cultural identity formation. The political-economic perspective draws our attention to the fact that farming in Japan is highly reliant to varying degrees on continuing support and protection from the government. In fact, Japanese agricultural protectionism has always been a major block for international farm trade liberalisation, such as the GATT Uruguay Round and World Trade Organization (WTO) negotiations, Japan’s free trade agreement (FTA) and economic partnership agreement (EPA) talks (Blaker 1998; George Mulgan 2006b, 2014; Honma 2015; Yamashita 2015a). George Mulgan (2006b: 12) noticed that the agricultural policy community was tightly bound together by their shared vested interests and that the electoral nexus between farm voters and LDP politicians were never seriously threatened by political reforms. Vitanov et al. (2007: 331) found that there was no massive intervention of the Japanese government on the agriculture market until 1974 because less than 10% of farmers received subsidies from the state. After the oil crisis, however, the situation changed dramatically, and almost all agricultural producers were included in government subsidies schemes and other market stabilisation programmes to protect agricultural producers from foreign competition. Japan still imposes a varied set of border measures (tariffs, safeguard tariffs, tariff-rate quotas, state trading, markups, variable duties, labelling, content and process, sanitary and phytosanitary requirements and other 283

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non-tariff barriers) and maintains domestic agricultural support measures for major commodities such as rice (Dyck and Arita 2014: 5–8). Harada (2013) showed that agricultural products, such as vegetables and fruits, that saw tariffs lowered or eliminated early on have achieved international competitiveness, while heavily protected ones have not. Rice, in particular, has become a symbol of the decline of Japan’s agriculture. Without tariff protection and other economic incentives, rice farming would not have continued to be a feasible option for the majority of Japan’s farmers. A specific “architecture of intervention” (George Mulgan 2005) involving the MAFF officials, the MAFF minister, LDP representatives and the Central Union of Agricultural Co-operatives (JA-Zenchū) has provided that support. JA-Zenchū is an independent administrative body that represents the entire Japan Agriculture (JA) Group and sets policy for and lobbies on behalf of its nearly 10 million members. Part-time and hobby farmers, family member and associated nonfarmer members have significantly expanded JA Group’s political representation. Most importantly, the government granted JA-Zenchū the power to audit local agricultural cooperatives (co-ops) and virtual monopoly rights over agricultural distribution, which implies severe market distortions (George Mulgan 2000: 26; Maclachlan and Shimizu 2016; Yamashita 2015c). Higher prices for agricultural products generated more revenue from sales commissions and higher income from the sales of production inputs. For example, JA-Zenchū holds roughly 45% of the rice distribution volume in Japan, restricting the supply of rice to the market in order to maintain high prices. As indicated by the domestic rice price index (Figure 20.1), a decline

Figure 20.1 Rice in Japan: Planted area, production, consumption and stockpiling by the national government and domestic rice price index, 1960–2015 Sources: Data derived from MAFF statistics, available from www.maff.go.jp/j/tokei/kouhyou/noubukka/ index.html, and the Statistics Bureau e-Stat portal, available from www.e-stat.go.jp/SG1/estat/List. do?lid=000001173263, www.e-stat.go.jp/SG1/estat/List.do?lid=000001177544 (accessed 5 May 2017); graphic design by H. Krähe

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was caused in 2014 by JA-Zenchū’s price-fixing manipulation. In the previous two years, the price of rice had been kept high in spite of extraordinary high yields. The stocking of excessive rice induced a price decrease for rice produced in 2014 and 2015, though, and as a consequence, the price gap between domestic and overseas markets has now disappeared (Yamashita 2015a: 3–5). Moreover, an acreage reduction (gentan) programme for rice farming, first introduced in 1970 and strongly endorsed by the agricultural cooperatives, aimed to restrict the volume of rice produced, to support the price of rice and to keep inefficient small-scale, part-time farmers in the industry. Those farmers have been the very foundation of JA’s expansion and prosperity. But eventually, acreage reduction weakened Japan’s food security basis, as it resulted in a loss of 1.1 million ha, or a quarter of the country’s arable land (Harada 2013). The activities of Japan’s agricultural cooperatives extend well beyond functions of mobilisation and representation deep into politics and the economy. That is what basically guaranteed their long-term stability despite agricultural decline. In fact, they developed into multi-purpose organisations encompassing banking services (Norinchukin Bank) and mutual insurance (Zenkyoren); marketing and purchasing of farm products; and supplies of production inputs, such as seeds, fertiliser and machinery (Zen-Noh). With regard to electoral politics, George Mulgan (2000: 334–350) argued that agrarian power has produced a distinctly pro-rural bias of post-war Japanese governments, most of them led by the conservative LDP. JA Group has played a decisive role in this as the main organisational intermediary linking party politicians to their supporters in rural areas and exerting strong vote-mobilisation powers. Moreover, JA-Zenchū has used its financial strength to support political campaigns, and their staff members regularly attend LDP and MAFF policy meetings. The “pork barrel politics” phenomenon of elected representatives using their office to favour their own constituency by influencing patterns of public expenditure and hence bolster their re-election prospects has also been widely discussed in the literature (Feldhoff 2005; George Mulgan 2005; McCormack 2001; Woodall 1996). Analysis of election outcomes by electoral district types indeed proves the LDP’s strength in single-member rural and semi-rural type districts. Problems of political representation stemming from diminishing populations in rural electoral districts and the increasing disparity in vote value between urban and rural districts are periodically recurring (Sato 2011). LDP-led governments, however, have been reluctant to carry out a fundamental overhaul of the electoral system. For LDP political leaders in office, vote-value disparity is an ambiguous phenomenon: the outsized influence of rural voters is a traditional conservative party power support base but restricts the opportunities to push for more liberalisation and structural reform from within the Cabinet Office, as JA Group has strongly opposed the TPP (George Mulgan 2014). The need for new policy thinking is supported by empirical findings indicating that agriculture is in a state of continuous decline but still very costly for taxpayers. Producer support estimates and welfare reduction indices referred to by Dyck and Arita (2014: 10–11) suggest that Japan’s policies make its agricultural market the most distorted among TPP member countries. This poses problems of legitimation in the face of ever-rising government debt levels.

Agriculture: a declining sector of the economy Japan’s agricultural sector follows a long-term downward trend and faces major structural problems indicated by massive declines in such figures as agricultural production’s share of gross domestic product (GDP) and agricultural working population (Yamashita 2008; Honma 2015). The contribution of agriculture to the GDP is only 1% (compared to 10% in China), and employment in agriculture is only 4% of total employment (compared to 35% worldwide). Most notably, the number of commercial farm households, the population engaged in commercial 285

Thomas Feldhoff Table 20.1 Commercial farming and arable land in Japan, 1990–2015 Fiscal year

Commercial farm households in million (% of full-time engagement)

Population engaged in commercial farming (million)

Percentage of those 65 years and over

Area of cultivated land (million ha)

1990 1995 2000 2005 2010 2015

2.971 (16%) 2.651 (16%) 2.337 (18%) 1.963 (23%) 1.631 (28%) 1.330 (33%)

4.819 4.140 3.891 3.353 2.606 2.097

33.1 43.5 58.2 58.2 61.6 63.5

5.243 5.038 4.830 4.692 4.593 4.496

Source: Japan Statistical Yearbooks, Statistics Bureau; MAFF (2017) Note: “Commercial farmers” (hanbai nōka) are farmers with cultivated land under management of 0.3 ha and over or with annual sales of agricultural products amounting to 500,000 yen and over.

farming and the area of cultivated land decreased significantly in the post-war years (Table 20.1). This is mainly due to technological innovation, a decrease in the prices of agricultural products and an absolute decrease in agricultural income (Figure 20.2), thereby reducing the domestic food supply capacity. The number of abandoned farms has risen dramatically, not least because of the gentan policy, but also so many older farmers are retiring and the lack of successors to existing farms. Population statistics reveal that Japan’s farming population is already dominated by the elderly 65 years of age and over, who account for nearly two-thirds of the population engaged in commercial farming. The loss of arable land, particularly planted areas of paddy fields and field rice (see Figure 20.1), is due to abandonment, mostly in the context of the gentan policy, and the conversion of farmland into residential and commercial land through processes of industrialisation and urbanisation. Comparative data on agricultural land area per farm household for different countries hint at another structural problem: small and mini-sized farms dominate Japan’s agricultural sector. In 1966, farms of more than 2 ha accounted for 7% of all farms, and nearly two-thirds of all farms had a cultivable area of less than 1 ha (Kolb 1971: 469). Still in 2015, the percentage of farms with 2 ha or more of operating cultivated land was only 19.5% (except Hokkaido) (Statistics Bureau 2017). That implies that the scope for major technological advances in agriculture is limited because these are most beneficial to larger farms. Also, tax legislation, lease and transfer rights applying to farmland inhibit a greater consolidation of ownership shares of land, and this prevents farmers from making economies-of-scale gains. At the same time, high price supports discourage farm exit, thus preventing shakeout and disadvantaging full-time farmers seeking to acquire additional land and expand the size of their farms, causing sector “zombification” (Gōdo 2014). According to McCormack (2001: 124), the post-war stagnation of the domestic agricultural system was matched by dependence on food imports, which had begun in the context of the postwar food crisis and continued as Japan became locked into place as the world’s largest and most profitable market for U.S. agricultural surpluses (wheat, corn, soybeans, etc.). Japan in fact produces only about 39% of the food it consumes (Table 20.2). This is a major decrease from the 79% in 1960 and is the lowest food self-sufficiency ratio among all major developed countries. One major cause is the dramatic shift in Japanese food consumption towards more meat and dairy products, wheat and wheat-based products, and this factor is directly linked 286

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Figure 20.2 Value of gross agricultural production and income by type of agricultural activity, 1960–2015 Source: Japan Statistical Yearbooks, Statistics Bureau, and data derived from the Statistics Bureau e-Stat portal, available from www.e-stat.go.jp/SG1/estat/Xlsdl.do?sinfid=000031569881 (accessed 5 May 2017); graphic design by H. Krähe Table 20.2 Self-sufficiency ratio of comprehensive food, 1985–2015 Fiscal year

Self-sufficiency ratio* in rice (%)

Self-sufficiency ratio* in cereals (%)

Self-sufficiency ratio* in staple food cereals (%)

Self-sufficiency ratio in calorie supply** (%)

1985 1990 1995 2000 2005 2010 2015

107 100 104 95 95 97 98

31 30 30 28 28 27 29

69 67 65 60 61 59 60

53 48 43 40 40 39 39

Source: Japan Statistical Yearbooks, Statistics Bureau, and Statistics Bureau e-Stat portal, available from www.e-stat.go.jp/SG1/estat/List.do?lid=000001177544 (5 May 2017) Notes: * Self-sufficiency ratio = (domestic production / supplies for domestic consumption) × 100 ** Self-sufficiency ratio in calorie supply = (domestic calorie supply / national gross calorie supply) × 100

to a decrease in the demand for domestic agricultural produce, particularly rice. The contribution from livestock production represents roughly one-third of Japan’s total value of gross agricultural production, and meats are now the largest component of Japan’s agricultural imports. Based on the value of imports, Japan has emerged as the largest meat importer in the world. The proportion of rice output in gross domestic agricultural output decreased from nearly 50% in 1960 to 17% in 2015 (Figure 20.2), and annual average rice consumption per capita more than halved. 287

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The total value of gross agricultural production peaked at ¥11.7 trillion in 1985 and is now down to ¥8.8 trillion (2015). Within the broader business strategies of the food industry, vertical integration of the food supply chain has fundamentally changed domestic as well as export-oriented production systems. Overall, Japan depends on a rather small number of countries for the majority of its agricultural imports, worth ¥6.563 trillion in 2015. Imports from the United States represented 24.5% of the total, and there is a particular dependence on the United States for grains and legumes. China has emerged as the next-largest supplier with a share of 12.4% (MAFF 2016: 7). But import barriers still benefit Japanese farmers as it maintains tariff-rate quotas (TRQs) for some commodities, such as rice and rice flour, wheat and wheat flour, butter and milk powder. Within some of the quotas, government-owned corporations have the sole right to import, and the imported commodities are resold on the Japanese market with a substantial surcharge. Rice imports have been subject to the minimum access commitments set under WTO rules since 1995 (Figure 20.3). The volume of tariff-free unmilled rice imports, mostly from the United States, Thailand and China, increased gradually from 430,000 tonnes to 770,000 tonnes (since 2000). As the government tried to avoid the use of imported rise for direct consumption in order to avoid negative effects on domestic production and prices, most of this has been used for the production of rice crackers and animal feed. Yamashita (2015a) notes that this practice is another waste of taxpayer money as the imported rice is given away “almost for free”. Since its high import dependency rate and low food self-sufficiency rate place Japan in a vulnerable position, MAFF declared it would take appropriate measures to increase the food self-sufficiency ratio to 50% on a supplied calorie basis by 2020 (MAFF 2013). The ministry initiated strategies to enhance the productivity of the domestic agricultural sector through further intensification and specialisation, as well as encouraging production by core farmers and concentration of farm holdings (Honma 2015). Consumers and producers are also encouraged to reduce food waste, which amounts to nearly 20 million tonnes annually. However, new policy directions to market opening remained a nonissue, and tariff protection for certain products, particularly rice, remained a priority even during the TPP negotiations.

Figure 20.3 Minimum access quota of tax-free rice imports total and by country, 1995–2015 Source: Data derived from MAFF statistics, www.komenet.jp/komedata/yunyu/documents/2016/01/ 5-01_20160810.xls (accessed 5 May 2017); graphic design by H. Krähe

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The Trans-Pacific Partnership and agricultural policy challenges The global financial and agricultural price crisis in 2007–2008 has strongly revived the debate about food security and even national security and identity issues in Japan (Maye and Kirwan 2013). According to OECD (2010, 2015) reports on agricultural policy reforms, improving competitiveness is essential to the future prosperity of Japan’s agricultural sector and is thus a key to the country’s food security. The most important steps to secure the future prosperity of agriculture would be to establish a more competitive, more efficient farm sector and open trade in agricultural products, to improve market-orientation instead of income support payments and to better respond to the needs of business-oriented farms. The OECD (2010) report also highlighted Japan’s ability to produce high-quality and specialised products for local, domestic and international markets, including the growing demand for organic food. For agriculture in Japan, however, the prevailing pattern was policy gridlock until recently because of the strong force of organised interest opposition to any substantial policy change. In early October 2015, 12 Asia-Pacific countries concluded negotiations on the TPP, a mega-region trade agreement considered historic due to its sheer size. The TPP was intended to liberalise trade and investment and standardise rules in areas such as labour, health and safety and intellectual property rights. METI and the Japan Business Federation strongly endorsed the TPP as “a landmark 21-century economic partnership” (Keidanren 2015). As Japan was expected to gain economically and strategically with its participation, the government came to consider the agricultural sector within the broader economic and political environment. So far, the traditional framing of agricultural policy as a food security and national identity issue had helped to produce support among the wider public and to demobilise any meaningful government engagement for agricultural policy change. Time and again, consumer studies indicated that the Japanese are particularly sensitive to product origin. Peterson et al. (2013) found that based on taste alone, domestic and U.S. rice were valued equally, but when country of origin was revealed, valuation for domestic rice increased by more than 20% while valuation for U.S. rice decreased by 30%. Japan’s participation in the TPP talks since July 2013, however, opened up a rare window of political opportunity for weakening the agricultural policy monopoly by redefining the food security issue within the new transnational framework. According to punctuated equilibrium theory, framing of the TPP as crucial to “the big political issues” of Japan “ensures that it will be considered by many audiences and processed in more than one decision-making venue” (Cairney 2012: 177). Most importantly, the Cabinet Office and METI took a lead in realising the free-trade deal and facilitating negotiations of inevitable trade-offs with the agricultural policy community. The prospect of this agreement raised a number of questions. What is the likely magnitude of the economic gains? Are they evenly distributed across member economies and across societies within the member states? What changes might be observed in their patterns of economic activity? Looking at member structure first, it becomes obvious that the agreement supports the achievement of geopolitical objectives. It more closely links Japan to Pacific Rim nations, maintaining Japan’s leadership in regional cooperation, while excluding China. There is nothing formally preventing China from joining the agreement. However, suspicions China could dominate the whole process and the desire to contain its growing influence in the region were important rationales for its initial exclusion that also served to strengthen the Japan–U.S. alliance (George Mulgan 2014: 25–26; Jiang et al. 2015: 22–23, 25–26. Covering nearly 800 million consumers and 36% of world’s combined GDP, the opportunities and challenges the TPP presents were widely reported in the Japanese media during 2015 and 2016. By 2025, the agreement was estimated to boost the economies of TPP countries by about US$223 trillion annually. 289

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With regard to changes in the pattern of economic activity in Japan, a further decline of the agricultural sector would be likely according to some Japanese government estimates. MAFF (2013: 6) assumed that joining the TPP could cut the value of domestic agricultural production by approximately ¥3.0 trillion (around one-third of the total decline from rice output decline alone), whereas the economy as a whole would get a net boost of around ¥3.2 trillion, mostly through tariff elimination and lower prices for consumers. Unlike MAFF’s rather bleak estimates, Dyck and Arita (2014: 24) do not expect a huge drop in Japanese agricultural activity, and they suggest the following: • • • • •

Most of Japan’s agricultural sector could become competitive within the TPP area; Japanese production of high-quality, high-value goods, including rice, will continue to supply most of the markets presently served in Japan; Japan’s consumers should benefit from lower prices for imported goods as tariffs on TPP imports disappear; In some cases, consumption may increase in response to lower prices; Exporters to Japan should see relatively large gains in those areas where protection is currently high (e.g., rice, beef and dairy products).

With regard to rice, Yamashita (2015a, 2015b) stresses that even if the rice tariff were abolished completely in the TPP, it would not influence Japanese rice farming because of the recent international market price adjustment. Moreover, abolishing the acreage reduction programme would increase production outputs, reduce production costs and enable Japan to export its highquality rice to overseas markets at a higher price. Overall, the picture emerges of massive trade-offs between the partners involved in the domestic and international arenas of TPP and policy reform negotiations in order to avoid major punctuations (Harada 2013). Some other examples illustrate this finding.

Tariffs The agricultural policy community has made it a top priority to keep certain products exempt from tariff elimination. While the tariffs on 51% of 2,328 foreign agricultural products under the TPP will be abolished immediately after it takes effect (including all main vegetables and most fruits and fishery products) and 81% of the products in the longer term, Japan insisted on the maintenance of tariffs in five sensitive areas which were acknowledged as “sanctuaries” by 2013 parliamentary resolutions: rice, wheat and barley, sugar, dairy products, beef and pork – all commodities whose tariff equivalent is currently more than 200%. In these areas, only about 30%, or 174 of 568 items, will become tariff-free (Nikkei Asian Review 2015). As a result, Japan is to maintain its high tariff of 341 yen per kg of imported rice while agreeing on additional import quotas for U.S. and Australian rice, totalling 78,400 tonnes annually. The Japanese government will then purchase the same amount of domestic rice for stockpiling in order to prevent domestic price decreases, which causes another unnecessary burden for all taxpayers (Yamashita 2015a: 2–3). The substantial beef import tariff, which is currently 38.5%, will be gradually reduced to 9% in the sixteenth year of the agreement. But as most breeders of beef cattle are small-sized family farmers, the government’s cattle rearing subsidies will stay in place, which implies that potential beef price reductions due to tariff decreases will be compensated for by the government. 290

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Acreage reduction policy Agricultural policy reform includes phasing out production targets for table rice and shifting to a more targeted income support system. Thus, in November 2013, the Abe government decided to gradually phase out the acreage reduction policy by fiscal year 2018. The main problem has been that much of the land taken out of rice production was left idle, and the government is now seeking to encourage farmland consolidation by larger, full-time operators deploying more advanced technology to increase output, productivity and export competitiveness as domestic rice consumption continues to decline. Policy coherence towards less government intervention, however, is again a desideratum as negative impacts are settled through compensation. The ending of the gentan policy coincides with the announcement to greatly increase subsidies for planting rice for use as animal feed (from ¥ 80,000 to ¥ 105,000 per 0.1 ha), a programme that was introduced in 2009. Yamashita (2015a: 6) calculated that as long as farmers produce rice flour and rice for animal feed, they can receive more than the amount of agricultural revenue from the sale of rice for staple food in 2013 as a subsidy.

Food labelling Despite the fact that Japanese consumers are sensitive to price changes, it would be naïve to assume full tariff elimination would alter Japanese consumer attitudes dramatically. Findings provided by Peterson et al. (2013) suggest that the country-of-origin (COO) labelling will remain particularly important to consumers. All food products being sold in Japan are required to be labelled in accordance with the Food Labelling Act, and country of origin is among the mandatory labelling items. This might become even more important as it provides orientation for Japanese consumers in ever more complex national and international food markets. They tend to prefer domestically produced products, and the COO attribute has a strong influence on their food purchase choices. This also parallels MAFF’s “food education” (shokuiku) campaigns to promote the local consumption of locally produced food and a revival of traditional dietary patterns, based on rice, low in meat and meat products, fats and oils consumption. Obviously, re-localisation offers both an opportunity to promote the development of more robust local economies and the escapist protection from the intricacies of the globalisation of food.

Structural reforms Over the course of the TPP negotiations, the Japanese government repeatedly stressed the need to strengthen the competitiveness of the agricultural sector. Expanding corporate business involvement in agriculture has been one of Prime Minister Abe’s goals, along with reforms of the agricultural cooperatives, farmland consolidation, productivity and income increases and food export competitiveness. A set of policy reform measures becoming effective by fiscal year 2018 started the process of moving to a more market-based agricultural system: •

• •

Reform of the agricultural cooperative organisation, particularly transformation of JAZenchū into a general non-profit organisation subject to taxation, abolishment of its auditing and guidance functions to local co-ops and imposition of a ban on forcing members to use co-op businesses; Transformation of Zennoh, the National Federation of Agricultural Co-operative Associations, into a joint-stock company that no longer enjoys monopoly prices on its sales; Deregulation of the agricultural production cooperations by changes of board membership structure to enable stronger private-sector participation; 291

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•

Consolidation and mobilisation of scattered farmland by reforming the laws governing ownership, use, taxation and transfer of farmland, as well as the foundation of a Farmland Consolidation Bank.

