We're both speaking English, right?

This is Linnéa speaking (writing?), and I’m back at Bloom. Many might say that I never really left, and they’d be quite right in saying so. However, when dues are paid for work done the monetary compensation has for some time been rolling in from Lund University’s dept of Ophthalmology (no, that’s not onomatopoeia) and the payoffs from a certain kitchen in a restaurant have taken a more... let’s say emotional form. Or, to put it as Igi would: luuuuuurve.
You’d be surprised to know how many practical advantages I get from combining my two disciplines. It leans mostly towards getting ahead as a scientist using knowledge I’ve gained in the restaurant, but every now and then someone in the restaurant will ask what the difference is between mold and bacteria - and hey presto - the Ph.D student will tell you. Down to the last morphological detail. Not that you wanted to know... right?
So, you might ask, what’s up with these academics and food? Actually, it’s not so much about foodstuffs themselves as it is having a relationship with certain foods. Some of them more or less healthy relationships, I might add. I’ve had the supreme luck of ending up with an amazing supervisor who knows everything about metabolism and is puritanical about how his food should be cooked (I’m serious, he’s the only person I know who really wants to read Modernist Cuisine...). I’ve spent the last two years in this particular lab and we’ve still not covered all the fine points of how to best cook a joint of lamb, or what wine is best to drink with it for that matter. It doesn’t help that we’re in the same corridor as this woman, who has revolutionized student lunches at the BMC.
Anyway, academics are a weird and wonderful breed of people (as we all know from “The Big Bang Theory”) and one of the easiest topics to strike up conversation is food and wine. Everyone has an intense relationship to their favourite food. Everyone has had a restaurant experience to die for. Everyone eats lunch. Everyone wants to keep conversation going in the lunchroom. So what do we talk about?
I was recently in Fort Lauderdale in Florida for a conference, and since I know Igi used to live there I asked for food advice. Apart from the obvious (eat seafood, eat fresh fruit and veg, drink good Napa wines) he also warned me that the Americans speak a different language when it comes to food. I was quite sure he was pulling my leg - we all speak English, right? - but he wasn’t. Take the concept of French Toast, “fattiga riddare” in Swedish. My very British father used to make me French Toast on special occasions when I was young. I remember it so well I can even smell it (this is what I mean about intense relationships to food) - white french bread, thinly sliced, lightly toasted, soaked in beaten eggs and fried golden in butter, served with a drizzling of maple syrup and strawberries. Delicious. In Fort Lauderdale French Toast means inch-and-a-half thick slices of sweet (!) white bread dipped quickly in batter (presumably something akin to pancake batter), quickly fried off until brown and then drenched in maple syrup, spread thick with nutella and served with whipped cream and jam. This isn’t the only thing lost in translation. When American menus say “fried”, they don’t mean in a frying pan. They mean slathered in batter and deep fried in oil. After two evening meals where I ordered some kind of “fried” seafood I reverted to “quickly pan fried in butter, please”. Now don’t get me wrong, we ate in good restaurants with excellent quality food. The fault lies with me not consulting the waitstaff on the cooking method. I put it down to clueless tourist-syndrome. Generally, Americans are very helpful and willing to make changes to the dish if you ask. However the point is that the relationship to the produce and it’s fate on your plate is quite different on this side of the pond. After just over a week with all the extra added sugar, fat and super-sized portions with the compulsory side of french fries with dipping sauce (no, it’s not something you order. It just appears with the rest of your food) I was so happy to partake at the Bloom pulpo-evening. I realized my special relationship with food lies in small portion sizes, where the pain comes from the conflicting feeling of savoring the last splendid mouthful and not from my belt digging into my abdomen. I found joy in the simple fact that when talking to Titti I didn’t need to be explicit about the exact level of springiness I mean when I say “al-dente”. Also, there was the overwhelming feeling of belonging when everyone agreed that maple syrup OR nutella is sufficient when serving French Toast...

I’m not saying European cooking is necessarily better than American. What I’m saying is that there are food culture differences between nations sharing a language and between colleagues sharing a lunchroom. The true crossing of borders happens when we learn each others foodspeak. I for one am all for the exchange. Who knew clam chowder would play such a pivotal role in my life...

(If you’re ever in Ft Lauderdale, make sure to visit “The Rustic Inn” and have their seafood tasting platter. Le Bon Dieu couldn’t make it better if he tried.)