Clearly, the government demonstrates to citizens that it can address prevailing issues in the agricultural sector, and anticipated policy outcomes should not be ignored. Maclachlan and Shimizu (2016: 173) note that “Abe has done more than any other reformist prime minister to tackle the thorny question of agricultural reform”. But effects of these adjustments will only materialise in the longer view, and the agricultural policy community’s tendency to resist change should not be underestimated. Until fiscal year 2018, much of the resources available to the agriculture lobby will remain largely intact, and JA-Zenchū’s loss of direct control over the group does not necessarily lessen its ability to organise the rural vote. In particular, a decision on whether to limit associated membership of non-farmers, who now make up more than half of JA Group members, has been postponed. Its ability to mobilise voters, even if reduced, in combination with the issue of proportional overrepresentation, will remain valuable for conservative politicians in rural constituencies as the overall voter turnout is generally declining.

Conclusions Japan, heavily dependent on food imports, has to cope with its food security challenges, given a rapidly shrinking agricultural sector, ageing and declining rural populations. Options for a farming future have previously been discussed, such as concentration on a market niche, providing unique products that are not found everywhere, combined with a more entrepreneurial spirit in a more open market environment, and the development of ecological and social functions of rural landscapes in the context of multifunctionality (Iiyama 2005; OECD 2010, 2015; Takeuchi et al. 1998). As the TPP created political momentum, structural changes in the agricultural sector and the stronger integration into global trade with agricultural products by accession of the TPP emerged as key policy challenges. Yamashita (2015c) argued in favour of a more proactive role for the agricultural sector, including branding and exporting. As the domestic market will inevitably be shrinking and Japan has to offer highly value-added agricultural products, including high-quality rice, the strategy should be outward-orientated towards expansion and not contraction in order to realise potential economies of scale. As Harada (2013) concludes, “large farms seeking to expand will not be hurt by the TPP, so the trade pact might be effective in rectifying just those aspects of Japan’s agricultural policy that have plagued the country to date”. However, we should be prepared to see the “agricultural empire” striking back when costly countermeasures to compensate farmers for disadvantages from the TPP (when implemented in whatever form) are formulated. Although developed and mostly applied in the U.S. context, punctuated equilibrium theory provides a useful concept to frame our understanding of stability in Japan’s agricultural policy. It emphasises that access to the political agenda is a precondition for major policy punctuations and that a system of partially independent institutional venues for policy making exists. But, as Baumgartner et al. (2014: 63) note, “agenda access does not guarantee major change (. . .) because reform is often blunted in the decision-making stage”. That is exactly what we are witnessing in the case of Japan’s agricultural policy. While the TPP negotiations have certainly moved agricultural issues onto the agenda of the Cabinet Office and some policy change has taken place, the overall picture of reform is that of negotiating parties embarked on a mutual “give-and-take” process that eventually produced a zero-sum gain for all participants. Further liberalisation concessions by the policy community, represented by the 292

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MAFF and JA-Zenchū, could not be won due to the political and symbolic sensitivity of agriculture and the struggles to avoid further electoral de-alignment between the LDP and farmers. Generally speaking, citizens are still largely supportive of protective measures, not least because of the lasting “food security and identity” narrative, which is deeply embedded in their national consciousness and misused to keep the agricultural sector protected (Honma 2015). Applying the words of Baumgartner et al. (2014: 64) to the Japanese case, because of its power, prestige and legitimacy, the previously established policy monopoly “may not be discredited enough by policy failures to lose [its] influence”. Even the prime minister’s “venue shopping” in the broader business community, represented by METI and Keidanren, has not prompted a path-breaking policy shift in Japan’s interventionist state. Therefore, the agricultural policy community will surely remain a powerful force in Japanese politics.

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21 CONTESTING THE CORPORATE FOOD REGIME IN SOUTH AND SOUTHEAST ASIA Trent Brown

Introduction A ‘food regime’ incorporates systems for the production, distribution and consumption of food within global structures of capital accumulation, power and hegemony. The concept of food regimes was initially developed by Friedmann and McMichael (1989) in order to understand distinct phases in the production and distribution of food in the history of capitalism. As McMichael (2013) outlines, all global capitalist systems have depended on a supply of cheap food, both for keeping wages low (and thus fuelling industrial growth) and to keep populations fed to secure social order. A cheap food supply requires various interventions into the ways in which food is produced, distributed and consumed on a global scale. Such interventions are never simple: they produce winners and losers and generate conflict. Establishing a food regime is, therefore, always a contested process. Food regimes take on distinct shapes and features within each historical period that reflect the global balance of power at the time. Within the theoretical framework of food regime analysis, social movements play an important role. Social movements – and other expressions of dissent – resist and undermine food regimes, forcing reformulations of their principles (Friedmann, 2005; McMichael, 2013). Food regimes are forced to engage with these articulations of dissent when their internal contradictions reach a point of crisis. For example, Friedmann (2005) describes how the extremely low food prices that resulted from colonial extraction and free market economics in the late colonial period led to organised farmers’ movements, particularly in the United States, that drove a shift to more regulated food markets from the 1930s onwards. In the context of the contemporary ‘corporate food regime,’ within which global agribusiness has a huge degree of control over food systems, McMichael (2013: 18–19, 57–60) argues that the food sovereignty movement, with its ethos of farmer autonomy, is an important expression of dissent that is acting on key contradictions within this food regime. The food sovereignty movement, and the models of agroecology and rural autonomy that it promotes, have thus become central points of discussion regarding the dialectics of the corporate food regime. A striking but rarely discussed feature of studies of food sovereignty, however, is their uneven geographical distribution. Overwhelmingly, examples of food sovereignty movements are drawn either from the Global North or from Latin America. While studies of the injustices and contradictions of the corporate food regime in Asia have been fairly abundant, those 296

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examining resistance to it and the development of alternatives have been minimal. In this chapter, I draw on the existing literature exploring food sovereignty and agroecology in Asia and question whether food sovereignty is a useful concept for analysing how the corporate food regime is contested in the region. Given the incredible diversity of agrarian conditions throughout Asia, I contain my focus to Asia’s developing nations, particularly those in South and Southeast Asia, whose agricultural systems face similar internal and external pressures. I pay particular attention to three of the largest countries in the region by population – India, Indonesia and the Philippines – all of which have a large percentage of the population involved in agriculture and a history of state-led agricultural development, followed by more recent moves towards liberalisation. In what follows, I demonstrate that examples of ‘food sovereignty’ in Asia are markedly different from those documented in Latin America. In particular, they are far more dependent on external support from non-governmental organisations (NGOs) and other institutions, whereas in Latin America they are led by more autonomous movements of farmers and landless labourers. This undermines the claim that food sovereignty necessarily represents the aspirations of the region’s rural communities. I argue that it may be worthwhile therefore to instead consider other, less obvious examples of how rural classes in Asia attempt to wrest greater control over their food systems and challenge the terms of the corporate food regime. In particular, I suggest that moves towards democratic decentralisation, which are prominent throughout the region, may provide a more meaningful lens for understanding how the corporate food regime is contested. Devolving a greater share of democratic decision-making to local levels is providing some communities greater political and economic leverage, making it possible for them to contest the conditions under which they are incorporated within global food supply chains.

What is the corporate food regime? Food regime analysis typically recognises three distinct global food regimes in the development of modern capitalism. The first was institutionalised by the late colonial period. It combined the import of cheap agricultural goods from tropical colonies, whose prices were lowered by exploitative colonial relations, with imports in grains and meat from the settled colonies (principally the United States and Australia), where huge monocultures had been established on virgin soil (McMichael, 2009: 141). Cheap food imports from the colonies suppressed wage growth in Europe, helping to fuel European industrialisation. The second food regime corresponded with the development of US hegemony in the aftermath of WWII. In the initial phases, it entailed the re-directing of US food surpluses to the ‘Third World’ to secure their support in the Cold War, suppress the development of communism and fuel Third World industrialisation (Patel, 2013). In the later stages of the second food regime, the United States provided support for the development of industrial agriculture in the Third World through the promotion of ‘Green Revolution’ technologies – consisting chiefly of chemical inputs, hybrid variety seeds and modern irrigation systems. The Green Revolution helped establish national self-sufficiency in food in postcolonial states but also proved immensely profitable for (predominantly American) seed and chemical companies (Brown, 1970; Patel, 2013). Chiefly playing out in postcolonial states, the second food regime came to be defined by Green Revolution development trajectories, the consolidation of national food markets and the integration of postcolonial economies within global markets structured by US imperialism. Asia was of critical importance in both the first and second food regimes. Asian colonies were major sources of cheap food for Europe in the context of 297

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the first food regime, and India and the Philippines were epicentres of the Green Revolution in the context of the second food regime. The third food regime differs from the previous two. Rather than being directed by an imperialist state, the third food regime subordinates food systems to the interests of global agribusiness and finance capital, often with the US government and multilateral institutions such as the World Trade Organization (WTO) pushing the agenda forward. It is largely corporate-driven and is therefore referred to as the corporate food regime. It is considered essential to the functioning of global neoliberalism (McMichael, 2013). The corporate food regime was consolidated from the early 1990s in free trade negotiations, led chiefly by the WTO, which attempted to establish a common global food market. Although some aspects of this global market were prefigured by the development of large agribusiness firms within the second food regime, the market under the new regime would take on different contours. Countries in the Global South became a source for high-value food crops, flowing ultimately to a relatively affluent global consumer class. The locus of agricultural development in the Global South was no longer to expand on staple crops to establish domestic food selfsufficiency (as under the Green Revolution). Rather, there was a shift towards ‘cash cropping’ of high-value agricultural commodities for the global market. The agenda behind this emergent food regime was driven in the first instance by the WTO, but was institutionalised through the acquiescence of liberalising states. States in developing countries, often under pressure by neoliberal institutions such as the International Monetary Fund (IMF) and the World Bank, gradually relinquished their role as directors of national agricultural development, handing it over to the private sector. Financialised agribusiness would play a larger, far more direct role in provisioning food for global markets. The corporate food regime is fraught with internal contradictions, four of which are particularly relevant in the developing societies of South and Southeast Asia. First, as McMichael (2013) explains, it is economically unstable, undermining its objective of providing a regular supply of cheap food. The corporate food regime has no mechanism for regulating global prices – it relies upon markets to regulate themselves. The liberalisation of food markets has led to food price fluctuations, which have been highly disruptive, triggering food riots and political instability in many parts of the developing world, most notably after the 2008 food price crisis (Holt-Giménez and Patel, 2009). It is also unstable because the ideology of free trade upon which it rests is applied unevenly, exacerbating existing economic inequalities. Although during negotiations the WTO deployed the rhetoric of free trade, in practice, agribusinesses and farmers’ lobbies from the Global North had a great deal of influence over the process. Trade protections were secured for a range of agricultural commodities from wealthy countries, while farmers from the Global South were forced to accept global prices and had a number of state supports removed (Patel, 2007). In South and Southeast Asia, where large sections of the population are smallholding farmers primarily dependent upon agriculture for their livelihoods, the immediate effect was a deflation in the prices of agricultural commodities, precipitating an agrarian crisis involving declines in employment and income and rising indebtedness (Patnaik, 2003). Unable to compete in this highly skewed and inequitable global market, many smallholding farmers have been forced to sell their land and join the ranks of the urban ‘reserve army of labour.’ A second contradiction of the corporate food regime is that insofar as it incorporates farmers in the Global South into global markets, it does so under unfavourable conditions. Although cash cropping in high-value commodities for global markets, such as coffee, may theoretically provide opportunities for reaping great profits, the lion’s share of these profits are captured elsewhere in the commodity chain – either upstream (by chemical and seed corporations) or downstream (by 298

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merchants, agribusiness and so on) (Patel, 2007). Furthermore, neoliberal institutions such as the World Bank have promoted contract farming as a way of facilitating efficient incorporation of foods into global supply chains. Yet smallholding farmers in Asia struggle to negotiate fair contracts, given the small number of contractors – the ‘bottleneck’ in the supply chain – and their lack of institutional power (Akram-Lodhi, 2008: 1158–1160). A third contradiction of the corporate food regime derives from its relentless reduction of land and food to commodities. As food and land become objects of financial speculation, their (economic) exchange value comes to predominate over their (social) use value. Speculation over the increasing value of land and agricultural commodities has led to a global surge in ‘land grabbing.’ Aided by governments in the Global South, land either owned or used by smallholders has been handed over to transnational capital, often to establish cash crops and plantations whose environmental sustainability is questionable. While these practices may lead to the accumulation of greater profits from land, they reduce its per-acre productivity (McMichael, 2012). Such processes are particularly evident in Southeast Asia, where domestic and international investors have acquired large tracts of land from smallholders to take advantage of agricultural commodity booms (Hall, 2011; McCarthy et al., 2012). Under these conditions, land is managed and governed in such a way as to maximise profits, rather than to promote social and ecological sustainability or to maximise food output. Not only land but also food itself has been relentlessly commodified, often with adverse social and ecological consequences. Perhaps the most blatant example of this is biofuels production. The attempt to develop market-based solutions to the climate crisis has led to large amounts of land throughout the developing world being acquired to generate biofuels. This reduces land available for food production, increasing food prices (biofuels were implicated in the 2008 world food crisis). Ironically, it also causes ecological damage, not only by the (often overlooked) carbon intensity of biofuels production but also the deforestation and land clearing required to establish plantations (McMichael, 2010). In Asia, this has been most apparent in the rapid expansion of the area under oil palm plantations. Fuelled by speculation of growing demand for alternative fuel sources, the area under oil palm plantations almost doubled in the decade from 2000, largely through deforestation, dispossession or incorporation of smallholders into global markets under adverse conditions (McCarthy, 2010). The fourth contradiction, and perhaps the most important from McMichael’s (2013) perspective, is that the corporate food regime, in its attempt to consolidate global food markets, must break down pre-existing relations of food production and consumption and integrate them within global market relations. As Li (2015) demonstrates with reference to smallholders in upland Indonesia, once farmers are incorporated into global supply chains, they quickly become ‘locked in,’ having no livelihood options other than continued participation. Capitalist relations can consolidate rapidly at the local level, with less successful commercial producers being forced to sell their labour to more successful farmers, resulting in sudden increases in poverty and inequality. McMichael (2013) suggests that there are countless other examples in which corporate agriculture replaces diverse arrangements of food production with homogenous and inflexible market relations. He argues that the imposed homogeneity of relations and the commodification of inputs and outputs of food systems induces the displacement of food cultures. As cash cropping generally involves monocultures and more intensive cropping patterns, it also can undermine the sustainability of agroecosystems (Weis, 2010). This contradiction is of crucial importance, as a central assumption of food regime analysis is that by breaking down food cultures and generating crises of sustainability, the corporate food regime gives rise to resistance from the heterogeneous cultures that it attempts to subsume – and that these forms of resistance will ultimately drive the food regime to reform. 299

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Resistance: food sovereignty and agroecology as alternatives McMichael (2013) positions the ‘food sovereignty’ movement as the clearest example of organised resistance to the corporate food regime. The concept of food sovereignty originated within the global peasant movement La Via Campesina (LVC), initially as a response to the more hegemonic discourse of the United Nations ‘food security’ (Desmarais, 2007). The latter referred to people’s capacity to access affordable nutritious food, yet had little regard for how food is produced. Food sovereignty, by contrast, took a more holistic perspective, emphasising communities’ rights to grow, distribute and consume food in a manner that is suitable to local conditions. This is seen to be a reaction against the restrictions on farmers’ autonomy under the corporate food regime. In opposing WTO trade policies in agriculture at international fora and building farmers’ capacity to develop greater autonomy at the grassroots level, the food sovereignty movement both critiques the existing regime and builds something substantively new. Food sovereignty has come to encompass a broad platform, representing a wide variety of responses to the harmful impacts of the corporate food regime. As Wittman et al. (2010) explain, groups from all over the world, including in developed and developing countries, have been inspired by LVC’s formulation of food sovereignty and attempted to apply its ethos locally. In response to the corporate food regime’s removal of choice, we see the formation of alternative marketing networks; in response to its dependency on oil, we see the proliferation of slow food and local food movements; in response to its ecological unsustainability, we see various avatars of ‘sustainable farming.’ Under the umbrella of ‘food sovereignty’ these diverse movements have formed global coalitions to influence the agricultural policies of powerful global institutions. The food sovereignty movement is said to be the organised oppositional force to the corporate food regime. As Fairbairn (2010: 27) outlines, it is articulated by ‘small peasants, producers and farm workers’ whose voices have been marginalised by the corporate food regime and who represent its chief victims. The movement highlights the incapacity of the current regime to deliver food for all in a socially just and ecologically responsible manner that is inclusive of traditional knowledge. It challenges the fundamental economic assumptions that underpin the corporate food regime: in response to its individualism, food sovereignty asserts peasant solidarity and collective rights to natural resources. In response to its tendency to reduce all value to market value, the food sovereignty movement asserts the inherent value of culture, community, biodiversity and ecology. Agroecology is a key component of food sovereignty. Broadly speaking, agroecology is a multi-disciplinary, participatory approach to developing rural economies which aims to build biodiverse, self-sufficient agricultural ecosystems that are productive in the absence of expensive or environmentally damaging external inputs, such as chemical fertilisers and pesticides (Altieri, 1984). At a simple economic level, agroecology contributes to food sovereignty by allowing rural communities to become less dependent upon expensive external inputs. At a deeper level, it challenges the fundamental values of the corporate food regime by placing greater value on the non-market contributions of diversified agriculture: namely biodiversity conservation, social reproduction and culturally meaningful and dignified livelihoods (Menser, 2014). Within food regime analysis, smallholding farmers are generally positioned as the ‘historical subjects’ of food sovereignty: that is, those who will carry the food sovereignty agenda forward. As Holt-Gimenez and Altieri (2013) articulate, under the corporate food regime, smallholders are interpreted as non-viable. Although their farming systems may be more productive than large farms on a per-acre basis (and thus can have a higher net output), their contribution is neglected, given their limited potential to generate large surpluses for international export. It is assumed by advocates of the corporate food regime that smallholders will be gradually displaced by larger 300

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commercial farmers. Yet smallholding farmers are not entirely subsumed under the corporate food regime. They maintain diversified livelihood options which allow them to persist. Yet as Holt-Gimenez and Altieri outline, through agroecology, smallholders can go beyond merely resisting the corporate food regime’s encroachment – they can actively construct alternatives. Where the Green Revolution and corporate agriculture were more empowering for farmers with larger landholdings, who could afford to make substantial capital investments and take greater risks, agroecology builds the resource and knowledge base of smallholding farmers. By bolstering smallholder innovations with knowledge and techniques derived from modern ecological science (such as attending to nutrient cycles, building soil biota and implementing water conservation strategies), agroecology positions smallholding farmers as the agents of a revolution for an alternative food system. In Latin America, the progress of agroecology and the food sovereignty movement has been remarkable. Originally promoted by NGOs in the region in the 1980s, it was subsequently adopted and promoted by farmers’ movements, who saw its potential to boost livelihoods and reduce dependency on agribusiness (Altieri and Toledo, 2011). In Central America, smallholders have developed vast, autonomous farmer-to-farmer networks for sharing knowledge and innovating for agro-ecological development (Holt-Gimenez, 2006). There are documented cases of farmers practicing traditional biodiverse farming and relying on local marketing systems, even when this comes at an economic ‘opportunity cost’ relative to market-oriented farming. Such farmers see traditional agriculture as an enjoyable activity that brings family together, a source of cultural identity and a guarantor of nutritional security, even in poor economic conditions (Isakson, 2009). Crucially, in the Latin American case, agroecology and food sovereignty have not just been projects of relatively privileged landholding farmers: landless labourers have also been participants. The Brazil Landless Workers Movement (Movimento dos Trabalhadores Rurais Sem Terra, MST) in Brazil, a key node of LVC, has mobilised Brazil’s landless agricultural labourers to challenge the uneven distribution of land in the country. The landless have occupied lands that were falling into disuse by large landholders and formed local institutions for collective governance and education. In education centres formed by MST, formerly landless labourers are given skills in agroecology, which allow them to farm under resource constraints. LVC-organised agroecology schools have trained MST members to become agroecology technicians in courses that are free and made possible through communal labour and voluntary contributions (Massicotte, 2014). These Latin American examples are valuable in demonstrating that alternatives are possible. The problem, however, is that food regime analysis’ fixation on one continent draws attention away from others. It gives the false impression that food sovereignty and agroecology are the normal or inevitable forms of resistance to the corporate food regime, often with an implicit air of historical determinism. It ignores that resistance that may be appropriate for a certain section of the agrarian populations in certain locations may not be suitable for all people in all locations. We need to also consider how the corporate food regime is resisted (if indeed it is resisted) elsewhere in the developing world if we are to gain a more comprehensive picture of the complex dialectic of the constitution of food regimes and the dynamic grassroots responses to them.

Food sovereignty and agroecology in South and Southeast Asia The term ‘food sovereignty’ is certainly used in relation to agrarian issues in South and Southeast Asia. In 2014, Indonesia’s President Joko Widodo named food sovereignty as his official food policy, though this was essentially a co-optation and misuse of the term to represent a policy of 301

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national food self-sufficiency. The term has also been used by civil society groups advocating changes in food systems in the region, as well as by scholars, to describe initiatives and movements which, while not using the language of food sovereignty, appear to accord with its ethos. Yet for the most part, the cases of food sovereignty documented in the literature bear only a partial resemblance to the concept as developed within food regime analysis and the Latin American movements described earlier. With very few exceptions, instances referred to as food sovereignty in this region are fraught with problems: either they fail to constitute a meaningful alternative to the corporate food regime or their claims to represent grassroots perspectives are tenuous. There has been considerable resistance to the corporate food regime in South and Southeast Asia. There are major movements opposing the liberalisation of agriculture and corporate land grabs. Occasionally, these movements draw on the language of food sovereignty. In West Papua, Indonesia, for example, a well-organised civil society coalition has opposed a state-supported land grab, whereby some 1.2 million hectares of forested and indigenous customary land have been handed over to corporations to develop oil palm, sugar and timber plantations. Ginting and Pye (2014) examine this coalition’s claims that the land grab undermines food sovereignty of local indigenous communities. They note that while the food sovereignty frame has the potential to link the struggle against land grabbing to a broader vision of development, it has struggled to mobilise people in anything other than a defensive manner. As the coalition is led by middle-class-dominated NGOs, rather than communities at the grassroots level, it is at best able to mobilise local discontent regarding land acquisition. It is unable to organise and coordinate any movement for land reform or build an alternative food system in the manner that food sovereignty discourse prescribes. There are some documented cases of very positive and successful rural development NGOs in the region which claim to have food sovereignty as their central aim. Most notably, in the Philippines, MASIPAG (the Farmer Scientist Partnership for Agricultural Development) has developed an approach to promoting agroecology that is well attuned to farmers’ needs. Its leaders, who consist of agricultural scientists and development workers, recognised that a key problem with the Green Revolution was that it was expert led without meaningful input taken from farmers. MASIPAG therefore aimed to be a farmer-directed initiative. It has networked with over 600 people’s organisations, who direct the course of its agricultural research and are actively involved in disseminating research findings. It encourages communal responses to agricultural and ecological challenges, rather than imposing solutions from the top-down. In a study conducted with MASIPAG farmers, Wright (2014) found that not only were their farms more biodiverse and had better soil health than those of conventional farmers, but the farmers had growing incomes and a greater sense of control over their destiny. MASIPAG does appear to be quite exceptional amongst NGOs in the extent to which it allows rural collectives to direct its agenda. There are, nonetheless, others that take similar approaches, such as the Indonesian NGO Mantasa, which works with elderly women to revive knowledge of edible wild plants from local forests to improve the nutritional intake of rural families (Patria, 2013). Yet while these may be very positive examples of using food as a tool for development, self-sufficiency and improved nutrition, the fact that they are led by NGO workers, rather than rural communities, means that they lack the element of autonomy so central to the food sovereignty discourse. At best, they can be regarded as effective participatory development NGOs – they are not ‘farmers’ movements’ in the manner of LVC in Latin America. This is important, given that LVC and others in the food sovereignty movement have repeatedly criticised NGOs for taking attention away from farmer-led movements in civil society (Desmarais, 2007: 23–27, 92). The predominance of NGOs, generally led by middle-class urban professionals, in articulating ideas around food sovereignty and agroecology has proven an enduring issue in the region. In my 302

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own research in India (Brown, 2018), I have found that agroecology organisations must cultivate links with various agents for their organisational survival, including the state, donor organisations, middle-class activist networks and rural elites. Some carefully manage these links to ensure that their agenda of promoting agroecology in an equitable manner is not subverted – yet this is often challenging. In many cases, NGOs’ links to powerful groups subvert the potential of agroecology to function in the equitable manner imagined within food sovereignty discourse. Indeed, given donor organisations, the state and rural elites often have vested interests in liberalisation and maintaining the status quo, NGOs that are too closely affiliated with these entities may find themselves redirected to implement agroecology projects in ways that benefit elites. Apart from NGOs, some farmers’ movements in the region are linked with LVC’s global food sovereignty project. The Karnataka Rajya Raitha Sangha (KRRS) in India is affiliated with LVC and has articulated a vision for agrarian futures roughly consonant with the idea of food sovereignty. KRRS’s leader, Nanjundaswamy, emphasised the merit in self-sufficient and interconnected farming communities as a basis for human flourishing and consistently opposed the liberalisation of India’s food market. Yet while KRRS has had some impact, they have faced stiff competition from other farmers’ movements favouring liberalisation (Omvedt, 2005). Furthermore, KRRS itself is not an ideal example of a food sovereignty initiative, given that it is mostly led by rural elites – McMichael (2006: 474) himself refers to it as a movement of bourgeois farmers. India has received some attention in food sovereignty literature, due to the proliferation of informal ‘seed banks’ – communal stores of a diverse range of traditional varieties of seeds (Vijayalakshmi and Balasubramanian, 2004). These are occasionally interpreted as instances of what Kloppenburg (2014) terms ‘seed sovereignty’: in the face of the commercial patenting of ‘improved variety’ seeds, such seed banks are seen to provide rural communities with a measure of control over genetic resources. The value of such initiatives – both ecologically and as nodes of resistance – should not be overlooked. They are critical resources for communities for whom loss of traditional varieties of seed would pose major risks. Nonetheless, critical studies of seed saving initiatives in India raise doubts over their significance as instances of food sovereignty. Perhaps the most globally well-known example of a seed saving initiative is Vandana Shiva’s organisation Navdanya, located in the Dehra Dun valley in northern India. This initiative is one of a small handful within India that use the term ‘food sovereignty’ to describe their work – which mostly consists of seed saving and the in situ conservation of biodiversity (see McRae, 2016: 271). Trauger (2015), however, questions whether this initiative truly represents food sovereignty. Navdanya is led by a globally networked activist whose connections to rural communities are questionable. The organisation imposes strict conditions on farmers when providing them with seed: they demand farmers give back a portion of whatever seed they are given and farmers should not use any non-local or scientifically modified seeds. Dictating terms to farmers in this manner does not show respect for their ‘sovereignty.’ Furthermore, Navdanya seeks to certify farmers as organic so that they can sell on organic commodity markets – and, as Trauger notes – this orientation towards the market is discordant with food sovereignty’s agenda of liberating farmers from market domination. While there are more grassroots, farmer-led seed saving initiatives throughout India, unfortunately these too have been found unable to provide the necessary form of livelihood security so as to appeal to local rural people’s aspirations (Brown, 2014) Some studies suggest that although smallholding farmers may not use the language of food sovereignty, they still retain it as an ideal. This is evidenced in instances of farmers resisting incorporation into corporate agriculture in favour of subsistence systems (McRae, 2016). Importantly, such resistance is not the norm throughout the region. For farmers in resource-poor zones with little access to capital or markets, commercial agriculture may be seen as too risky and farmers may fight to retain subsistence systems (Brown, 2014). Yet when farmers have access to the 303

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resource requirements for commercial, chemical agriculture, they tend to adopt it. This suggests that retaining traditional systems does not strongly resonate with rural aspirations. There are also documented cases in South Asia of movements that focus on preserving ‘traditional agriculture’ being reactionary movements aiming to preserve traditional inequitable class relations (Paprocki and Cons, 2014). In sum, these examples of ‘food sovereignty’ in Asia are fragmented, mostly small-scale and lack the strong leadership by the rural poor that is a characteristic feature of the movement in Latin America. Indeed, one wonders if it were not for their family resemblance to the Latin American food sovereignty movements whether they would be considered meaningful forms of opposition to the corporate food regime at all. Conditions in rural communities throughout developing Asia are diverse and suggest different pathways of resistance. In some respects, the problems associated with these examples of food sovereignty in Asia reflect broader problems with the concept of food sovereignty. Far too much of the research on food sovereignty takes evidence selectively from the margins. Cases are chosen based on their ideological coherence in opposing the salient negative features of the corporate food regime, rather than their popular appeal or political impact. This closely relates to Bernstein’s (2014) incisive critique of food sovereignty, which notes a problematic tendency in food regime analysis to assume that the small peasantry constitutes a homogenous ‘other’ to capital. An ideal-type small peasant is constructed, who aspires complete independence and is an ideal ecological steward. As other commentators reiterate, in this construction, both the corporate food regime and the peasantry appear as though they were self-contained entities – whereas in the current historical moment the two are intimately intertwined (Jansen, 2015), especially in Asia. For Bernstein, the entire discourse of food sovereignty is too reliant on a few ‘emblematic’ cases which illustrate its principles, neglecting the fact that these cases are somewhat exceptional. Fixation on ‘food sovereignty’ as the most historically significant form of resistance to the corporate food regime overlooks other modes of contesting the corporate food regime from within, rather than by constructing spaces outside of it, as the food sovereignty frame imagines. If Bernstein’s argument is persuasive in itself, it must be even more so when we take an Asian perspective, since in this setting, there are not even the ‘emblematic’ cases of strong food sovereignty movements which one finds in Latin America. The question must be asked – if the remarkable cases of agroecology and agrarian resistance from Latin America were taken out of the global equation, would the concept of ‘food sovereignty’ still be regarded as the dialectical antithesis to the corporate food regime? Should we not develop other ways of conceptualising how the corporate food regime is contested, if not outright resisted, that are more responsive to the diversity of agrarian conditions throughout the world? At least in Asia, the evidence would appear to demand so.

Analysing resistance to the corporate food regime in Asia The ambivalence of the documented instances of ‘food sovereignty’ in South and Southeast Asia implies a need to develop alternative perspectives on how the corporate food regime is contested. As Bernstein (2016: 238–243) argues, taking food sovereignty as the political pathway out of the evils of the corporate food regime is to mistake a ‘binary’ with a systemic ‘contradiction.’ In other words, simply identifying that the (mostly Latin American) instances of food sovereignty movements constitute a polar opposite to the corporate food regime does not necessitate that they will have widespread social, economic or political significance. We need to identify forms of resistance to the terms of the corporate food regime that offer pathways to social (and particularly class-based) struggle that may meaningfully alter power relations within food systems. 304

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While there are undoubtedly a variety of forms of political activity that contest the corporate food regime in the region, I would argue that democratic decentralisation may be the most significant – particularly if we wish to maintain a focus on systemic (rather than highly localised) change. Democratic decentralisation has occurred in many countries throughout South and Southeast Asia, yet it has had particularly profound effects in India and Indonesia. In India, it came into force in 1993, following constitutional reforms which mandated the formation of panchayats (local government institutions) in rural areas, which would be invested with greater resources and authority than previously (Manor, 2010). In Indonesia, decentralisation was implemented in the wake of the collapse of the Suharto regime in the late 1990s. Devolving greater resources and authority to district-level democratic institutions was seen as a way to accommodate rising separatist demands and to provide a more dynamic system of governance (Seymour and Turner, 2002). The process unleashed new political dynamics, as people from rural and regional backgrounds campaigned to devolve further resources to local councils and to split districts into smaller administrative units and thereby create more government employment opportunities (van Klinken, 2014). In both countries, democratic decentralisation has brought about positive changes in the countryside. In India, it has led to far greater diversity of representation from rural areas, particularly of historically marginalised communities (Fischer, 2016). As a result of this greater representation, there has been greater accountability in governance: resources can no longer be funnelled through factional channels, as more diverse groups are able to provide oversight (Tanabe, 2007: 559). In some regions, it appears to have precipitated more vernacular articulations of local people’s aspirations for development (Tokita-Tanabe and Tanabe, 2014), theoretically providing a counterbalance to the top-down imposition of corporate principles onto agriculture. In Indonesia, there is evidence that democratic decentralisation has given rural communities greater control over resources. Local forestry projects have provided greater direct and indirect benefits to rural communities than had been the case previously, and communities are enforcing their rights over such resources more vociferously (Palmer and Engel, 2007). Indonesia also demonstrates the ways in which decentralisation specifically alters communities’ relations to the corporate food regime. Decentralisation has enabled more favourable conditions of incorporation within global food markets – a possibility that is rarely discussed within food sovereignty discourse. This holds true even in the case of maligned cash crops such as palm oil. In a study of oil palm producers in Indonesia, McCarthy (2010) finds more favourable inclusion of smallholders into global palm oil markets when there are appropriate state-led rural development programmes (allowing access to land, credit and technology and removing obstacles to market access) and when smallholders have a level of influence within local democratic institutions. This suggests a potential for a kind of class struggle within global value chains in the food system, between global agribusiness and the smallholders they seek to exploit. Smallholders’ struggles for more favourable conditions within markets inevitably play out at the local level, as they leverage local development projects and democratic institutions – yet broader struggles can make access to such resources and institutions possible. The political dynamics of decentralisation thus suggest alternative systemic struggles to contest the terms of the corporate food regime. The political effects of such struggles need far greater empirical scrutiny, but we should not assume that their effects on food regime dynamics will be comparable to those of food sovereignty. It may well be that the political dynamics of decentralisation represent a longer-term historical trajectory in which rural populations, rather than resisting the corporate food regime, are enlisted in a process of building consent for its smooth operation. If it works successfully, decentralisation may in fact set up the political and economic safety valves that ensure greater food regime stability. 305

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Democratic decentralisation is far from a perfect process – and this is evident throughout the region. While decentralisation has enabled ethnic minorities and indigenous communities to resist corporate encroachments into land and other resources, it has just as often facilitated the handover of resources to corporate interests, as empowered local councils can benefit financially from doing so (Duncan, 2007). Local government can also be hijacked by local elites and other vested interests (Hadiz, 2004). Yet within the region, decentralisation represents a terrain of struggle of far greater historical significance and with far greater distributive implications than food sovereignty in terms of contesting the terms of the corporate food regime and altering the social relations through which food is produced, distributed and consumed. Decentralisation is not the only political dynamic relevant to understanding how the corporate food regime is contested and reconfigured in Asia. One could attend to various other powerful dynamics reshaping the region, including the greater availability of communications technologies in rural areas, renewed demands for land reform or Right to Information legislation that has given rural communities far greater awareness of their entitlements from government. The point is not to present democratic decentralisation as the Asian counterpoint to Latin American food sovereignty, but simply to draw attention to one example of how there are more complex dynamics at play in contesting the corporate food regime and that food sovereignty may not be the most historically significant in this region. By improving political representation and addressing distributional issues, phenomena such as democratic decentralisation produce political effects that cut across the multiple class fragments that make up the countryside throughout much of Asia and subsequently may be expected to play a more meaningful role in reconfiguring the conditions under which food is produced.

Conclusion The corporate food regime has caused great disruptions in South and Southeast Asia. It has caused price instability, unfavourable incorporation of smallholding farmers into global markets and land dispossessions. Yet this does not necessarily mean that it will generate the same forms of opposition in this region as it has elsewhere in the world. The assumption that ‘food sovereignty’ constitutes a global frame of reference in contesting the corporate food regime has proven to be a major shortcoming of food regime analysis. In Asia, what is called ‘food sovereignty’ is generally either an NGO-led initiative or something pursued by resource-poor farmers who lack other viable options. It is far from representative of universal rural aspirations. The emphasis that I have placed on democratic decentralisation as an alternative way of contesting the unfair features of the corporate food regime has illustrated the geographical diversity of food regimes and local responses to them. It highlights the need for a more robust approach to analysing ‘resistance’ within food regime analysis that may involve considering the ways in which farmers struggle for more favourable incorporation within food regimes. Making progress to this end will require more rigorous global comparative studies, evaluating the conditions under which certain forms of resistance or contestation are likely to emerge and their dialectical implications for food regime constitution.

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Trent Brown McMichael, P. (2009). A Food Regime Genealogy. Journal of Peasant Studies, 36(1), 139–169. McMichael, P. (2010). Agrofuels in the Food Regime. Journal of Peasant Studies, 37(4), 609–629. McMichael, P. (2012). The Land Grab and Corporate Food Regime Restructuring. Journal of Peasant Studies, 39(3–4), 681–701. McMichael, P. (2013). Food Regimes and Agrarian Questions. Halifax: Fernwood Publishing. Menser, M. (2014). The Territory of Self-Determination: Social Reproduction, Agro-Ecology and the Role of the State. In P. Andrée, J. Ayres, M. J. Bosia, and M. Massicotte (Eds.), Globalisation and Food Sovereignty: Global and Local Change in the New Politics of Food (pp. 53–83). Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Omvedt, G. (2005). Farmers’ Movements and the Debate on Poverty and Economic Reforms in India. In R. Ray and M. F. Katzenstein (Eds.), Social Movements in India: Poverty, Power and Politics (pp. 179–202). New York: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers. Palmer, C., and Engel, S. (2007). For Better or for Worse? Local Impacts of the Decentralization of Indonesia’s Forest Sector. World Development, 35(12), 2131–2149. Paprocki, K., and Cons, J. (2014). Life in a Shrimp Zone: Aqua-and Other Cultures of Bangladesh’s Coastal Landscape. Journal of Peasant Studies, 41(6), 1109–1130. Patel, R. (2007). Stuffed & Starved. Melbourne: Black Inc. Patel, R. (2013). The Long Green Revolution. Journal of Peasant Studies, 40(1), 1–63. Patnaik, U. (2003). Global Capitalism, Deflation and Agrarian Crisis in Developing Countries. Journal of Agrarian Change, 3(1–2), 33–66. Patria, H. D. (2013). Uncultivated Biodiversity in Women’s Hand: How to Create Food Sovereignty. Asian Journal of Women’s Studies, 19(2), 148–161. Seymour, R., and Turner, S. (2002). Otonomi Daerah: Indonesia’s Decentralisation Experiment. New Zealand Journal of Asian Studies, 4(2), 33–51. Tanabe, A. (2007). Toward Vernacular Democracy: Moral Society and Post-Colonial Transformation in Rural Orissa, India. American Ethnologist, 34(3), 558–574. Tokita-Tanabe, Y., and Tanabe, A. (2014). Politics of Relations and the Emergence of the Vernacular Public Arena. In T. A. Neyazi, A. Tanabe, and S. Ishizaka (Eds.), Democratic Transformation and the Vernacular Public Arena in India (pp. 25–44). London: Routledge. Trauger, A. (2015). Seed Sovereignty as Civil Disobedience in Northern India. In A. Trauger (Ed.), Food Sovereignty in International Context (pp. 106–124). London: Earthscan. Van Klinken, G. (2014). Democracy, Markets and the Assertive Middle. In G. van Klinken and W. Berenschot (Eds.), In Search of Middle Indonesia. Leiden: KITLV. Vijayalakshmi, K., and Balasubramanian, A. V. (2004). Seeds of Plenty, Seeds of Hope. Chennai: Centre for Indian Knowledge Systems. Weis, T. (2010). The Accelerating Biophysical Contradictions of Industrial Capitalist Agriculture. Journal of Agrarian Change, 10(3), 315–341. Wittman, H., Desmarais, A., and Wiebe, N. (2010). The Origins and Potential of Food Sovereignty. In H. Wittman, A. Desmarais, and N. Wiebe (Eds.), Food Sovereignty: Reconnecting Food, Nature and Community (pp. 1–13). Halifax: Fernwood Publishing. Wright, S. (2014). Food Sovereignty in Practice: A Study of Farmer-led Sustainable Agriculture in the Philippines. In P. Andrée, J. Ayres, M. J. Bosia, and M.-J. Massicotte (Eds.), Globalizationa and Food Sovereignty: Global and Local Change in the New Politics of Food (pp. 199–227). Toronto: University of Toronto Press.

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22 JAPANESE FOODS (WASHOKU) WITH WINE A study in non-state culinary politics Chuanfei Wang Introduction This chapter describes how and why wine became incorporated into the Japanese culinary system. It is a study in culinary globalization and also a study in culinary politics, that is, how tastes and notions of taste pairing are used by culinary producers consciously to reframe elements of Japanese cuisine, which is now a globalized context of culinary discourse. This analysis of wine and Japanese foods (washoku) thus provides some insights into a type of non-state culinary politics while also telling the story of how wine is paired with Japanese foods. Western wine made with grapes has a surprisingly long history in Japan. In the seventeenth century, Dutch merchants brought wine to Japan and circulated it as gifts among themselves and the Japanese political, economic, and cultural elites (Nozawa 2010: 108–125). However, Western wine, due to its rarity and expense, was exclusive to the elites for a long time. The widespread consumption of Western wine in Japan only started after 1970, when free trade was initiated. Since then, the consumption of Western wine in Japan has steadily increased. According to International Organisation of Vine and Wine 2016 statistics, Japan is one of the top ten importers of wine in the world. Japanese wine consumption increased 155.5 percent from 2004 to 2014. Contemporary Japanese people drink various types of alcoholic beverages – not only wine but also Japanese sake, shōchū (a type of Japanese alcoholic beverage distilled mainly from but not limited to rice, barley, or sweet potatoes), beer, cocktail, whisky, spirits, and more. However, wine is the only alcoholic beverage that has seen such a great increase. Beer, Japanese sake, and whisky, which used to be the most popular alcoholic beverages in Japan, all experienced substantial declines in consumption in recent years (Mercian 2016: 9). For a long time in Japan, grape wine was not thought of in culinary terms. The domestically produced wines were consumed as a medical beverage for strengthening health. Grape wine began to be part of the culinary culture in the 1960s. This change from medicinal to culinary use was driven by domestic wine producers, who marketed their products differently in prewar/during-war and post-war times (Wang 2016). However, wine as a food companion was seen as a Western beverage, and it was only assumed to be a companion to Western food and was considered unsuitable for Japanese foods; the idea was that wine should be consumed with Western food in a Western dining context (Wang 2017). Wine was not associated with the Japanese culinary and dietary system (Ishige 2001: 170). Therefore, Western restaurants and chefs 309

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and sommeliers working in those restaurants were almost the only major institutions and actors constructing wine consumption culture in Japan (Wang 2016). This began to change in the 1970s, when Japanese restaurants specializing in pairing wine with Japanese foods opened. The trend of pairing with Japanese cuisine has further accelerated in recent years. There are about 26,800 such restaurants in Japan, shown on Japan’s biggest gourmet search website called Gurunabi (searched on April 21, 2017). This phenomenon leads to an important empirical question – how wine is paired with Japanese foods. This chapter will address this question by looking at how culinary producers pair wine with Japanese foods. Specifically, by examining texts of cookbooks and my fieldwork data, it will show how culinary producers rationalize the concept of Japanese food and wine pairing and specific examples of such pairings. However, this chapter does not merely stop with explaining this practical culinary innovation. Culinary culture is not only consumer culture. Particularly after washoku gained recognition as the world’s intangible cultural heritage, Japanese cuisine has been deployed as a type of soft power, or a way of enhancing national prestige (Farrer 2015). This is a prominent example of how cuisine has become a kind of state-led national politics. However, culinary politics is not always at the state level. The discourse of the unique qualities of washoku, and other discussions of Japanese food, are also marketing strategies for individual chefs and restaurateurs in establishing their prestige in an increasingly globalized world of culinary choices. Thus, the culinary trend of wine and Japanese foods pairing is not simply a matter of integrating new tastes into Japanese culinary and dietary culture. This integration should be understood as a form of strategic action for elevating the status of Japanese cuisine and its chefs, as revealed in the words of Japanese chefs when they conceptualize the pairing of Japanese foods (washoku) with wine. In short, this study shows how Japanese chefs engage in an intricate dialogue around wine. It shows that elements of Western culinary culture, particularly the notion of pairing wines with particular food items (such as the formal Japanese cuisine and Japanese street food discussed in this chapter), have now become part of Japanese culinary culture. Japan’s case also reveals that local foods have become important in the promotion of Western wine culture, with restaurants that serve local food becoming increasingly important agencies of wine culture’s globalization. Chefs of such restaurants are playing a leading role in exploring the new possibilities of wine consumption and constructing a more diverse wine culture. At the same time, wines are chosen and used to frame Japanese foods in very specific ways to say something about the distinctive and fine qualities of Japanese foods. This study shows how culinary politics works not simply as discourse but also engages consumers at the level of palatal taste. The case studies in this chapter show how the principles of taste pairing are borrowed from the West but are used in a very precise and technical way to reframe Japanese cuisine and particular dishes within it.

The concept of pairing Japanese foods with wine The idea of pairing wine with Japanese foods emerged in Japan in the 1970s, according to data I searched, including literature, media reports, and interviews of Japanese chefs and restaurant owners. The Japanese restaurant Kappo Odajima located in Roppongi, Tokyo, commonly agreed by the Japanese restaurant industry as one of the earliest Japanese restaurants specializing in pairing wine and Japanese foods, opened in 1972. Domestic media started to have articles on the concept of pairing Japanese foods with wine at the end of the 1970s. I searched the keywords of Japanese foods (washoku/nihonryōri) and wine in the database of the four major newspapers in Japan – The Asahi Shimbun (established in 1879), Yomiuri Shimbun (established in 1874), Mainichi Shimbun (established in 1872), and The Nikkei (established in 1946). All of them offer digital newspapers from their founding year to the present day. The earliest news report about 310

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washoku/waryōri/nihonryōri and wine in these newspapers was November 11, 1992, in The Asahi Shimbun; October 12, 1980, in Yomiuri Shimbun (the first news article on wine and washoku in this newspaper was published in November 17, 1979. However, it was not about wine pairing with washoku but about a blind tasting of washoku cooked using either wine or sake. The result was that washoku seasoned by wine was concluded to be worse than that by sake [Yomiuri Shimbun, 1979]); July 14, 1992, in Mainichi Shimbun (1992: 2); and June 18, 1984, in The Nikkei (1984: 11). Tsuchida (2014), in her book, mentioned the yakitori restaurants (one of major types of restaurants specializing in yakitori – Japanese grilled skewered chicken) centering alcohol drinks on wine established in the late 1980s. Thus, based on these data, it can be concluded that the idea of pairing wine with Japanese foods in Japan emerged in the 1970s; however, it was not popularized until the 1980s and later. Until that time, Japanese sake made with rice was always considered by Japanese culinary producers as the best companion to Japanese foods. Western drinks – beer and water-diluted whisky – were also assumed suitable to Japanese foods. The integration of beer and whisky into Japanese dietary culture was aided by the government’s rationing policy during and after war, encouraging the production and consumption of alcoholic beverages with the use of grains except rice as an ingredient due to the severe lack of table rice (Hashimoto 2015).1 However, wine was never imagined as a suitable beverage served with Japanese foods (Ishige 2001: 170). As Odajima, the owner-chef of a Japanese restaurant called Kappo Odajima, recalled: When I started my career as a chef of Japanese food, it was taken for granted that sake was the alcohol that Japanese restaurants should provide. Japanese chefs at the time, including me, even did not have the word wine in our minds. (Odajima 2014: 4) The notion of pairing Japanese foods only with sake was first challenged in the 1970s, when restaurants serving high-end Japanese cuisine were established with the explicit idea of pairing Japanese foods with wine. Many of these creative chefs who started wine and Japanese food pairing in their restaurants had apprentice or work experience at Japanese restaurants in Europe, mostly Paris. At Japanese restaurants in Paris, they learned about French wine and how it could be paired with Japanese foods. When they came back to Japan and started their own restaurants, they used that idea, which was brand new at the time and a break with Japanese restaurant tradition in Japan. More importantly, this new combination of taste was consciously used as a strategy of associating Japanese cuisine with the ideals of French cuisine, widely regarded as the global standard for high cuisine, to elaborate Japan’s “national” cuisine. This can be seen from the story of Minoru Odajima, commonly recognized as one of the pioneers in applying wine and Japanese foods pairing in Japan, and his restaurant, called Kappo Odajima. Odajima is in his early seventies and currently still works every day at his restaurant, with his son as his assistant chef. In 1969, he went to Paris and worked at a Japanese restaurant called Takara, the oldest Japanese restaurant in Paris, as an apprentice, with the aim of learning about wine. After three years, he returned to Japan and in 1972 opened a Japanese restaurant specializing in pairing wine on the first floor of his home in Roppongi, Tokyo. Beginning in 1990, he opened several chain restaurants called Kappo Odajima with the same concept of Japanese food and wine pairing in Tokyo, though only one is still in business now. Regarding the reason he decided to pair wine in his restaurant, he made it clear in the beginning pages in the cookbook he published: If I am asked why I pair Japanese cuisine with wine, I will answer that the idea came from my three years of experience in Paris long ago, when I crazily wanted to learn 311

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about wine. Why can only sake pair with Japanese cuisine? When I thought about it, I began to remember clearly my life in Paris. I knew in my mind that there was only one road left to me – I could only do a restaurant where Japanese food was paired with wine. In fact, when my restaurant was established, my idea of pairing Japanese food and wine was quickly accepted and expanded, in particular, the old idea of meat pairing with red wine and fish with white wine was completely overturned. From then on, I have been on TV and magazines many times to express my idea. Right now, I am continuing to disseminate the idea of Japanese food pairing with wine from my restaurant Roppongi Odajima to the world. (Odajima 2014: 6) Chefs like Odajima opened a new taste experience in Japan with the idea of pairing Japanese foods with wine in the early 1970s. However, this new taste did not become popular, although it received positive responses from some consumers. Ide, the owner of a Japanese restaurant called Seizan located in Ginza, recalled such an experience. He opened Seizan with the similar idea as Odajima in 1986. He recalled: When I opened this restaurant, the idea of pairing wine and washoku was still new to Japanese. People within the Japanese restaurant industry saw my restaurant as strange. How to market this restaurant was a very hard job for me at the time.2 Thus, the concept of pairing Japanese foods with wine was still regarded as novel in the 1980s. This can also be confirmed by reviewing mass media publications on wine. Japan’s largest wine magazine, Wine Kingdom (established in 1999), had mainly published articles about drinking wine with Western foods. A special feature on Japanese foods and wine appeared in 2015. The idea was exclusively adopted by some chefs and owners of the Japanese restaurants serving Japanese haute cuisine. It is only in the past few years that it has experienced a boom among restaurants serving popular Japanese foods, especially those located in large urban cities, who are consciously centering on wine in their food pairings. The factors that led to this trend are many. However, we should particularly note the strategic motivation by the culinary producers, that is, the aim of associating Japanese cuisine with the European image of fine dining through the use of wine. French wines have dominated these pairings, especially in the Japanese restaurants established by the 1990s (the examples discussed in the following sections), consistent with the association of France with fine dining. It is only very recently that wine produced by other countries, including Japan, started to be paired with Japanese foods as the quality of these wines improved. Yet wine used in Japanese haute cuisine restaurants remains mainly French (or sometimes Italian wine of high reputation).

The principles of pairing Japanese foods with wine Beyond the cultural pairing of washoku with the image of European fine dining through wine, chefs also must solve the culinary puzzle of pairing tastes with food. This pairing process demonstrates how wine is used not to “Europeanize” or “hybridize” Japanese cuisine but rather to mark it as distinct. Japanese learned wine consumption from the West. By the 1990s, the primary pairing principle of wine and food known by Japanese people, including Japanese chefs and wine-related professionals, was the one circulating in the West, that is, red wine with meat dishes and white 312

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wine with fish dishes. This principle dominated pairing wine with both Japanese and foreign foods for a long time. It can be seen in Japanese newspaper articles. Yomiuri Shimbun, a 1980 article about wine and food pairing, stated: Red wine with meat dishes and white wine with fish dishes is common knowledge, widely known by people in our country, which has a relatively short history of wine. (Yomiuri Shimbun 1980: 12) With this principle, Japanese dishes had been generally considered by chefs to be well-paired only with white wine, because fish, whether raw or cooked, and vegetables are the major ingredients of Japanese dishes. Red wines were considered too heavy to pair with fish and vegetables dishes but good with Japanese foods containing meat, such as yakitori, because of its heavy taste, as we will see in the next section. This pairing principle of wine and Japanese foods is also revealed in the Yomiuri Shimbun article cited earlier, which goes on to state: Recently people choosing wine with Japanese cuisine seemed to have increased in number. What wine pairs with what foods? . . . yakitori with red wine, sushi, tempura, and oden with white wine. (Yomiuri Shimbun 1980: 12) The news of the release of a new wine called Uogashi from Sapporo Brewer company in a Yomiuri Shimbun article in 1987 also stated that the new product could be good to pair with Japanese foods. Sapporo Breweries will release Uogashi nationwide, . . . a white wine matching Japanese cuisine. It is a dry blend of Argentine Chardonnay and French Semillon. It goes especially well with seafood dishes such as sashimi and grilled fish. (Yomiuri Shimbun 1987: 14) Therefore, until the 1980s, the principle of pairing Japanese foods with wine followed the general doctrine of food and wine pairing prevailing in the West. It only started to change in the 1990s. How do contemporary chefs conceptualize the pairing of Japanese foods and wine? It is reflected in recently published cookbooks, which teach Japanese and overseas readers about the idea/principle of pairing Japanese foods with wine. Among many of such cookbooks, I use the cookbook titled Japanese Dishes for Wine Lovers (Chiba and Whelehan 2005) as an example. This cookbook, based on my research, was the first book written on the topic of pairing Japanese foods and wine. It has both English and Japanese versions. It remains one of the best-sellers among the cookbooks with this focus. In the introduction, the authors express in detail why they think Japanese foods and wine can be paired well. Regarding Japanese food, they mention that a fifth taste – umami – is a major factor besides the four tastes we know as sour, sweet, bitter, and salty. They write: The appreciation of wine and food is affected by appearance, color, smell, taste, temperature, and vehicle of delivery, as well as physiological and psychological factors. Pairing umami from different sources – that is, glutamate with inosinate or guanylate – increases the effect of umami exponentially. It is also enhanced by natural ripening, fermentation, cooking, smoking, curing, and aging. This means, for example, that wine from grapes with higher ripeness levels, bottle fermentation, or extended lees contact should have a 313

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higher umami content and should therefore marry with Asian cuisine where umami is more prevalent and found in higher quantities. (Chiba and Whelehan 2005: 10–11) In short, umami in Japanese and other Asian cuisine is considered by them as the key matching point. The Japanese notion of umami is thus emphasized in these discussions, accentuating the culinary identity of washoku. After making this point, the authors continue to write about principles of food and wine matching in Western culinary culture: Basically, sweet and savory food makes wine seem drier or less sweet, while fruity tastes make it more acidic and even bitter. Dishes on the salty and acidic side, on the other hand, make wine milder, fruitier, less dry, tannic, and bitter. (Chiba and Whelehan 2005: 14–15) They point out that this principle was thought to challenge the matching of Japanese food and wine because of the food’s umami. It has been often believed that: Savory foods high in umami make a wine taste drier, less fruity, more acidic, and more bitter, with the proposed remedy of adding salt or acid (such as lemon juice) to the food. (Chiba and Whelehan 2005: 11) and Foods in high umami increase the perception of bitterness and create a metallic aftertaste. (Chiba and Whelehan 2005: 11) However, they argued that these ideas were misleading in that salt in the former case in fact enhances umami and, moreover, Western food has a lot of food with high umami, such as cheese, regarded as good to accompany wine (ibid). In light of these ideas, the authors believe that Japanese foods can be paired well with wine. Moreover, they identified major elements in Japanese food, both food forms and seasonings, including sushi, sashimi, konbu, soy sauce, mirin, wasabi, shichimi (Japanese spice mixture of chili pepper plus six other ingredients), and yuzu citron. These elements were analyzed in detail in the rest of the book on why and how they can be paired well with wine in recipes and menus. Japanese Dishes for Wine Lovers exemplifies the broad principles of pairing Japanese foods and wine, conceptualized by contemporary Japanese culinary producers. Umami becomes a new key organizing principle for wine pairings. The next section will show some examples of pairing wine with specific types of dishes.

Examples of Japanese foods and wine pairing Like foods in other cultures, Japanese food is consumed in various forms and occasions from formal, to casual, to everyday. Chefs and sommeliers throughout Japan pair wines of their choice with foods of their choice. It is impossible to detail all of the cases. In this section, two polar extremes serve to reflect trends in pairing Japanese foods with wine in the Japanese culinary world, the kaiseki – the up-market Japanese food consumed on special occasions, and yakitori – an everyday casual food. 314

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Kaiseki with wine Chefs of kaiseki and their restaurants in Japan are important in promoting Japanese cuisine and wine pairing and are the pioneers putting this pairing concept into practice through the learning method of shūgyō.3 Their examples have inspired more and more young Japanese chefs to incorporate this idea in their own restaurants. There are two forms of kaiseki identified by different Japanese characters in the Japanese language. The tea kaiseki (懐石) precedes the formal tea ceremony and has a small number of set courses; banquet kaiseki (会席) is a lavish repast with many courses enjoyed on celebratory occasions. And alcoholic beverage, usually Japanese sake, only appears in the latter. Both types of kaiseki demand sophisticated culinary knowledge and experience. The banquet repast is often thought to represent Japan’s haute cuisine and to be representative of Japanese foods, the principle of which is to bring out the natural qualities and flavors of ingredients and not focus on elaborate cooking techniques, seasonings, and sauces (Abe 2006: 22). How kaiseki is paired with wine is well illustrated by the practice of owner-sommelier Mr. Ide of the kaiseki ryōri restaurant Seizan (established in 1986), located in Tokyo’s Ginza. Seizan is commonly acknowledged by chefs and sommeliers in Tokyo and Osaka as one of the leading restaurants specializing in wine and kaiseki ryōri pairing. It is also a practicing “school” for young chefs and sommeliers studying washoku and wine pairing. Seizan serves traditional kaiseki. Mr. Ide states that the concept of pairing wine and Japanese foods at first was simply a business strategy for making his restaurant distinct in Japan’s competitive market. However, as he researched wine by visiting wineries and interviewing winemakers in France (he published his findings in a book) and won sommelier qualification, he became increasingly convinced that Japanese foods could be paired deliciously with wine. His idea regarding wine and Japanese food pairing is that there is not any evidence proving the rule that a cuisine can only be paired well with locally produced alcoholic beverages, and thus Japanese foods can be accompanied very well by wines. He also argued that the “rule” that Japanese foods should be paired with white wine was also a misunderstanding. In practice, however, his ideas conflict with those still held by some washoku chefs, who mostly stick to white wines. Some chefs urge the pairing of domestically produced wines, arguing that Japanese wine does not have a long aftertaste and its flavor is not dominant compared with foreign wines. Washoku uses dashi, and it is a cuisine centered on water, so the light taste of Japanese wine pairs more easily with Japanese foods. Mr. Ide argues that washoku chefs have restricted themselves through these practices. He agrees that Japanese food is not easily matched with young red wine, because, generally speaking, the flavors of Japanese foods are not friendly to the wines that are typically considered good with Western foods. However, this does not mean washoku cannot be paired with red wine. Through his research, he found Japanese foods could perform well with aged red wines, because aged wine in general tastes mild. Aged wine is not too powerful to eclipse the umami of Japanese dishes, unlike young wine. In his restaurants, Mr. Ide serves well-aged wine, usually aged over ten years, mainly from Europe (France), but some from non-European producers as well, including several Japanese wines. The pairing principle by Seizan’s owner seems to be accepted by Japanese consumers, since the restaurant has been running for thirty years and is still popular. Seizan’s case shows one way of approaching wine and washoku pairing, which emphasizes the key pairing principle of focusing on specific flavors of wine, rather than regions. Through its flexibility, wine in kaiseki serves as a companion without changing the flavor of foods. Such an approach can be increasingly found in many recently established kaiseki restaurants by young chefs. In The Wine Kingdom magazine, there is a series column reporting on washoku 315

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restaurants in Kyoto where people can enjoy Japanese foods and wine. In its November 2016 issue, it introduces a Japanese food restaurant called Gion Tsujiya (The Wine Kingdom, 2016: 144–145). The restaurant was opened in 2010 and is owned by a young couple who are also the chef and sommelier. The Japanese food is traditional kaiseki. The most important principle for pairing is that wine should not disturb the flavors of food. Wines without showing strong taste are chosen. Again, the focus is on the distinctive qualities of washoku and fine wines – or a concept of pairing wine – that emphasizes the distinctiveness of Japanese foods. Wine serves as a nearly silent presence that accents the Japaneseness of the food.

Yakitori with wine The integration of Japanese foods and wine as a form of culinary politics is reflected more explicitly from the pairing of wine with yakitori, a casual form of Japanese food widely enjoyed in Japan. Yakitori literally means grilled chicken. It is skewered and grilled chunks and pieces of chicken, including internal organs and skin. With an increasing number of yakitori restaurants’ opening overseas, yakitori is also gaining popularity outside Japan. Yakitori started to appear in the early Meiji period with the removal (in 1871) of restrictions on dishes made with animal meat. At the time chicken was a luxurious food, more expensive than beef. The hot-pot style of food made with chicken meat called shamonabe (shamo chicken hot-pot) was a type of the high-end cuisine served at restaurants in entertainment areas in the Meiji period. Internal organs were not used in shamonabe, but were made into yakitori. So, chicken dishes during this period were for two different social classes – shamonabe for political elites and rich people, yakiori for the hoi polloi (Tsuchida 2014: 415–429). Whereas shamonabe was offered in high-end ryōtei, yakitori was a low-end street food sold at food stalls (yadai). Despite this, during the Meiji (1868–1912) and Taisho periods (1912–1926), yakitori became an important source of nutrition for ordinary Japanese people, mostly men (Tsuchida 2014: 458–465). Yakitori’s social status started to change in the Showa period (1926–1989) with several highend yakitori restaurants opening around the Ginza area. These restaurants sold yakitori made only with the internal organs of chicken. At the time, most of the yakitori food stalls said they sold yakitori, but in fact internal organs they used were not chicken, but pig and cow (Tsuchida 2014: 640–1102). However, rationing policies during the Second World War and after made yakitori a low-status food again because yakitori was only sold on the black market. Today, some yakitori restaurants in Shinbashi, Yurakucho, Shibuya, and Shinjuku developed from black-market yakitori stalls of the time (Tsuchida 2014: 640–1102). Yakitori became cheap and sold regularly at restaurants in the 1960s, when Japan started to import American methods of breeding broilers. This method allowed production of a large number of chickens quickly and inexpensively (Tsuchida 2014: 1106). Yakitori restaurants started to become diversified in the mid-1980s. Whereas most of the yakitori restaurants used the meat of commercially bred broilers, some started to use the meat of free-range chickens (such as jidori). At the same time, some restaurants also started to distinguish themselves by redefining the restaurant space. Yakitori restaurants had been almost an exclusive place for adult men to eat and drink by that time. The image of a yakitori restaurant was one of smoky grills, often located under train tracks or by the roadside. Men sat or stood in front of a grill stove to eat while holding a cup of sake, shōchu, or beer in one hand. However, new yakitori restaurants opening at the time changed this image and made a restaurant serving yakitori a place where women and young people could also feel comfortable dining. This redefinition of the 316

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restaurant space also involved the menu. Grilled vegetables, mushrooms, and wine, which were never found on menus of yakitori eateries, started to appear (Tsuchida 2014: 1158). Moreover, from my research into women in Japan’s wine culture, the association of wine with yakitori is being used not only to refine or elevate the social status of a culinary item but also to feminize it. My research shows that of all the drinking cultures in Japan, wine is the one with the most strongly feminine appeal. This can be seen in the attractiveness of wine events to women, the large number of female sommeliers, and the participation of women in the wine world in general (Wang 2016). Partly for these reasons, yakitori restaurants pairing foods with wine have become a current trend of the food culture in Japan. How has wine been paired with yakitori? Yakitori has two basic flavors, seasoned either with salt or a sweet soy-based sauce (tare). The nuances of the salt seasoning are produced by the salt that chefs use. The tare for yakitori is basically made with shoyu, miso, and mirin. Tare sauce varies with the restaurant, being made by chefs with secret recipes (in Japanese, hiden tare), which produce distinct flavors. Whether seasoned with salt or with tare, yakitori has a heavy taste, which resulted in the prevailing idea of pairing yakitori with full-bodied red wines. If one wanted to pair wine with yakitori and asked a chef in a restaurant a decade ago, he would probably have highly recommended a full-bodied and heavy red wine. However, now for some chefs of yakitori restaurants, this idea seems out of date and stereotypical. Young chefs today are making yakitori taste more delicate. In particular, those who have wine knowledge or hold sommelier qualification make their yakitori with a lighter taste so that it can be more suitable for pairing with wine. The deliciousness of yakitori does not rely on the salt or tare sauce, but on the chickens used. Yakitori Tamaya Kichijoji is one of the restaurants pairing wine with yakitori. It opened in 2014, focusing on “Japanese spirit combined with Western learning.” Unlike traditional yakitori restaurants, it has a tapas-style bar environment with lively jazz music. Wooden tables and chairs with modern Japanese lamps make the dining space look modern and stylish. Smoking in the restaurant is not allowed. The yakitori menu seems similar to most of the yakitori restaurants in Tokyo. However, according to its manager, the flavor of yakitori here is different from most other yakitori restaurants. He particularly stressed two points. The first is the chickens they use. Rather than one variety of chicken, they use the best parts of various naturally bred chickens. Second, both salt and tare seasonings are light. These two factors, he said, produce a juicy and light yakitori. On the drink menu, wines are listed in the center of the page and stand out. There are only six wines on the list, which are offered by the glass. They are all domestic Japanese wines, two whites – Koshu and Semillon – and three reds – Muscat Berry A, Merlot, and Cabernet Sauvignon. The manager explained to me that Japanese wines have a softer quality than foreign wines made with the same grapes. They pair well with the light yakitori in his restaurant. Yakitori Tamaya is one example that reflects the recent delicate change in Japanese food taste and the resulting alternative ideas of food and drink pairing. Yakitori restaurants where foods are paired with wine are not rare anymore. Restaurants established after 2010 especially show new ways of pairing yakitori and wine. This phenomenon is also noted by several Japanese magazines and reported in recent issues. In The Wine Kingdom issue of November 2016 there is a report on how yakitori is paired with wine in a restaurant called Yakitori Abe, established that year. Chickens used in the restaurant are datetori, a free-range variety. The owner-chef with a sommelier qualification expressed his idea of pairing with several types of yakitori – salt-seasoned sasami (chicken tender), sunagimo (gizzard), nankotsu (cartilage), tebasaki (wings), kawa (skin), and momo (thigh), as well as tare-seasoned momo, hātsu (heart), reba (liver), tsukune (meat balls), and hātsumoto (a part between the heart and liver). In 317

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general, according to the chef, yakitori can be paired well with white wine of an aromatic, fruity nose, with a middle-body light red wine without strong acidity, and with a rosé wine with strong tannin and long finish (Kobayashi 2016: 132–135). This pairing principle is similar to what the chef of Yakitori Tamaya did. However, the chef of Yakitori Abe does not confine himself to Japanese wines; rather, he pairs his food with Italian and French wines too. Another Japanese gourmet magazine, Otona no Shūmatsu, issue of the same month, also had a special report on the current trend of yakitori and wine pairing. That report stated that yakitori seasoning at new restaurants is lighter now than before. With this new taste, the previously prevailing pairing principle of yakitori with full-body red wine is overthrown. White and rosé wines, which had not been considered good with yakitori, now show their potential. Heavy red wine with yakitori has been also replaced by lighter ones (Otona no Shumatsu 2016: 41). These gourmet magazine reports confirm the current new taste of yakitori and the new wine pairings. In the case of the pairing of wine with yakitori, what we see are the gender and class politics of using wine to feminize and gentrifying what was considered a working-class male food.

The culinary politics in the pairing of Japanese foods with wine Two very different types of Japanese foods paired with wine have been presented. However, they represent only a fraction of the types of Japanese foods that are increasingly paired with wine rather than with Japanese sake. Some of the other types that are following the wine pairing trend are ramen, oden, takoyaki, soba, and horumon. In pairing these with wine, the question is not simply one of compatible tastes but also of what wine pairings indicate about the culinary identity of Japanese foods. In contemporary Japan, Japanese foods have transcended the dietary domain and become a culinary political question of what counts and does not count as authentic Japanese foods, and also of the status of various foods (and food producers) within the broad culinary world. The culinary politics of Japanese foods began with the popularization of the term “Japanese foods” in the Japanese language. The term washoku (Japanese [wa] and foods [shoku]) emerged in the Meiji period (1868–1912). It was created to differentiate the foods that already existed in the Japanese culinary system from various new Western foods that were being introduced (Harada 2014). The Japanese foods that had already existed before the Meiji period can be broadly placed into two types of foods – formal banquet cuisines accessed by only elite people at Japanese restaurants (ryotei) and casual daily foods with local variations consumed by ordinary people. Formal banquet cuisine had a pattern of cooking, presenting, and rituals of dining that originated in China but developed Japanese styles of cooking and presentation different from the original. Since the Meiji period, the term washoku was most often used for referring to formal cuisine (currently called kaiseki ryōri) as the representative of traditional Japanese foods. In contemporary times, the discussions of the definition of Japanese foods become increasingly complex. Discussions often have focused on what are and aren’t “Japanese foods.” For example, ramen and tempura, which are taken for granted as typical Japanese foods, have their original models in foreign cultures (Solt 2014; Harada 2014; Iino 2016). Some hold that kaiseki ryori (served at formal banquets) is the true Japanese cuisine (Abe 2006), but others argue that all the Japanized foods with foreign roots should be considered Japanese cuisine. Modern Japanese foods are a confluence of foods from Japan and other cultures, especially Western and Chinese, as it is described as a “Japanese-Western-Chinese tripod” (Cwiertka 2006). However, even this categorization was pointed out to not be effective in defining Japanese foods, because it misses local Japanese foods (Tanaka 2010: 178). More recently, Japanese foods were elaborated by Japan’s MAFF as Japanese-style cuisine with specific elements, including the selection of foodstuffs, the consideration of nutrient balance, hospitality, and the occasion and style of eating (MAFF 2013: 2–3). 318

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These different definitions of Japanese foods reflect disputes about the basis of authenticity in Japanese foods, that is, whether authenticity is defined by geography or agents (Imai 2015), by taste features and cooking methods (Abe 2006), or by more complex criteria. But more importantly, these disputes reflect that Japanese food is a discourse of culinary nationalism in Japanese society, one that emerged when Japanese became more conscious of alternative culinary systems, and is currently shaped and used by the Japanese government to elaborate on the entire food culture of the country. Indeed, Japanese foods have clearly become an example of state-led culinary politics (Assmann 2010; Farrer 2015). It is worth noting that Japanese foods (washoku) as a tradition of Japanese foodways was invented by the Japanese government and food scholars (Rath 2016: 29). Similarly, washoku is a fictional concept, being employed by the government as a branding strategy for marketing Japanese food overseas and for promoting the globalization of Japanese foods, and ultimately for the political goal of guaranteeing Japan’s food security by improving its decreasing food self-sufficiency (Cwiertka and Yasuhara 2016: 124). In conclusion, from the viewpoint of culinary politics, the pairing of Japanese foods with wine that this chapter focuses on should not be simply considered an innovation of culinary taste by integrating new taste into Japanese culinary and dietary culture. Wine, a Western beverage, with its own highly developed cultural discourses, is being employed in the production and enjoyment of Japanese national foods. There is a clear tendency to use wine to elevate the status of Japanese foods through the association with European models. Wine also allows restaurant owners an opportunity to refine and feminize food items, such as yakitori, previously associated with a coarse, male street food culture. In this sense, the wine pairing discourse is not used by culinary producers to emphasize the commonalities or overlap of Japanese cuisine with Western cuisine, but rather is used to advocate both the superb qualities and distinctive nature of Japanese foods. The introduction of wine into Japanese culinary culture has not diluted its culinary nationalism, but rather has reinforced it. Moreover, the case of yakitori shows that culinary politics includes the gender and class politics of feminizing and ennobling a product through its association with wine. Thus, wine fits into the culinary politics associated with promoting a national cuisine, but also with elevating it in class terms. This type of culinary politics is also engaged in by culinary producers, rather than only by the state.

Notes 1 Under this policy, every household received beer. The rationing policy for beer started in 1940 and ended in 1949. Therefore, beer was the earliest Western-type alcoholic beverage which became familiar among Japanese people. 2 Communication with Ide on July 26, 2016. 3 Shūgyō is a training discipline found in Buddhism and a wide variety of crafts and skills, including cooking. It is the traditional apprentice system in Japan. An apprentice was taught by example, not by principle and abstraction, and learned a skill through the skin, by doing and emulating – a primarily non-verbal process.

Bibliography Abe, K. (2006) Nihon ryōri no shinzui (The essence of Japanese cuisine 日本料理の真髄), Tokyo: Kodansha. Assmann, S. (2010) ‘Food Action Nippon and Slow Food Japan: The Role of Two Citizen Movements in the Rediscovery of Local Foodways’, in J. Farrer (ed.) Globalization: Food and Social Identities in the Asia Pacific Region, Tokyo: Sophia University Institute of Comparative Culture. Chiba, M. and Whelehan, J.K. (2005) Japanese Dishes for Wine Lovers, Tokyo, New York, and London: Kodansha International. Cwiertka, K.J. (2006) Modern Japanese Cuisine: Food, Power, and National Identity, London: Reaktion Books.

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Chuanfei Wang Cwiertka, K.J. and Yasuhara, M. (2016) Himerareta washoku shi (The secreted history of washoku 秘めら れた和食史), Tokyo: Shinsensha. Farrer, J. (2015) ‘Introduction: Traveling Cuisines in and Out of Asia: Toward a Framework for Studying Culinary Globalization’, in J. Farrer (ed.) The Globalization of Asian Cuisines: Transnational Networks and Culinary Contact Zones, 1–19, NewYork: Palgrave Macmillan. Harada, N. (2014) Washoku towa nanika: umami no bunka o saguru (What is washoku: looking for the culture of umami 和食とはなにか旨みの文化をさぐる), Tokyo: Kadokawa Sophia Bunko. Kindle Edition. Hashimoto, K. (2015) The Post-war History of Izakaya (居酒屋の戦後史), Tokyo: Shōdensha. Iino, R. (2016) Sushi, Tempura, Soba, Unagi: Edo yondai meibutsu shoku no tanjo (Sushi, tempura, soba, unagi: the birth of the four most famous food in Edo すし 天ぷら 蕎麦 うなぎ: 江戸四大名物食の誕生), Tokyo: Chikumashoko. Kindle Edition. Imai, S. (2015) ‘Umami Abroad: Taste, Authenticity, and the Global Urban Network’, in Farrer J. (ed.) The Globalization of Asian Cuisines: Transnational Networks and Culinary Contact Zones, 57–78. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Ishige, N. (2001) The History and Culture of Japanese Food, London and New York: Routledge. Kobyashi, S. (2016) ‘Oniku to wain no pairing jutsu daiyon kai (Pairing of meat and wine No. 4 お肉とワ インのペアリング術第 4 回)’, The Wine Kingdom. MAFF (2013) WASHOKU: Traditional Dietary Cultures of the Japanese. www.maff.go.jp/e/japan_food/ washoku/pdf/wasyoku_english.pdf. Accessed on November 14, 2016. Mainichi Shimbun (July 14, 1992) ‘Toroni ni karaguchi shiro, Hamachi ni aka!? Wain kenkyuka ga wain to ryori no aisho shindan wo shuppan (Dry white wine for tuna, red wine for yellowtail!? Wine experts published a diagnosis of compatibility between wine and cuisine トロに辛口白、ハマチに赤！？ワ イン研究家が「ワインと料理の相性診断」を出版)’, Osaka Evening Edition 2. Mercian (2016) Wain sankō shiryō (References for wine ワイン参考資料), www.kirin.co.jp/company/data/ marketdata/pdf/market_wine_2016.pdf. Accessed on January 20, 2017. Miyajima, I. (2016) ‘Gion Tsujiya’. The Wine Kingdom. The Nikkei (June 28, 1984) ‘Tsuitachi kara wain de kaiseki ryori wo jisshitsu (Pair wine with kaiseki from the first day of next month １日から「ワインで会席料理」を実施)’, 11. Nozawa, J. (2010) ‘Wine-drinking Culture in Seventeenth-century Japan: The Role of Dutch Merchants’, in E. C. Rath and S. Assmann. (eds.) Japanese Foodways, Past and Present, Urbana, Chicago, and Springfield: University of Illinois Press. Odajima, M. (2014) Wain suki no washoku otsumami 100 (Japanese snack food for wine lovers ワイン好き の和食おつまみ 100), Tokyo: Stereo Sound Publishing. OIV. (2016) State of the Vitiviniculture World Market, www.oiv.int/public/medias/4587/oiv-noteconjmars 2016-en.pdf . Accessed January 20, 2017. Otona no Shumatsu. (November 2016) ‘Yakiori to wain (焼き鳥とワイン)’, Otona no Shūmatsu. Rath, E. C. (2016) Japan’s Cuisines: Food, Place and Identity. London: Reaktion Books. Solt, G. (2014) The Untold History of Ramen: How Political Crisis in Japan Spawned a Global Food Craze. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Tamura, R. (November 2016) ‘Feudo Arancio to washoku no aisho wo kensho suru (Verify compatibility of Japanese food with Feudo Arancio「フエウド・アランチョ」と和食の相性を検証する)’. The Wine Kingdom. Tanaka, S. (2010) A Review of ‘Modern Japanese Cuisine: Food, Power, and National Identity’, Food and Foodways, 18:3, 177–179. doi:10.1080/07409710.2010.504122 Tsuchida, M. (2014) Yakitori to nihonjin (Yakitori and Japanese people). Tokyo: Kobunsha. Wang, C. (2016) ‘Joining the Global Wine World: the Case of Japan’. Unpublished Ph. D. Dissertation. Sophia University. Wang, C. (2017) ‘Joining the Global Wine World: Japan’s Winemaking Industry’, in A. Niehaus and T. Walravens (ed.) Feeding Japan: The Cultural and Political Issues of Dependency and Risk, New York: Palgrave MacMillan. Yomiuri Shimbun. (November 17, 1979) ‘Waryōri no fūmi nihonshu ni gunbai (Pair Japanese sake with Japanese cuisine 和料理の風味日本酒に軍配)’. Yomiuri Shimbun. (October 12, 1980) ‘Ryōri ni yotte wain mo kawaru (Wine changes according to food 料理によってワインも変わる)’. Yomiuri Shimbun. (September 19, 1987) ‘Sashimi, yakizakana muki wain. (Wine for sashimi and grilled fish 刺身、焼き魚向きワイン)’.

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23 SHANGHAI, STREET FOOD AND THE MODERN METROPOLIS Anna Greenspan

Shanghai’s Laoximen (old west gate) neighborhood, which lies in between the former French concession and the historic old city, is the perfect place from which to view the city’s ongoing process of transformation. While other parts of the downtown core seem somewhat settled, here one is still able to bear witness to the intensity of China’s contemporary urban transformation. Just a few blocks to the west of Laoximen lies Xintiandi, one of the richest areas of the city, while further to the east, near the river, is an area known as Dongjiadu. Demolition in Dongjiadu began in 2007 in the lead-up to World Expo. For many years, during the peak of the financial crises, however, little construction occurred. Migrant workers settled in, planting farms and gardens, and a vibrant market in food and textiles flourished amidst the rubble. By 2017, however, the cranes returned and the cluster of high-end commercial and residential buildings that form the ‘Dongjiadu Master Plan’ are again under construction. Between these two areas lies what remain of the narrow streets and low-rise structures of the older metropolis. When I first moved to Laoximen in 2016 people came from miles around, attracted to the Zhaozhou lu night market, whose highlights included ‘Er Guang Hundun,’ a tiny shop specializing in peanut-flavored wontons whose tables spilled onto the sidewalk and which was famously visited by celebrity chef Anthony Bourdain on his televised trip to the city. Equally popular was ‘Lao Shaoxing Doujiang,’ an all-night stand cooking youtiao 油条 and doujiang 豆浆 (fried bread and soy milk) that attracted a mixture of locals who lined up in their pajamas as well as clubbers who dropped by in their fancy cars. In between these two stands that bordered the block was a cluster of other businesses, including a microbrewery, a skewer stand and a full Sichuanese restaurant.1 Tangjiawan, the oldest farmers market in the city, which was built in 1903, was located just around the corner. As late as August 2016 the street was still lively – a stubborn hold-out from an earlier epoch. Yet just one month later the houses and shops were empty, the whole block was boarded up and the market was gone. Zhaozhou lu, which is poised between Xintiandi, one of Shanghai’s wealthiest neighborhoods, and the ‘old city,’ one of its poorest, has been slotted for redevelopment. By February 2017 the Tangjiawan market closed its doors. Today, a few formalized food trucks dot the area, ‘Er Guang Hundun’ has moved into a formal restaurant nearby, and youtiao and doujiang are only available in a fancy cafeteria in Xintiandi. Instead of street markets, the area is filled with the blue and white prefab walls that form the temporary housing for migrant workers. At night giant machines roar, like prehistoric beasts, devouring an older urban fabric. Construction is 321

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hidden by vast billboards advertising the ‘sophisticated’ and ‘luxurious living’ complexes that are rapidly rising from the ground. Laoximen is a vivid reminder that in trying to build itself as a future city, (Greenspan 2014; Wasserstrom 2008), Shanghai’s municipal leaders are operating with a model of development that views street markets and street life as backwards and uncultured; a past that needs to be ‘cleaned up’ and swept away (Brown 2006; Hansen, Little, and Milgram 2013). In the last decade government-sponsored clean-up campaigns have targeted vendors of all types. There have also been coordinated drives against hanging laundry and people wearing pajamas (an old Shanghai custom that, in the lead-up to the World Expo, was deemed uncouth). In the winter of 2016, the move to ‘civilize’ the city targeted the Chinese tradition of setting off fireworks to celebrate the New Year and welcome the god of wealth. Throughout the holiday period the custom was banned inside Shanghai’s outer ring road. The city launched a massive offensive, covering the streets with banners, employing 300,000 volunteers and setting massive anti-firework fines. A tradition that had chaotically erupted for centuries was abruptly silenced. Shanghai’s image of modernity is clean and well ordered. Maintaining this image requires a constant struggle against the unplanned, out-of-control messiness of street markets, street culture and street life (Solinger 2013; Olds 1997; Campanella 2012). Modernist urban planning, which has typically called for regulation from above and insisted that city building was left in the hands of trained experts, has long been intent on the destruction of the street (Berman 1983; Caro 1974; Jacobs 1992). This top-down approach reached a pinnacle in the architectural writings of Le Corbusier. “The plan must rule,” he asserts in his articulation of the ‘City of Tomorrow,’ “the street must disappear” (Le Corbusier 1987). According to Le Corbusier’s vision, organic, chaotic and haphazard towns with their winding streets and alleyways would give way to a well-planned and tightly zoned city filled with manicured parks, high-rises and rationally ordered roads (Le Corbusier 1987). “Man walks in a straight line because he has a goal and knows where he is going,” wrote Le Corbusier in his typically dictatorial style, “the modern city lives by the straight line” (Le Corbusier 1987). Likewise, in his work on the modernist city of Brasilia, a city planned without streets, urban theorist James Holsten details how the discipline of ‘urban organization’ viewed ‘the elimination of the street’ as a prerequisite. “The street,” writes Holsten, is “considered an impediment to progress because it fails to accommodate the needs of the machine age” (Holston 1989: 248). Faced with the modernist ambition to build the city of tomorrow, the mobile street vendor has found himself or herself as an explicit target (Cardoso, Companion, and Marras 2014). In his essay ‘Pushcart Evil,’ D. M. Bluestone documents how this situation has unfolded in America, where there has been a “centuries old efforts by municipalities to regulate and control street commerce” (Bluestone 1991: 68). The article begins in 1936, with a successful campaign in Manhattan to remove vendors from the streets by placing them in covered markets. In the name of ‘advancing social progress’ municipal officials hoped to mark the end of the pushcart, which they felt had “long outlived its usefulness in this day of modern, quick, sanitary distribution of foods” (Bluestone 1991: 68). This was not the first of New York’s pushcart bans, however. Bluestone points to an ordinance forbidding ‘street hucksters’ from as early as 1691 (Bluestone 1991). Such urban policies, which take aim at the street vendor, are often quite explicit about their class-based motivation and strategies for control. (Cardoso, Companion, and Marras 2014). The clash between unregulated street vendors and a more ordered capitalist development is a means for the (often newly) wealthy to carve out zones of urban living that are separated from frequent and intimate contact with the urban poor (Fishman 1987). The aim of anti-street vending campaigns, argues Bluestone, was to “erase the vestiges of an older and decidedly less refined tradition 322

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of urban commerce; at the same time extending upper-class ideals of public decorum and social separation to one of the least ordered spaces of the modern city – the street” (Bluestone 1991: 69). Arvind Rajagopal, in his article ‘The Menace of Hawkers,’ tracks a similar process in Mumbai. His work conceptualizes the hawker (or pheriwala) – whom, he notes, not only belongs to the informal economy but indeed provoked the concept itself – as “a contested figure of Indian modernity” (Rajagopal 2004: 236). By exploring the tensions between middle-class activists and the pheriwala, Rajagopal shows how protests in favor of “clean streets and sidewalks, unobstructed movement of traffic” are used to delegitimize the “unruly energy” of an “older consumption aesthetic” (Rajagopal 2004: 236). This same impetus, which has been particularly well documented in the case of India (Anjaria 2016; Bhowmik 2005) that equates urban development with a battle against the street, has also informed the modernizing processes of urban China. Di Wang, whose book Street Culture in Chengdu tracks this transformation in what is now the capital of Sichuan Province, details the enormously rich street culture of the pre-modern city. Everyday life for common people, who mostly lived in meager homes, happened largely outdoors. “Urban residents, especially the poor, used the street as their shared space for everyday greater freedom for various activities related to their livelihood and recreation,” he writes (Wang 2013: 2). From their beginnings, modernizing efforts in Chengdu were directed against this grassroots social life. Reformers “felt that how the street looked was an indicator of the city’s well being” (Wang 2013: 134) and “considered displays of traditional culture representative of the ‘old’ order and therefore ‘backward.”’ Under the influence of a ‘Western-imitative civilization’ (wenming) and ‘enlightenment’ (qimeng), municipal officials sought to “improve the streets and enhance the city’s image.” In the face of an onslaught of regulation “commoners had to struggle to maintain their claim to the street” (Wang 2013: 3). Chengdu is just but one example. In her comprehensive essay ‘Streets as Suspect,’ Dorothy Solinger documents the many phases of the communist party’s hostile campaigns aimed against the informal culture and commerce of the street. “Streets – or to be specific, those who seek to situate themselves on them in order to earn their sustenance,” she writes, “are suspect in the eyes of the leadership of the People’s Republic of China (PRC) and have ever been so” (Solinger 2013: 3). The communist government’s adversity to an inherently out-of-control street life and street culture was evident from the start. “Immediately upon the entry of the victorious People’s Liberation Army into the major metropolises of the country in the second half of 1949, a ban was imposed on unregistered peddlers, along with one on beggars” (Solinger 2013: 6). In the aftermath of the Great Leap Forward there was a short-lived hiatus. For a few years street vending was permitted so as to counter the massive shortages brought on by the policies of centralized planning. Yet, as Solinger writes, these emergent markets “soon struck fear of a return of capitalism into the consciousness of the omnipotent Party chief, Mao Zedong”(Solinger 2013: 7). Soon after, an even stricter ban was imposed. During the decade of the Cultural Revolution informal vending all but disappeared. “Even while choking the streets with youthful parading and ravaging partisans,” Solinger notes, party policy “nonetheless erased all visible emblems of capitalism and its culture, rendering even the stuff of the tiniest outdoor fresh food marts contraband” (Solinger 2013: 7). This familiar rhythm in which the strict control of street markets is followed by a loosening of power was again repeated in the immediate aftermath of the Cultural Revolution (Solinger 2013; Dikötter 2016). Throughout the 1980s China witnessed a dramatic expansion of informal vending – this time tied to mass urbanization. By the early 1990s, however, as Solinger documents, the underlying suspicion against street markets once again resurfaced as the initial period of Opening and Reform (gaige kaifang), which was driven primarily by a vibrant bottom-up sector of small, private entrepreneurs from the countryside giving way to a second phase geared 323

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towards state-owned enterprises and giant multinational corporations (Y. Huang 2008). The country became obsessed with “nurturing giant firms and enticing international investors” and, as a result, policy “morphed from promoting markets of any kind (in the 1980s and most of the 1990s) to fostering colossal companies whose success was not to be undermined by the petty capitalists who would ply their trade outside” (Solinger 2013). The contemporary moment of tightening had begun: Laid-off workers who had been free to ply service and commercial trades from 1998 to around 2003 without much interference were summarily hounded off the streets. Night markets were shut down or shunted onto the back-street alleyways in major cities, pavements in the heart of town were cleared of anything resembling business. Stall-keepers were herded into tall buildings, where, of course, their interactions with potential purchasers were necessarily cut back, as the passersby who might have been their customers were much less likely to go indoors than they were to stop by an outdoor stall to seek out what they needed. (Solinger 2013: 17) In Shanghai, as current developments around Laoximan clearly illustrate, the economic pressure against street-level trade has been further reinforced by the increasing importance of real estate development as the main source of revenue for municipal governments. This is a common dynamic. “Struggles for space,” writes John Cross, “are particularly acute in downtown areas, especially in cities where the local government and business want to ‘renovate’ urban areas for tourism or to increase local real-estate values” (Cross and Karides 2007). In urban China, with its skyrocketing real estate prices, “local officialdom has taken to putting a very high premium upon ‘modernizing’ and ‘beautifying’ its visage (shirong urban appearance)” (Solinger 2013: 13). To take but one example, the night market on Sipailou Lu, a dense and crowded corridor just off the main thoroughfare of Fangbang Zhong Lu in Shanghai’s old city neighborhood, was, for many years, a particularly lively zone. The street, which was once the site of a Ming dynasty Confucian temple, evolved into a famous food market, where vendors – mostly migrants – sold everything from stinky tofu, big bone soup and fried noodles to barbecue skewers. The Sipailou market, however, was located just steps away from one of Shanghai’s main tourist attractions, the faux ancient Yuyuan garden. By the summer of 2016, prompted in part by the state-supported business that sell small snacks at Yuyuan, informal street vending in the old city was almost completely eradicated, as this area – like so many others in the downtown core – was slated to be ‘cleaned up,’ and redeveloped. Increasingly concerned about what they perceived as ‘world aesthetic standards,’ Shanghai has fostered a sensibility that held, as Solinger writes, that “city streets needed to be sanitized, scoured of the unsightly, especially emptied of those whose ‘suzhi ‘ or quality is thought to be inferior, whether unlicensed peddlers, migrants from the countryside, or, finally, the less educated workers thrown aside by their old employers in the state-owned firms after the mid 1990s” (Solinger 2013: 14). As the government sought to attract the eye of the investor, the urban thoroughfares came to be “reserved for the demolition teams and for the shopping sprees of the well-off; the very poor had no right to the city streets themselves” (Solinger 2013: 16). Contemporary Shanghai, then, has adopted a mainstream modernist legacy, which pits urban ‘progress’ against the informal markets of the street (Roy 2005; Portes, Benton, and Lauren 1989; Chen 2005). For the past decades, throughout the city, but especially in the urban core, street vendors and mobile stalls have been replaced with chain stores and shopping malls, and almost all the great clusters of street food in the downtown center have been lost. 324

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Moveable Feasts Ridley Scott’s 1982 film Blade Runner viscerally depicts the layered nature of the cyberpunk vision of the future city. A flying craft drifts past super-tall skyscrapers illuminated by giant screens. As the craft floats past, the camera pans down, following the slope of a neon dragon advertising what lies below. It comes to rest in a dark and rainy alley where the hero Deckard sits perched at a noodle stall. Though Blade Runner was set in Los Angeles 2019, it was filmed on location in 1980s Taipei. Today, the film is a striking early recognition that the Asian metropolis, with its dense and complex strata, is vital to the imagination and creation of our now global urban future. Critical to the intensity of this urban imaginary is that alongside the flying cars and illuminated towers, there are also the smells, sounds and tastes of street food. My work on Shanghai’s street snacks was sparked by an increasing apprehension that, as the city emerges as a twenty-first-century hub, the rich and layered nature of its urban fabric is being destroyed. In line with a modernist agenda – already centuries old – that sees control of the street as central to economic progress and urban development (Bluestone Daniel 1991; Holston 1989; Berman 1983), Shanghai is replacing its alleyway noodle stands with brightly lit fast food chains and shopping malls. It does so with the paradoxical aim to ‘catch up’ with the idealized (and homogenous) vision of a global city that has already established itself elsewhere (Roy 2009). The project Moveable Feasts began in June 2013 with a call to “designers, artists, scholars, students and foodies of all types to come map, document, co-create, re-invent and preserve Shanghai’s street food.” The initial brainstorming meeting was held in Shanghai’s first hacker space, Xinchejian. Those gathered noted with some alarm that whereas street food elsewhere was being celebrated with food trucks, ‘vendy awards’ and reality TV, the culinary culture of Shanghai’s 小吃 xiaochi (small snacks) was under threat. Moveable Feasts was established with the aim “to research, savor, catalogue, preserve, and engage with the city’s rich street food heritage.” In the spring of 2015, after connecting with Krishnendu Ray’s project on City Food based at New York University (NYU), Moveable Feasts was developed into a digital humanities classroom–based project that focused on the tools of critical cartography (Kim 2015; Cosgrove 1999) in order to map the city’s changing street food landscape (www.sh-streetfood.org). Small groups of student researchers, both Chinese and foreign, worked together to map over 200 vendors and, through interviews and other modes of embedded research, uncover the stories from the streets: Who are the vendors and where are they from? What are their working conditions? What kinds of spaces do they inhabit, and what types of spatial arrangements do they make possible? What opportunities are open to them? What challenges do they face? What are their ties to other vendors, to the neighborhood and to the food that they cook and serve?2 The pages that follow examine three interrelated contexts which shape the contemporary street food landscape in Shanghai: 1) high-speed urbanization, 2) internal migration and 3) the life and culture of the street. Drawing on the research conducted for Moveable Feasts, it shows that street food provides an intimate lens onto the vast cultural and socioeconomic transformations underway in Shanghai, as one of the largest and fastest-growing cities in China aims to forge itself into the model of a modern metropolis of the twenty-first century.

Urbanization Shanghai, as I have written elsewhere (Greenspan 2014), was by the beginning of the millennium at the forefront of the fastest and most intense process of urbanization the world has ever known (Khanna 2010; Saunders 2010). “A third of the world’s population is on the move this century,” writes author Doug Saunders. Yet unlike the wave of urbanization that accompanied 325

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the modernization of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, this time the “flows are almost all occurring in the so called ‘developing world’” (Roy 2009). Throughout Asia, Africa, Latin America and the Middle East, the villages of the countryside are emptying out. In 2007 the threshold was crossed. For the first time in history fifty percent of the world’s population are urban dwellers (McNeill 2007). Megacities are mushrooming everywhere. National Geographic reports that in 1950 New York was the only city in the world with a population over ten million; by 2015 there are over thirty of these giant cities (Zwingle and Franklin 2002). “The age of nations is over,” contends Parag Khanna in Foreign Policy’s 2010 special issue Metropolis Now. “The new urban age has begun” (Khanna 2010). Nowhere is the global transformation from rural to urban life more intense than in China, where urbanization is faster and larger than ever before (Campanella 2012). In 1980 under twenty percent of China’s population lived in its cities. Today it is over forty percent. Government officials predict that the urban population will surpass 700 million in the next five years, exceeding the number of rural dwellers for the first time. McKinsey Global forecasts that by the year 2030 there will be a billion people living in Chinese cities (McKinsey & Co. 2009). Almost one-third of contemporary Shanghai’s approximately twenty-five million people are migrants, with almost eighty percent of those arriving from the Chinese countryside. The high-speed process of urbanization that has shaped the country in the past decades has been enormously dependent on the informal economy (Huang 2009), which not only can provide a livelihood for the undocumented but also constitutes an ‘alternative culinary infrastructure’3 that can produce and distribute low-cost goods and services. Most importantly, street vending is not very capitally intensive and is also a business that can be easily set up with family and friends. In the most primitive of urban markets, in Shanghai as elsewhere, new vendors need only a blanket and a basket of goods. Street hawking therefore offers an attractive entrepreneurial opportunity for the newly urbanized, and this mode of informal entrepreneurship is crucial for the urban poor both as consumers and as producers (Neuwirth 2012; Hart 1973; Soto 2002; Portes, Benton, and Lauren 1989). In China, as entrepreneurial migrants poured into the coastal cities, they often turned to the business of street food in the hope of enriching both themselves and their families back home. In cities across the country, one of the most popular of these regional delicacies is the Shandong jianbing (egg pancake) – a thin crepe that is cooked on an iron griddle and garnished with fresh herbs, pickles and dried chili. The crepe is most often filled with an egg, smeared with various sweet and spicy sauces and wrapped around a flat, crispy fried cracker. While hawkers selling this tasty breakfast snack are found in almost every urban neighborhood, most, as two of my students discovered, originate from the same tiny village called Youlou, which is located in the remote mountain regions of Shandong Province (Chen and Roscoe 2015).4 Until very recently, Youlou suffered from extreme poverty, relying on the growing and harvesting of honeysuckle as the primary form of income. Starting in the 1990s, however, villagers started to migrate, gravitating towards an entrepreneurial life as jianbing sellers on the streets of China’s first-tier cities. They adapted the traditional snack to local taste and modified the cooking style of the crepe by heating it on a makeshift oil barrel stove so that it was faster and easier to prepare. They also found ways to adjust the taste so that it would appeal to local urban residents (in Shanghai this involves adding a sweet, syrupy sauce). Soon the jianbing industry exploded. The pancake became a wildly popular breakfast snack in the exploding megacities of China. Today a database known as the Youlou People’s National Network connects migrant villagers who want to find good locations for their jianbing stands. It also provides lists of different recipes that appeal to the varying tastes of the different regions throughout China. In Shanghai, jianbing stands, which can still be found tucked into the back alleys of even the busiest roads, are one of the city’s great culinary delights. Villagers from Youlou monopolize the trade in jianbing and have generated millions of renminbi, 326

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transforming their own lives, as well as paying for housing and infrastructure in their hometown. One woman, when asked about the changes in her village from the trade in jianbing, replied simply by saying: ‘Now the village is crazy rich.’

Migration In the spring of 2014, outside the campus of East China Normal University, near the durian sellers and the young men roasting Xinjiang kebabs, a couple from the far north city of Harbin set up to sell squid off the back of a three-wheeled bike. Their bike was equipped with a table upon which they carefully laid out tentacles and body parts of various sizes. A large banner advertised the prices: from 3 RMB for a stick of tentacles to 10 RMB for a whole squid. Flavor was added from an array of bottles filled with a variety of spices. These and the iron grill, claimed the woman, are the specialty of Harbin. The woman’s face was hard, and she chain smoked while she spoke. The man was softer, silent. Both wore crisply starched white chef hats. They left their job a year ago selling vegetables in the wet market, the woman told me, in order to migrate to Shanghai. “In Harbin life was too hard, it was too cold. Your spit froze before it hit the ground.” Shanghai is a migrant city (Lu 1999; Wasserstrom 2008; Bergère 2009). Like all deeply cosmopolitan places, its cuisine is hybrid. Common dishes include mutated imports like the breaded pork cutlets (zha zhu pa i 炸猪排) served with Worcestershire sauce, which spread from the European restaurants of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century and are now found in noodle and dumpling shops around town, as well as more internal hybrids like the Sichuanese spicy tofu (mapo dofu 麻婆豆腐) that has been toned down and sweetened to appeal to local tastes. The city’s street food or small snacks (xiao chi 小吃) are enormously rich and varied. Moveable Feasts’ ‘street food encyclopedia’ reflects this culinary hybridity. Alongside the famous soup dumplings (xiao long bao 小笼包) from the Zhejiang region are roast meat sandwiches (rou jia mou 肉夹馍) from Shaanxi, lamb skewers (yang rou chuan 羊肉串) from Xinjiang, egg tarts (cha ye dan 茶叶蛋) from Macau, candied hawthorn (bing tang hu lu 冰糖葫蘆) from the north and breakfast crepes (jian bing 煎饼) from Shandong. Due to its migrant culture, the tastes from all over China can be found on the streets of Shanghai. As a port city, Shanghai has long been transformed by flows of people from around the country, and the world. Each successive wave of immigration sees their food assimilated and synthesized. It began with the initial native Shanghainese who originated mostly from nearby Zhejiang and Jiangsu Provinces, out of which developed the foods that are considered Shanghai’s signature dishes. During the treaty port era, Shanghai drew immigrants from new, more far-flung, regions, who have brought recipes and tastes that subsequently shaped and were shaped by the distinct Shanghai flavor (Wakeman and Yeh 1992). Shanghai’s current migrants date from the era of Opening and Reform. Throughout the decades of the planned economy, movement inside the country was largely stopped. In the Socialist era, both people and food were locked in place by the rigorous enforcement of the hukou system, which was explicitly designed to regulate population flow, allowing internal migration only when the state directed it towards key industrial targets (Fan 2008). By controlling the distribution of work, housing and especially food (through the rationing of grain, oil, meat and vegetables), the hukou system was extremely effective at locking the population in place. With the growth of the free market, the hold of the hukou lessened. In its wake came a wave of unprecedented urbanization. Nevertheless, the hukou system, which still ties a variety of social benefits to one’s place of birth, has remained at the heart of population management in China (Fan 2008; Zhu 2007). In China, migrants – even those who have lived in the city for decades – ‘float’ between the villages where their birth is registered and the emerging metropolis, which they help to construct. Bound 327

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at once to the city and also to another, often distant, locality, this ‘floating population’ occupies a precarious in-betweenness that is reshaping the very process of urbanization itself. The hukou system thus reinforces traditional cultural ties to the ancestral home, ensuring that migrants – even those who have lived in the city for decades – are bound to another, often distant, locality, which intensifies the already strong regionalism that shapes the city’s culinary culture. This is perhaps most apparent among the Uighur population who come from the western province of Xinjiang. Their religious injunction to eat only halal, coupled with a profoundly distinct local food culture, was further supported – at least until recently – by a relatively permissive policy regarding street vending among ethnic minorities. The result is that every Friday afternoon around Shanghai’s main mosques, the Uighur community host Muslim markets, which are among the most popular and distinctive of Shanghai’s street food events. The inherent conflict between loyal attachment to a distant native place and pride in a new identity as Shang hai ren (Shanghai people) has long been the hallmark of the Shanghai sojourner (Wakeman 1992). This ongoing tension, as Mark Swislocki has noted in his book Culinary Nostalgia, is what defines Shanghai’s food culture. On one side is Ben bang cai, the deeply local cuisine served in family-style restaurants that is determined by the particular tastes of the Shanghainese. On the other is the heterogeneity of hai pai cai, which is born instead out of intermixing and continuous contamination and is productive of the innovation and adaption of a deep culinary and cultural hybridity. In his book, Swislocki contends that at the heart of the haipaicai–benbangcai debate is the quintessential Shanghai question: Is it locals or migrants who define the city’s soul (Swislocki 2009)? The cultural problematic plays itself out through the tastes of the urban street, whether in the sweet-tasting sauce added to the jian bing, the huge popularity of nighttime barbeque stands or the deep loyalty to pot sticker dumplings (sheng jian bao 生煎包), which some argue are Shanghai’s only original street food.

The life and culture of the street According to scholar Samuel Liang, China’s version of the modern street was a product of Shanghai’s quintessential architecture, the li long with its stone gate (shi ku men 石库门) lanehouses. Traditionally in China, he argues, residential and commercial spaces were strictly divided. Urban geography was hierarchically constructed, with a physical, psychological and sociological gap forming a boundary between the more honored, peaceful and protected ‘house mansion-palace centred on the courtyard’ and the more chaotic and crass ‘shop alongthe-street.’ “The courtyard and the street,” writes Liang, “were antithetical spaces separated by walls: the one represented the elite order and the other the amorphous and vulgar; the one was the centre and the other always was marginalised in Confucian ideology” (Liang 2008: 491). The li long, Liang contends, reversed this spatial hierarchy. As the city grew, many lilongs built on the periphery came to occupy highly valued downtown land. Economic necessity thus ensured that their outer facade be given over to commercial activity. Shanghai lane-houses were typically bounded by rows of shops, at the back of which was a wall enclosing the residential area. Rather than try to remove themselves from the busy streets their outer edges produced, the shi ku men opened themselves to this intrinsic exteriority of the modern city. Instead of facing inward into the courtyard, the space of traditional domesticity, shi ku men houses had upper-story windows that looked out onto the street and alleyways. Shanghai’s architecture thus turned the traditional courtyard house inside-out. In the li longs, everyone could see and be seen by others, as if the city were one busy street. In Shanghai, then, the walls that had long closed off the private space of the family weakened, and life inside the home became increasingly integrated with the surrounding streets and shops. 328

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Critical to these new urban spaces were the myriad micro-businesses that were housed within the lanes. The li houses, writes Liang were “provisional lodgings centering on business activities. To pay high rents and sustain an expensive urban life, a house was used not only as a home, but as a space that facilitated the constant flow of capital” (Liang 2008: 494). Though they were intended as purely residential then, the li longs were thoroughly ‘mixed use’ from the start, as historian Hanchao Lu details (Lu 1999). In and among the hybrid housing were factories, schools, traditional Chinese banks, warehouses, bathhouses, fortune tellers, restaurants, law offices, medical clinics, even government bureaus and Buddhist temples. With the li longs, street food was embedded into the very fabric of Shanghai’s built environment. Streets in residential neighborhoods were crowded with small stores selling food, clothing and household goods, small ‘proletarian’ restaurants and the ever-popular yan zhi dian tobacco and paper stores that marked the entrance to practically every lane. There were silk and tea wholesale stores, bookstores and publishing houses. Inside the alleyways, dozens of hawkers gave life its color and rhythms. The most common and popular goods were Shanghai’s famous xiao chi (snacks), which “were advertised with a song and often served from portable kitchens, which street peddlers carried on a pole” (Lu 1999: 209). When modernization is pitted against street life and street culture, it is not only the livelihood of vendors that suffers but also the liveliness of the city itself. Indeed, it is precisely the out-ofcontrol vitality that the modernist vision of the future city most strives to contain. Planners opposition, argues J. Holsten in his work on the modernist city, is directed not at a type of place, but more critically at a mode of social life that the street engenders. Streets, he notes, create ‘outdoor rooms’ by ‘stealing’ the facades of surrounding buildings. These open spaces – radically different from a public square – foster “the informal interactions between people, residence, commerce and traffic” upon which the life of the city thrives. The corridor street and the sidewalk, “the traditional ribbon of exchange,” thus constitutes the architectural context of outdoor public life that is able to flourish outside the rigidities of the private home and the public institution (Holston 1999). “Cities are their streets,” writes Adam Gopnik in his recent review of a new biography of the great urban anti-planner Jane Jacobs. “Streets are not a city’s veins but its neurology, its accumulated intelligence” (Gopnik 2016). In her canonical book The Death and Life of Great American Cities, Jacobs presents a view of the city grounded in the material reality of the street. Death and Life looked to real cities to find what worked. “I shall be writing about how cities work in real life,” Jacobs states from the start, “because this is the only way to learn what principles of planning and what practices in rebuilding can promote social and economic vitality in cities, and what practices and principles will deaden these attributes” (Jacobs 1961: 4). By looking, listening and learning from the street, Jacobs discovered that the most vibrant urban neighborhoods were precisely those that the modernists were eagerly clearing away. In the messiness of older urban neighborhoods, Jacobs saw the successful workings of a complex and diverse system, which assembled itself from the ground up, and was thus totally at odds with the planners’ desire for perfect control. The dense and frequent market transactions of the so-called slums were critical to the vibrancy, livability and even safety of the modern metropolis. In replacing the chaos of the streets with the pristine organization of well-planned high-rises and parks, modern urban planners were, Jacobs maintained, guilty of a deep anti-urbanism: “anti-city planning,” she called it. Blind to the ‘street dance’ made from the intimate rhythms of everyday life, the modernists were destroying the productivity and human interaction so crucial to urban innovation. Their reverence for imposed order was instead producing vast tracks of desolate spaces empty of life. “This is not the rebuilding of cities,” she wrote emphatically. “This is the sacking of cities” (Jacobs 1961: 39). More recently, Sharon Zukin, Philip Kasinitz and Xiangming Chen, in their book Global City, Local Streets have built on Jacobs’ work by exploring and celebrating local shopping streets as 329

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miniature marketplaces that thrive in megacities throughout the world. Local streets, they argue, function as global urban habitats, spaces where “globalization is embedded in local communities.” They imbue neighborhoods with a special character. A neighborhood’s DNA, they argue, “is encoded in the ecosystem of the local shopping street” (Zukin et al. 2014: 1). In much of the world these shopping streets support – as business owners, employees and customers – a culturally diverse population. They are “spaces of every day diversity” encouraging a “civility amongst strangers,” which the authors call a “corner shop cosmopolitanism.” Celebrating local shopping streets for their economic, social and environmental merits, Global City, Local Street views these grassroots zones as essential to the construction of a human-scale, safe, walkable and bikeable city. These urban spaces foster a culinary culture that nurtures a particular social engagement. In addition, and perhaps even more importantly, it is by way of street food that the body most intensely inserts itself into the urban landscape. With food, the daily rhythms of our embodiment shape the city streets. Corners and sidewalks that offer the smells, sounds and tastes of cooking provide pockets of sensuality, which can provoke memory and nostalgia, stimulate visceral feelings of revulsion and disgust, energize with pleasure or satisfy with comfort (Low 2015; Low 2005; Farrer 2017). Food on the street is thus the guarantor of city life. A growing number of urban theorists are becoming increasingly cognizant of the importance of street life in the twenty-first-century megacity. In part this stems from a realization that despite the predictive modernist notions, which hold that unplanned markets and itinerant vendors necessarily ‘evolve’ into a more regulated commercial sector, the informal economy has persisted in cities around the world, regardless of the level of economic ‘development’ (Mukhija and Loukaitou-Sideris 2014). Whereas many once believed that “street markets and bazaar culture belong to an unindustrialized, pre-modern identity,” write Bell and LoukaitouSideris, “informal income-generating activities are on the rise in many urban centres around the world, including in highly developed and urbanized nations” (Bell and Loukaitou-Sideris 2014). In contrast to the idealized, glossy vision of the future city with its sparkling shopping malls and banners advertising ‘sophisticated and luxury living’ that so many of Shanghai’s planners and officials advocate, “the ‘post-modern or global city’ as Cross and Karides note, is characterized by the dual forces of gentrification, on the one hand, and a rise of the informal sector in which vendors play a vital role on the other. “The small or micro-businesses operated by street vendors are struggling, to be sure, but they are hardly at the fringe of contemporary society” (Cross and Karides 2007). Indeed, vending has emerged as a hotly debated issue in major cities around the world: Somehow, in the modern global liquid economy, the vendor now figures in the city not only physically but in the public imagination more than before. Unlike the derision of vendors in the first historic wave of urbanization at the turn of the 20th century in the western world (Loukaitou-Sideris and Ehrenfeucht 2009), many cities now highlight vending as an amenity in the visioning of a vibrant city, like kiosks in a shopping mall, a “vending urbanism.” (Bostic, Kim,Valenzuela, 8)

Conclusion: whither Shanghai’s street food? In Laoximen, amidst the dense network of the old city’s remaining low-rise structures, there is now a patchwork of vast empty squares. Blocks that just a short time ago held thriving markets have been plowed over. Shanghai’s battle against the street, which uses the tools of legality, order, safety, cleanliness and beautification to crack down on vending of all types, rages on. 330

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Nevertheless, there are some potential inklings that in China too, as Jonathan S. Bell and Anastasia Loukaitou-Sideris have written, attitudes towards “street vending is at a crossroads” (Bell and Loukaitou-Sideris 2014: 231). Perhaps there is still a chance that street food can continue to play a vital role in maintaining the liveliness and livability5 of China’s future cities, Bell and Loukaitou-Sideris note in trying to make their case that a “number of academic, professional, and even official voices have called for toleration” (Bell and Loukaitou-Sideris 2014: 239). These supporters, they write, point to increasing protests against chengguan (the municipal officials who are tasked with urban management) who are widely criticized for their brutality (Richardson 2012). Calls for increased toleration draw on the examples of Taipei (Chiu 2013) and Singapore (Ghani 2011; Henderson et al. 2012) to argue for the cultural value of street markets, which constitute a “form of living urban heritage worthy of preservation” (Bell & Loukaitou-Sideris 230). The strong economic case for street vending also seems to be gaining some traction (Bell and Loukaitou-Sideris 2014: 231). Faced with an increasing economic downturn and the need to create jobs, the Chinese government – under a policy named Mass Entrepreneurship and Innovation (大众创业、万众创新) – is actively promoting small-scale entrepreneurial activity as a critical economic driver. Street food is sometimes included. The much-loved Menghua wonton shop, whose closure was met with protest, to give one high-profile example, was allowed to continue its operations in a more formalized outpost due to the intervention of Premier Li Keqiang, who argued that it should be considered a prime example of the ‘mass entrepreneurship’ that the state is so eager to promote. Shanghai’s city government has also recently announced a policy to learn from Taipei and open night markets in several districts of the city, though what shape these will take has yet to be determined. More interesting still is the fact that as street life retreats from physical space it resurfaces in cyberspace as apps and social media link up with the logistic networks of delivery services to remap the landscape of urban exchange. I learnt of this first from a friend who had set up a successful business selling her aunt’s rice dumplings (shao mai 烧卖) through a ‘store’ on the immensely popular social media app WeChat. A more prominent example is the story of Mr. Wu Gencheng, a famous hawker, who sells the most popular scallion pancakes (cong you bing 葱油饼) in Shanghai. Last year, his stall, Ada Scallion was shut down for operating without a license. It was saved, however, when a well-known food delivery app, E le ma, helped sponsor Mr Wu’s licensing and relocation. Li Keqiang also appealed directly on its behalf. Yet another example is A Xin Noodle House now on Yangdang Lu, which had to relocate to a fancier location when its largely outdoor stand on Zhaozhou lu was shut down. The many fans of the chef, however, can now ‘friend’ him on WeChat and have his famous crab delivered straight to their door. It seems then that street food’s long-held traditions and unexpected innovations that arise through the unplanned hybridity, unpredictable entrepreneurship and creative everyday culture of the street has spread to a virtual environment. As Moveable Feasts continues its project of deep-mapping the informal megacity, the issue of how street food and street culture are being redrawn in cyberspace will be one of the main questions it pursues.

Notes 1 I was first introduced to Zhaozhou Lu by Jamie Barys of Untour Shanghai (https://untourfoodtours. com/). 2 See: www.sh-streetfood.org/features/ 3 This formulation comes from food studies Jeffery Pilcher. 4 See: www.sh-streetfood.org/jianbing-an-impact-by-alec-roscoe-and-sam-chen 5 This formulation comes from food studies scholar Krishnendu Ray.

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333

INDEX

Note: Page numbers in italics indicate a figure and page numbers in bold indicate a table on the corresponding page. Abe Shinzō 273, 279, 281, 291 Acri, A. and R. Jordaan 133 adaptation 23, 53, 79 advertising 6–7, 68–69, 164–165, 195–203, 329–330 aesthetics 7, 16, 68, 77, 323–324; see also food aesthetics agribusiness 9, 267, 296, 298–299, 301, 305 agriculture 8–9, 111–112, 265–266, 279–280, 297–305; agricultural protectionism 283–285, 284; and consumer movements 268–269; in decline 285–289, 286, 287, 287, 288; and Japan’s national food identity 281–283; and policy 280–281; and protests in Japan 273–275; and protests in South Korea 271–273; and protests in Thailand 269–270; and the TPP 289–293; and trade in Asia 266–268; and transnational protests 275; see also agribusiness; agri-food; agroecology; farmers agri-food 8, 265–267, 269, 275; see also multinational agri-food corporations (MNCs) agroecology 296–297, 300–304 Akashi Taizō 142 Allon, F. 213 Altieri, M. A. see under Holt-Gimenez, E. ancestors 127–129, 131–132, 134–135, 136n14 Anderson, B. 64–65 Anderson, E. 203 animal sacrifice 4, 127, 130–133, 135 anthropology 4, 127–128, 217–225 antipasti 5, 148, 151, 153, 155, 158 Appadurai, A. 60 arancini 5, 149, 151, 155–158 Arita, S. S. see under Dyck, J.

Ariwibowo, G. A. 69 ascetics 109–117, 120–122, 126 Augustin-Jean, L. 82 Australia 7, 32–33, 290, 297; and ethnic food tours 223–225, 227–229, 234; and fusion 17–18, 21–25; and milk in Singapore 195–196, 200–203; and PTAs 269, 273; see also Melbourne; Sydney authenticity 207–213, 215–216, 219, 226, 319 autonomy 9, 121, 296, 300, 302 bakeries 2, 34–37, 103, 167 bakers 2, 30, 32, 34–37, 179, 228 Bali 4, 58, 127, 129–135, 136n11 Bangladesh 1, 48 Barthes, R. 7, 218 Baudrillard, J. 215 Baumgartner, F. R. 292, 293 belacan 18, 80–81, 86, 88, 170, 174 Bell, J. S. and A. Loukaitou-Sideris 330–331 Bernstein, H. 304 Bestor, T. C. 283 Bhabha, H. 30, 64 biodiversity 300, 303 Blacker, C. 111 Bluestone, D. 322–323 body, the 7–8, 134–135, 142, 187, 330; and ethnic food tours 226–227, 231–235; and middle-class lifestyles in India 239–240, 242–245, 247–248; and milk in Singapore 198, 201, 203; and mokujiki 109–111, 113, 117; and nutritional knowledge in Maoist China 251–252, 256–258, 260–261 Boileau, J. 81–82, 84

334

Index Bollywood movies 7, 239, 242, 248 Bourdain, A. 6, 219, 321; No Reservations 208, 212–214 Bourdieu, P. 181 Brady, E. 224–225 Brakel-Papenhuyzen, C. 62 bread 1–2, 29–37, 81–82 Brewer, P. 92 Britain 77–78, 195–196, 202–203, 272 Broadbent, J. 280 Brook, S. 234 Bruckert, M. 245 buckwheat 114–116, 118–123 Buddhism 109–114, 117–120, 122–123, 125–126, 129–133 Burma 1 Bynum, C. 110 caldu galinhia 80, 82–83, 86, 88 Cambodia 1, 31–33, 36 Campany, R. 111 Canada 13–16, 19–21, 24, 43, 273–274 canja see caldu galinhia canned food 3, 30, 64 capital see transnational capital carbohydrates 29, 32, 33–34, 177, 244, 258 Carruthers, A. 234 celebrity chefs 207–208; and the authentic 208–212; and the commodified Other 212; and eating with the Other 219; and exoticizing the Other 215–217; and the hidden Other 212–214; and mocking the Other 217–219 centralization 8, 253; decentralization 9 cereals 111–119, 122–123, 125–126, 134 Cha, D. 90 Chang, D. 52–53 Chang, T. C. and B. Yeoh 164 chaos 25, 329 chefs 6–7, 228–231, 309–315; and global cities of the West 21–22, 24–25; and Japanese culinary mobilities 45–48, 50–54; see also celebrity chefs Chiba, M. and J. K. Whelehan 313–314 China 1, 5, 7–10, 14; and culinary politics 318; and Italian futurism 148, 152, 155; and Japanese culinary mobilities 41, 46–51, 53; and Korean dramas 184; and Kristang foodways 76, 78; and middle-class lifestyles in India 240–241; and milk in Singapore 202–203; and mokujiki 111; and nutrition in Maoist China 251–254, 257, 260; and PTAs 267, 269; and pufferfish consumption 140–141, 144–145; and slametan 134; and street food 321, 323–328, 331; and the TPP 280, 285, 288–289; see also People’s Republic of China (PRC); Shanghai Chinn, B. World Café Asia 6–7, 207–209, 212, 215–219 Chua, B. H. and A. Rajah 166

cigars 3, 63–64 cities 253–254, 324–326, 329–331; geographies of fusion in 13–16, 21–26; and Japanese culinary mobilities 40–43, 45–53; and tastes of tradition 16–20; see also specific cities Coleman, E. B. 233–234 colonialism 2–3, 29–37, 41–42, 58–59, 208, 217; and gender 66–69; and hierarchy 63–66; and hybridity 59–62 comfort 4, 92–93, 103, 226 comfort food 22, 182 commodification 6–7, 20, 207, 212, 219, 299 communal meal 129, 131–133, 135 communism 8, 89, 251, 253, 297, 323; see also People’s Republic of China (PRC) Conklin, Alice 30 conquest 1, 155, 214 contestation see resistance context 1–2, 5–6; of celebrity chefs 211–212, 216–217; of the corporate food regime 296–298; of French Indochina 29–32, 34–37; of Indonesian society 62–63, 65–67; of Korean dramas 176–177; of Kristang foodways 75–78; of middle-class lifestyles in India 245–248; of ritual in Java 131–132; of the TPP 280–281 continuity 202–203, 255 cookbooks 21–22, 155, 164–171, 310–311, 313; in Indonesian society 60–62, 66–67; and Kristang foodways 77–79, 81–86; see also Marinetti, Filippo Tommaso cooking 3–5, 256–257, 318–319; and the American kitchen 91–92, 103–104; and animal sacrifice 131–133; and boiled meats 101–102, 102; and celebrity chefs 207–208; and ethnic food tours 224–225, 227–228; in global cities of the West 20–24; and the Hmong cultural kitchen 89–90, 92–99, 94–95, 97–99; in Indonesian society 61–63, 67–68; and Italian futurism 150–151; and Korean dramas 184–185; and Kristang foodways 77–78, 81–82, 86; and mokujiki 118–119; and rice 99–100, 100; ritual cooking 129–131, 134–135; in Singapore 164–171; see also cooking techniques cooking techniques 4–5, 48, 225, 315; and celebrity chefs 207; and culinary tourism 164–172; and fusion 22, 24; and the Hmong cultural kitchen 89, 101–103; and Italian futurism 150; and Kristang foodways 77, 82, 86; and slametan 130–132 Corbett, R. 139 corporate expansion 3, 54 corporate food regime 9, 266–267, 275, 296–299; and food sovereignty 301–304; resistance to 300–301, 304–306 cosmopolitan, the 2, 22–23, 25–26, 223, 234, 330 counterfeit food 155, 158 Cowan, R. 92 critics 22, 54, 225, 227–228, 231, 234

335

Index Cromley, E. 91, 104 Cros, L. 32, 34 Cross, J. and M. Karides 324, 330 culinary adventuring 2, 15 culinary mobility 2–3, 54; accelerated 52–54; and culinary politics 54; and the first post-war Japanese food boom 44–47; and glocalization 47–52; and Japanese culinary communities 41–44; and the Japanese restaurant 39–41, 40 culinary politics 9, 54, 309–310, 316, 318–319 culinary tourism 5–6, 163–165, 175, 207, 209–210, 223 cultural history 83, 166 cultural production 165, 226, 231, 234 Cwiertka, K. J. 139–140 Da Costa, P. 83 Dae Jang-geum 181–183 Daum, P. 63–65 Daus, R. 83 Deaton, A. 242 decentralization 9 deep-frying 103, 135, 144, 148–149, 152, 154–156 De Jong, W. 69 Delhi 239, 241–243, 247, 249n4 Demiéville, P. 113 Dermout, M. 66–68 design work 7, 226–227, 231, 234–235 de Solier, I. 7, 225–226, 228–229, 231, 234 detoxification 139–141 diaspora 2–3, 11, 44, 103–104, 211 diet 282–283; and middle-class lifestyles in India 241–244; and mokujiki 109–111, 113–116, 121–123; and nutrition in Maoist China 251–254, 259–260 difference 6–7, 213–215; see also othering; Other, the Diwekar, R. 248 domestic space 3, 89, 91; see also kitchen space Douglas, M. 110 dramas 6, 53, 176–177, 189; and gender 179–181, 183–187; Hallyu 178–179 D’Silva, D. 171 DuPuis, E. M. 194 Duruz, J. 74, 76–77 Dyck, J. and S. S. Arita 285, 290 economies of scale 9, 292 Edo period 115–118, 120, 125–126 Edwards, P. 31 egalitarianism 3, 69 Eiseman, F. B. 130 Ennichisai 47, 54 entrepreneurship 14–15, 44–45, 47–51, 225–226, 326, 331 ethnic food tours 1, 7, 222–224, 227–235; and aesthetic food pedagogy 227; and food design

work 226–227; and gastronomic education 224–225; and pedagogical entrepreneurs 225–226 ethnic succession 3, 47–52, 54 Eurasians 63–66, 74–79, 166–167, 171 Europe 2–3; and culinary politics 311–312; and culinary tourism 166–167; and French Indochina 34–37; and Indonesian society 60–65, 67–68; and Italian futurism 148–149, 153–154; and Japanese culinary mobilities 40, 49–51; and Kristang foodways 73–75; see also European Union (EU) European Union (EU) 268, 270–271 Evans, S. 282 exoticization 7, 31 expatriates 2, 46–47, 49–50, 166 Fairbairn, M. 300 famine 1, 116–117, 148, 252 farmers 8–9, 296–303; and PTAs 265–266, 268–275; and the TPP 279–280, 283–286, 288, 290–293 feminism 67, 186–187 feng 83–84, 86, 88 Fernandis, G. 74, 85 fieldwork 2–3, 39, 75, 79, 239, 246, 249n3, 310 film 1, 7, 45, 164, 178–179, 215, 325; see also Bollywood movies Fireworks 182–186, 189 Florida 2, 15 flour 29–30, 32–34, 103, 120–121 food aesthetics 222–224, 234–235; and food design work 226–227; gastronomic education and 224–225; gourmet safaris and 227–234; pedagogical entrepreneurs and 225–226 food commodities 9 food consumption 1, 3, 92, 240, 281, 286 food culture 1, 4–6, 279–280, 319, 328; and culinary tourism 164–166; and Indonesian society 68–69; and Korean dramas 177–179; and mokujiki 115–116 food history 1, 5, 127, 163–164, 167–168, 171 food hybridity 3 food labelling 271, 291–292 food memoirs 164, 169–171 food nationalism 8, 30, 54, 266, 275 food pedagogy 7, 223, 225, 227, 234 food poisoning 5, 139–145, 254 food preparation see cooking techniques food safety 8, 245–247, 265, 268, 272–275 foodscapes 2, 13, 31, 36, 77 food security 1, 8, 240, 300, 319; and PTAs 265, 269, 275; and the TPP 279–280, 282–283, 285, 289, 292–293 food sovereignty 9, 265, 268–270, 275, 296–297, 300–306 food studies 1, 75, 119, 223

336

Index food systems 1, 9, 296–299, 302, 304; and PTAs 268, 270, 274–275 food tours see ethnic food tours foodways 29–30, 73–79, 81–82, 84–87, 164–165, 207–211 food writing 5–6, 163–166, 168–169, 171–172; see also cookbooks; food memoirs fortune cookies 5, 149, 152–153, 153 Fox, R. 135n6 France 1–2, 29–31, 49, 74, 153–154, 156, 312, 315; and bread 31–32, 34–37; and flour 32–33; and racialization 33–34 Frascari, M. 150 Friedmann, H. and P. McMichael 296 Fujita, S. 115 Fuller, D. Q. and M. Rowlands 4, 127, 134–135 Fung, L 179, 185 fusion 2, 13–22, 24–26, 50–52, 79, 153, 155 futurism see Italian futurism Gabaccia, D. 14 Gao, X. 253 Geertz, C. 62, 128 gender 58, 66–69, 176–178, 318–319; see also women Gente Kristang 3, 73–75, 77, 81, 86; see also Kristang cuisine gentrification 13–15, 21, 25–26, 318, 330 geography see human geography George Mulgan, A. 279–280, 285 Gethin, K. 248 Gingerboy 21, 23–24 Ginting, L. 302 globalization 1–3, 8–9, 39–42, 59–60, 265–266, 309–310 global markets 9, 297–299, 306 glocalization 39, 47–52, 54 glutinous rice 4, 114, 127, 134–135, 151 gluttony 6, 180–181, 186–188 Godinho, V. M. 76 Goffman, E. 64 Gopnik, A. 329 Gorai Shigeru 112–114, 117–120 Gourmet 178–179 gourmet safari see ethnic food tours Graffam, O. 92 Griffiths, A. and P. Lunsingh Sheurleer 133 gross domestic product (GDP) 8, 195, 267, 285, 289 growth hormones 7, 247 Gupta, C. 194 Gurunabi 310 Hadjiyanni, T. 91 Hallyu see Korean Wave Hamilton, C. Y. 75, 78–79, 83 Handy, E. 166 Harada, Y. 284, 292

Harada Nobuo 116 Hawker Inquiry Commission 197 health 242–248, 251–258, 260–261, 272–273; and French Indochina 29–30; and the Hmong cultural kitchen 101–102; and Japanese culinary mobilities 47–48; and Korean dramas 180–181, 183–184, 186–189; and milk in Singapore 196–201 health care 251, 253–254, 261n5 Heath, K. 91 Hefner, R. W. 133, 136n14 Heldke, L. M. 208–214, 216–217 hierarchies 24, 177, 180, 183, 283, 328; and French Indochina 35, 37; and Indonesian society 58, 63–66 Hinduism 127–133, 135, 136n11, 149 hipsters 2, 15–16, 20–21, 25 Hmong 1, 3–4, 89–90, 103–104; and the American kitchen 91–92; and cooking 99–103, 100, 102; the Hmong cultural kitchen 92–99, 94–95, 97–99 Ho, A. Y. 59 Hobsbawm, E. 282 Holt-Gimenez, E. and M. A. Altieri 300–301 Holtzman, J. 229 homogenization 9 Hong, E. 179 hooks, bell 22, 186 Hori Ichirō 113 Horng, J.-S. and C.-T. Tsai 164 Huang Zhengguo 256 human mobility 3, 54 Hutton, W. 75–79, 81, 83–84, 167 hybridity 2–3, 58–62, 82–83, 327–329, 331 hygiene 36, 67, 142–143, 251–255 Ialongo, E. 150 Ichikawa Takeo 114 iconic dishes 3, 77–86 identity 2–4; and celebrity chefs 208, 210, 214; and the corporate food regime 301; and culinary politics 314, 318; and culinary tourism 168, 171; and ethnic food tours 223; and French Indochina 30–31, 34, 36; and fusion 14–16, 19–21, 25; and the Hmong cultural kitchen 92, 101, 104; and Indonesian society 58, 62–65, 67–69; and Korean dramas 189; and Kristang foodways 73–75, 77, 79–81, 83–87; and mokujiki 114; and slametan 128; and street food 328, 330; and the TPP 279, 293; see also national identity Ignatov, E. 164 I Have a Lover 179, 184–185 immigrants see migrants immigration see migration imperialism 30–31, 41–42, 297 imported food 3, 68, 195, 272, 274

337

Index India 1, 7, 20, 34, 76, 194; and the corporate food regime 297–298, 303, 305; and ethnic food tours 233; and Italian futurism 148–149, 155–157; and middle-class lifestyles 239–248; and obesity 240–241; and PTAs 267, 271; and slametan 130, 134; and street food 323; vegetarianism in 249n7; see also Delhi indica 148, 155–158 Indochina 2, 29–31, 34–35, 37, 48; and baking 35–36; and flour 32–33; French bread in 31–32; and racialization 33–34 Indonesia 1, 3, 58–59, 215; and the corporate food regime 297, 299, 301–302, 305; and gender 66–69; and hierarchy 63–66; and hybridity 59–62; and Japanese culinary mobilities 46–47; and milk in Singapore 196, 202–203; and PTAs 267, 269; and slametan 134, 135n3; see also Bali; Java informal economies 10, 323, 326, 330 informality 4, 103 inspection 6, 198, 203, 254 International Monetary Fund (IMF) 298 Internet 6, 176–177, 181, 271 Ishige, N. 47 Islam 4, 79, 127–130, 135, 155 Issenberg, S. 40 Italian futurism 5, 148, 150, 157; see also Marinetti, F. T. Italy 5, 148–151, 154–158 Itō Hirobumi 139–141, 144 Itō Masatoshi 113–114 Jacobs, J. 329 Jacques, J. 229 Janes, L. 31–32, 34 Japan 1–2, 4–5, 8–9, 68, 166, 200; and culinary mobilities 39–48, 50–54; and culinary politics 309–312, 314–318, 319n3; and Italian futurism 148–149, 151–154, 156–158; and Korean dramas 179–180; and PTAs 265–269–270, 272–275; and the TPP 279–292, 284, 286, 287, 287, 288; see also mokujiki; pufferfish Japan Business Federation (Keidanren) 281, 289, 293 japonica 134, 148–150, 154, 156–158 japonisme 149–150, 153–158 Java 4, 58, 65–67, 69, 127, 136n14; pre-Islamic 131–135; see also slametan Jewel in the Palace 178, 181–183, 185 Johnston, J. 22 Jonsson, U. 258 Jordaan, R. see under Acri, A. kaiseki 49, 314–316 kakavins 4, 127 Kaplan, S. 31, 35 kari debal 84, 86, 88 Karides, M. see under Cross, J. Kartini, A. 67

Kawangit, R. M. 80–81 Khanna, P. 326 Kim, J. 271 Kim Ji-hyun 181–182 Kinoshita, T. 44 kitchen space 1, 89; the American kitchen 91–92; cooking in the Hmong cultural kitchen 99–103, 100, 102; the Hmong cultural kitchen 92–99, 94–95, 97–99 Kloppenburg, J. 303 Kon, Mrs. P. C. 166–167 Korean Wave 6, 176, 178–180 Korea Tourism Organization (KTO) 181 Korea-US FTA (KORUS) 8, 265, 271–273, 274 Korsmeyer, C. 224–225 K-pop 179, 187–188 Kristang cuisine 3, 75, 79–85, 88 Kuala Lumpur 7, 19, 209, 212, 216, 219 Kumar, A. 62 labourers see workers language 64–65, 74–80, 217–218, 222–223, 229, 302–303 Laos 1, 31, 131, 134; and the Hmong cultural kitchen 89–90, 94, 100–101, 102 Latin America 2, 9, 241; and the corporate food regime 296–297, 301–302, 304, 306; and Japanese culinary mobilities 39, 40, 53; and PTAs 268–269 Laudan, R. 31 La Vía Campesina (LVC) 266, 268–272, 274–275, 300–303 Le Corbusier 322 Lee, S. 49 Lee, S.-J. 251 Lee M.-B. 271–272 Leer, J. 178 Lee Young-ae 182 Leong-Salobir, C. 166 Let’s Eat 176–178 Li, T. M. 299 Liang, S. 328–329 literature see food writing; kakavins; novels Liuosa, M. 60 livelihood 19–20, 265–266, 268–269, 273–275, 298–301 Lobetti, T. 110 localization 50–52, 274–275 longevity 4–5, 111, 149 Loukaitou-Sideris, A. see under Bell, J. S. Lu, H. 329 Lunsingh Sheurleer, P. see under Griffiths, A. Ly, S. 94–95 MacCannell, D. 219 MacDonald, K. 7, 225–226, 228, 231, 234 Maclachlan, P. L. and K. Shimizu 292

338

Index Malamoud, Charles 130 Malaysia 1–3, 196, 233; and celebrity chefs 208, 216, 218–219; and culinary tourism 165–166, 175; and fusion 13–14, 17, 19, 26; and Kristang foodways 73–74, 76, 78–79, 85–87; and PTAs 267, 269, 273; see also Gente Kristang; Kuala Lumpur; Melaka; Penang Manning, P. 199 Maoism see People’s Republic of China (PRC) mapping 14–16, 20, 331 Marbeck, C. J. 75, 77–79, 81, 83–86 Marinetti, F. T. 151, 154; The Futurist Cookbook 5, 149–150, 153, 156–158 marketing 5–6, 193–194, 270, 300–301; and country of origin 199–202; milk production and 195–196; milk scandals and 196–197; and purity 197–199; and untouched milk 202–203; see also advertising Martin, A. 21, 25 Mass Entrepreneurship and Innovation 10, 331 Master – God of Noodles 178 materiality 3, 89, 93–99 McCarthy, J. F. 305 McCormack, G. 286 McMichael, P. 266, 296–300, 303 meat: culinary politics and 312–313, 316–317; culinary tourism and 169–170; ethnic food tours and 229–230; fusion and 17–18; Korean dramas and 176–177; Kristang foodways and 81–84; mokujiki and 119–120; nutrition in Maoist China and 259–260; slametan and 127–135 media, the 223–225; see also popular media medicine 140–143, 155–156, 253–255, 259–261, 309 Meiji Restoration 5, 41, 139, 142, 145 Melaka 3, 73–78, 80–81, 84, 86–88 Melbourne 2, 21, 23 memory 16–18, 26, 169–171, 226, 330 Mendelson, A. 202 Meokbang 6, 177, 181, 185–187, 188–189, 192 methodologies 30–31; participant observation 7, 75, 89, 227, 240, 242–243 middle class 90–93, 240–243, 245–248, 249n7, 302–303, 323 Miele, M. 231 migrants: and ethnic food tours 222–224, 226–227, 234; and fusion 14–15, 18–20; and the Hmong cultural kitchen 89–92; and Japanese culinary mobilities 39–44, 47–50, 52–54; and street food 326–328; see also migrant workers migrant workers 10, 40, 321 migration 13–15, 42–43, 89–90; settler migration 3, 54; see also migrants militarism 151 milk 60–61, 67–68, 193–194, 203, 204n1; and country of origin 199–202; milk production in Singapore 195–196; milk scandals 196–197;

purity and advertising of 197–199; untouched 202–203 Milone, P. D. 63 Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry and Fisheries (MAFF) 274, 281, 284–285, 290–291, 293, 318 Ministry of Health 8, 251, 253–255, 261, 261n2 Mitchell, K. 167 mobilities see culinary mobility; human mobility mocking 212, 217–219 modernization 8, 58, 141, 323–324, 326, 329 mokujiki (wood eating) 4, 109–110, 123, 126; in the Edo period 115–119; and Mokujiki Shōnin 119–121; on Mt. Hakkai 122–123; on Mt. Ontake 121–122; the roots of 111–115; and theory 110 Mokujiki Shōnin 119–121 Molz, J. G. 209 Morton, P. 30 mountains 111–115, 117–120; Mt. Hakkai 122–123; Mt. Ontake 121–122 multinational agri-food corporations (MNCs) 6 mummification 4, 109–110, 113, 117 Murai Yoneko 121–122 music videos 7, 178, 187–189 My Lovely Sam-soon 179 myth 7, 25, 59, 180, 213–214, 282 Naitō Masatoshi 116–117 Nakamachi, Y. 152–153 national identity 8, 166, 177–178, 194, 281–283, 289 nationalism 33, 44, 69, 319; see also food nationalism Needham, J. 251 Nehaus, J. 193 Netherlands 58, 60–64, 66–68, 76–78 Newberry, J. 128 New York Times 45, 196 Nieuwenhuys, Robert 66 non-governmental organizations (NGOs) 9, 297, 301–303, 306; and PTAs 270, 272, 274 North America 2, 39, 40, 62 novels 3, 63–68, 121, 154 novelty 22, 207–212 Nunis, M. 75, 77–79, 83–86 nutrition 7–8, 121–123, 240–242, 245–246, 301–302; in Maoist China 251–253, 260–261; the PRC Ministry of Health and 253–255; and protein 258–260; and vitamin C 255–257 obesity 239–242, 247–248 Odajima, M. 311–312 OECD 289 Ōkubo Kenji 113 Oliver, J. 219; Jamie’s American Road Trip 6, 208, 212–214, 217–218

339

Index onigiri 5, 149, 151–154, 157–158 Oon, V. 168 Orientalism 7, 157, 207 Ōsawa Kenji 142 Ossington Avenue 13–18, 20–26 Other, the 6–7, 22, 207–208; and the authentic 208–212; the commodified Other 212; eating with the Other 219; exoticizing the Other 215–217; the hidden Other 212–214; mocking the Other 217–219 othering 2, 29 Pader, E. 104n3 pairing 309–310; concept of 310–312; culinary politics and 318–319; examples of 314–318; principles of 312–314 Pakistan 1, 13, 224 pang susis 81–82, 86, 88 Pascali, Lara 91 pasta 148–151, 154–158 peasants 8–9, 265–266, 268–270, 274–275 Pemberton, J. 65 Penang 7, 18, 196, 209, 212, 216–219 People’s Republic of China (PRC) 7–8, 251–253, 323; and the Ministry of Health 253–255; and protein 258–260; and vitamin C 255–257 performance 64–65, 177–178, 186–188; see also dramas pesce assa see pesi assadu pesi assadu 80, 84–85, 88 Peters, E. 31–32, 35 Peterson, D. see under Peterson, J. Peterson, H. H. 289, 291 Peterson, J. and D. Peterson 59 Philippines, the 1, 131, 215, 269, 297–298 Pires, E. 74 pleasure 5–6, 16–17, 183–184 policy making 8–9, 279–281, 283, 289–292 popular media 1, 247 Portugal 3, 59, 73, 75–77, 152; cookbooks and iconic dishes related to 77–85; and the Gente Kristang 73–75, 85–87 postcolonialism 2, 13, 297 postmodernism 7c preferential trade agreements (PTAs) 8, 265–268, 276n1; movements against 268–275 Probyn, E. 180 protectionism 266–268, 273, 279, 283–285 protein 257–260 protein powders 7, 239, 246–248 protest 8, 265–266, 275, 323, 331; in East and Southeast Asia 268–269; in Japan 273–275; in South Korea 271–273; in Thailand 269–270 Protschky, S. 62–63, 65 pufferfish 5, 139–145 purity 22, 30, 34, 197–199, 203 Pye, O. 302

Qur’an 128 race 33–34, 43, 48, 60, 229, 233 racialization 2, 7, 33–35, 223–224, 233–234 Raffles, T. S. 60, 195 Rajagopal, A. 323 Rajah, A. see under Chua, B. H. Rath, E. C. 139 rationalization 8, 110, 310 Ray, K. 26, 47, 91, 224, 226–231, 234 Reader, I. 118 recipes: and celebrity chefs 210–211, 216–217; and culinary tourism 166–168, 170–171; and Indonesian society 59–62; and Italian futurism 149–153, 157–158; and Kristang foodways 77–78, 81–86; and street food 326–327 Redden, G. 69 red salads 131–132, 134–135 Red Velvet 187–188 refugees 48, 51, 89–90, 223 Reid, A. 130 Renkichi, H. 158 resistance 9, 299–304, 306; see also protests restaurants 2–3, 309–312, 315–319, 327–329; and accelerated culinary mobilities 52–54; and celebrity chefs 215–218; and culinary politics 54; and culinary tourism 167–169; and ethnic food tours 223–225, 227–232; ethnic succession and 47–52; and the first post-war Japanese food boom 44–47; and fusion 16–18, 20–26; globalization and 39–41, 40; and Italian futurism 156–159; and Kristang foodways 84–86; and middle-class lifestyles in India 245–246; and overseas migrants 41–44; and pufferfish consumption 139–145 rice 148–150, 158–159, 230–232, 251–252, 284–292; and culinary tourism 169–171, 174–175; and French Indochina 29–30; and fusion 20–21; in The Futurist Cookbook 156–158; and the Hmong cultural kitchen 99–100, 100; and Indonesian society 59–61, 64–65; and Italian food in Japan 156; and the Italian Futurists 150–151; Italian rice culture 154–156; and Japan’s national food identity 281–283; and Kristang foodways 83–84; and milk in Singapore 193–194; and mokujiki 113–116, 121–122; see also glutinous rice; onigiri; slametan rice oranges 5, 149, 157 rice stuffing 155 risotto 5, 148–149, 151, 154–155, 157 ritual 62–63, 282–283; see also slametan Rogaski, R. 251 Roth-Gordon, J. 233 Rowlands, M. see under Fuller, D. Q. Running Man 187–188 Sakai Shigechi 145 Sakamoto, J. 52

340

Index Sanmugam, D. 171 Sarkissian, M. 77 Sasaki Kōshō 113 Sato, R. 282–283 Saunders, D. 325 Scripter, S. and S. Yang 100 self-sufficiency 266–268, 286–288, 287, 297–298, 302, 319 senses 156, 225–227, 229–231, 233; see also sensorial experience sensorial experience 3, 89, 92–93 settler migration 3, 54 settlers 41, 44, 49, 58, 80, 134; see also settler migration Shanghai 9–10, 13, 41, 44, 46, 51, 164, 321–324; and the life and culture of the street 328–330; and migration 327–328; street food of 325, 330–331; and urbanization 325–327 Shetty, P. S. 242 Shimizu, K. see under Maclachlan, P. L. Shōda Kazue 145 shopping malls 10, 242–243, 245, 324–325, 330 Shu, J. 170–171 Shugendō 4, 109–110, 121, 126 Shu Xincheng 257–259 Singapore 1–2, 5–6, 10, 46, 184, 194–195; cookbooks of 166–167; and culinary tourism 163–165, 175; and ethnic food tours 233; food memories of 169–171; food-themed volumes of 168–169; food writing of 165–166, 171–172; and fusion 13–14, 17–18, 21–22, 24, 26; and Kristang foodways 73–74, 81; and milk 193–194, 203; and milk advertising 197–202; milk production in 195–196; and milk safety 202–203; and milk scandals 196–197; and PTAs 271, 273–274; and street food 331; and Violet Oon 168 Singapore Tourism Board (STB) 164–165, 168 slametan 4, 62, 127–129, 135; and the communal meal 132–133; and ritual cooking 129–130 Smith, B. 127–129 Smith-Howard, K. 194, 203 SNSD 188 social class 3, 58–59, 63–67, 69; see also middle class social history 1, 166 Solinger, D. 323–324 Solomon, C. 24 Solomon, H. 247 Solt, G. 140 Song Ji-hyo 188 South Korea 8, 265–267, 269, 274–275; protests in 271–273; see also dramas space see domestic space; kitchen space spiritual, the 109–111, 115–117, 129, 214 sponsors 127–129, 168, 186 Sri Lanka 1 standardization 8, 91, 239, 252, 255, 259

statuary 4, 109–110, 115, 118 steroids 7, 247 sticky rice see glutinous rice Stoler, A. L. 31, 67 storytelling 3, 73, 86, 228 Straits Times 195, 197, 200–201 street food 9–10, 63, 155, 322–331; and culinary politics 310, 316, 319; and culinary tourism 168, 170; and fusion 17, 19, 21, 23 street markets 10, 321–323, 330–331 Sullivan, N. 129 Sundari, R. A. S. 67 supplements 7, 246–248, 257, 259 supply chains 2, 6, 37, 193–194, 288, 297, 299 sustainability 268–269, 299–300 Suzuki Shōei 122 Swislocki, M. 251–252, 328 Sydney 7, 52, 164, 201, 272; and ethnic food tours 222–224, 228, 234 Taipei 10, 272, 325, 331 Taiwan 181, 266; see also Taipei Takahashi Juntarō 142–143 Tan, C. L. 170–171 Taoism 4, 111–112, 114, 123, 125–126, 151 tariffs 32–33; and PTAs 265–268, 271, 273, 275; and the TPP 283–284, 288–291 Tarulevicz, N. 166, 168 taste education 7, 224–226, 234 tastes 13–14, 16–20, 134–135, 309–310, 312–315, 325–328 Tay, L. 165 tea 139, 152, 154, 193–194, 218, 221; see also kaiseki technology 198–200, 202–203, 291, 305 television dinners 178–179 television programmes 6–7, 207–213, 215, 219; see also specific programmes televisual, the 6, 176, 186–187, 189, 224–225; see also dramas Thailand 1, 8, 131, 166, 181, 288; protests in 269–270; and PTAs 265, 267, 272, 274–275 Toronto 2, 13–14, 21–26, 52; mapping “Asia” in 14–16; tastes of tradition in 16–20 tour guides 7, 223–224, 227, 234 tourism see culinary tourism; ethnic food tours toxicity see pufferfish trade 2–3, 6, 8, 18, 111, 144, 247; and the corporate food regime 297–298, 300, 309; and culinary politics 316; and French Indochina 29–30, 32–34; and Indonesian society 59–60, 68; and Italian futurism 149, 152, 155; and Japanese culinary mobilities 40, 42, 44, 47, 49, 53; and Korean dramas 178, 184, 189; and milk in Singapore 193–197, 199–200, 202; and nutrition in Maoist China 252, 254, 261; and PTAs 266–267, 269–270, 272, 274–275; and street food 327; and the

341

Index TPP 279–280, 282–283, 288–290, 292; see also preferential trade agreements (PTAs) tradition 2–7; and celebrity chefs 212–213; and the corporate food regime 300–301, 303–304; and culinary politics 315–319; and culinary tourism 167–168, 170–171; and ethnic food tours 225–226; and fusion 13–14, 16–20; and the Hmong cultural kitchen 89–93, 100–103; and Indonesian society 58–59, 68–69; and Italian futurism 153–157; and Japanese culinary mobilities 43–44, 51–52; and Korean dramas 178–185; and Kristang foodways 77–79, 81–84; and middle-class lifestyles in India 243–246; and milk in Singapore 193–194; and mokujiki 109–114, 121–122; and pufferfish consumption 139–143; and slametan 127–129, 131–135; and street food 322–323, 328–329; and the TPP 281–283 transnational capital 9, 299 transnational corporations (TNCs) 8, 265–266, 268–269, 273–275 transnationalization 8, 266, 273, 275 Trans-Pacific Partnership (TPP) 8, 265, 273–274, 279–281, 283, 285, 289–292 Trauger, A. 303 tree-based foods see mokujiki Tsai, C.-T. see under Horng, J.-S. Tsuchida, M. 311 Tully, J. 168 Ujita Norihoko 44, 47 United States 3–4, 32, 158, 194, 241; and the corporate food regime 296–297; Hmong refugees in 89–91, 102–103; and Japanese culinary mobilities 42–44, 46–53; and PTAs 265–266, 268–269, 271–274; and the TPP 280, 288; see also Hmong urbanization 282, 286, 323, 325–328, 330 US-Thailand FTA 8, 265 Van Esterik, P. 59 Vickers, A. 69 Vietnam 1, 34, 134, 215; and ethnic food tours 228, 230; and Japanese culinary mobilities 47–48, 50–51; and PTAs 267, 269, 273 vindaloo 83–84, 86, 88 vitamin C 8, 255–257, 260 Vitanov, N. A. 283 Wang, D. 323 Wang Xunyi 256 war 1, 68, 89, 200, 223; and the corporate food regime 297; and culinary politics 309, 311, 316; and culinary tourism 169, 171; and French

Indochina 31–32, 34; and Italian futurism 150–151, 158; and Japanese culinary mobilities 41–43; and nutrition in Maoist China 252–253; and the TPP 282 washoku (Japanese foods) 9, 54, 281–283, 309–310; the concept of pairing wine with 310–312; the culinary politics in pairing wine with 318–319; examples of pairing wine with 314–318; the principles of pairing wine with 312–314 Watanabe, K. 44–45 Wee, S. 170 Weiss, A. S. 133 Weng Deli 257 Whelehan, J. K. see under Chiba, M. Wilk, R. R. 62 wine 144–145; see also under washoku (Japanese foods) Wittman, H. 300 women 6, 18, 101, 214, 302, 327; and culinary politics 316–317; and culinary tourism 168–169, 175; and ethnic food tours 228, 233; and gendered consumption 179–181; and Hallyu 178–179; and Indonesian society 63–64, 66–69; and Japanese culinary mobilities 46, 53; and Korean dramas 176–178, 181–185, 189; and Korean popular culture 187–189; and Kristang foodways 76, 78–79, 81; and Meokbang 185–187; and middle-class lifestyles in India 240, 243; and milk in Singapore 193, 198, 200–201; and nutrition in Maoist China 257, 259; and PTAs 269, 272; and pufferfish consumption 143–144; and slametan 128–130, 132, 135 wood eating see mokujiki Woodward, M. 128 workers 7–8, 15–16, 49–51, 226–227, 300–302; see also migrant workers World Bank 298–299 World Trade Organization (WTO) 265–272, 274–275, 283, 288, 298, 300 Wright, S. 302 Wu Shunde 259 yakitori 49, 51, 53, 311, 313–314, 316–319 Yamaguchi Tsutomu 41 Yamashita, K. 288, 290–292 Yanagi Muneyoshi 119–120 Yang, S. see under Scripter, S. Yang Guangqi 259 Yeoh, B. see under Chang, T. C. You Who Came from the Stars 184–187 Zimmern, A. 208, 219; Bizarre World 6, 209–211, 214 Zukin, S. 226, 329–330

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