Retro Food, By Mara L.

One thing I like about remote places in Italy (I am far south right now, in a small place near Napoli), is a certain presence of the 1950ies. Some ‘bars’, as the standard Italian café is called, are pretty much unchanged. No pedantic ‘authenticity’, no. There’s no intention to ‘be retro’, to imitate a certain style of the past. Rather, there is a cool mix of 1950ies furniture that was, at the time, picked with the intuitive sense of style that so many Italians seem to be born with. The 1950ies, in these bars, look like a colorful plastic version of classic modern design. And thus, everything is justly kept in place: it really still looks great! And in a way, much more fun than the brainy, real version of modernity. (I particularly like plastic items in pistachio green, and here, in the south, the kind of blue that looks like the sea.)

Copyright 2007 Jens Haas

In one of these bars, I encountered the kind of torta di fragole that, in New York, I wouldn’t touch. In New York, I would be annoyed. Who wants to eat Italian food from the 1950ies, I would think. No one! With all the cream, the meatballs, the general heaviness. But here, in my little bar in the south, I found it in me to enjoy a frightfully old-fashioned 1950ies cake. The kind of strawberry cake that our aunts would make in the 1950ies, with a huge amount of cream.

And now I worry. Am I being too harsh on Italian cuisine in Manhattan? I had better admit it. I am dying to be back.

Coming up: Gnocchi Di Patate

Life Was Hairy Before Epilady

What is the difference between things and objects? In one of my other lives, I often find myself being employed as an informal commentator on drafts of philosophy talks/papers/books, and today I feel I have to share a brief excerpt (bear with me for a second before I get to it) with you. This is not some obscure stuff, even though it may seem a little obscure here in the context of this blog: It is the real deal from the ivory tower. If you, like me, look at art blogs a lot, it may make for a refreshing break to read something that one cannot immediately agree or disagree on, or disregard right away as hopelessly fluffy. Whatever part of the brain I have to use for my own work (if any), this seems to come from a very different place. After reading the excerpt five times it actually made sense to me, but in any case I also find it very funny.

Copyright 2005 Jens Haas

One more note: Admittedly I have allowed myself to develop a tiny bit of an interest in metaphysics. For a philosopher friend said that my photos are of things and objects (metaphysics is the part of philosophy that asks which kinds of things ‘are’ in which ways). Well, then: What is the difference between things and objects? ‘Things’ apparently is a broader category than ‘objects’. Which leads directly to the question of the quote below: What are the things that fall short of being objects, but are not nothings? While the quote is from a talk on ancient philosophy, many members of the prospective audience are working in the field of logic – hence the funny lingo. With friendly permission from the unnamed author, from page 17 of a 28-page talk on Stoic metaphysics:

“[…] What is important is this: Plato thinks that we have to give up the idea that ‘what is not’ really is not in the complete sense in which Parmenides [who claims that the things that don’t exist do not exist to such an extent that they can’t even be talked about] thought it is not. And Plato devises a theory which aims to explain not-being differently. The Stoics, now, seem to accept that there is a problem about not-being: a Parmenidean notion of not-being does not make sense. They, however, have to reconcile this with their first premise regarding ‘bodies’ [not human bodies, but ‘corporeal entities’], namely that only bodies can act and be acted upon. The combination of these two ideas, I think, explains the outlines of the Stoic theory: Only bodies are beings. But if we do not want all other things to be not-beings in the sense of nothing, we need a higher genus than ‘being’. ‘Something’ seems a very helpful candidate, since part of what is at issue is that one can refer to things which are not. Accordingly, we need a weaker term than ‘being’ which still expresses some kind of existence. For this, the Stoics coin the rather artificial ‘subsisting’. Incorporeals are somethings, not beings; they do not exist, they subsist. Finally, there is one kind of thing which is still not captured, namely concepts, for which the Stoics want to deny that they are in any way particulars. Somethings are things to which we can refer, and they are particulars. Half of this is true for concepts—we can refer to them. Thus, we call them quasi-somethings. The Stoics’ various ontological categories—somethings, beings, subsisting things, quasi-somethings—can be viewed as an attempt at creating a range of ways in which things can ‘not be’, without being nothing at all. Stoic ontology can, if explained in this way, be seen as a response to Plato’s Sophist: it aims to devise several ways of falling short from being, which at the same time do not amount to complete not-being. Incorporeal somethings are not, but they subsist; concepts are merely quasi-somethings, but even that is more than being nothing at all […].”

Monaco Di Baviera, By Mara L.

Readers of my entries to Jens’ blog have perhaps noted that I am overly favorable to the attractions of Alpine Cuisine. By that I mean, the wonderful cooking to be found anywhere between the Trentino and the Dolomites, Austria, the south of Bavaria, and Switzerland. (What about the French Alps? From a culinary point of view, they should be part of the list. But the French close down their hotels in the mountains for all of May and June, a fact which I find unforgivable. If you’ve been to one of their mountain places in early summer, and have seen the complete desertion, if not to say desolation of the mountains ruined by too many ski-lifts, you will know that these places are machines that generate tourist-money in the winter. That spoils it for me, sorry!)

Copyright 2005 Jens Haas

In any case, many of my Italian friends think that Monaco di Baviera is a part of Italy. Since many of my Italian friends are, like me, not real Italians, coming from the very north – that is, the Alps, where people speak German-Austrian-Italian – they like some things (but not others) about Germany. One thing they tend to like is Munich.

Monaco di Bavieria, as we call it in Italy, would like to have something in common with its illustrious namesake at the French Côte. It doesn’t entirely succeed – there’s more homeliness than glamour. What strikes me most is the fact that young women constantly eat on the subway, preferably “Leberkässemmeln”. A “semmel” is a roll. “Leberkäs” is a meat-product that Bavaria proudly advertises as one of its specialities, to be eaten with Bavarian mustard. Let me just say that I would never consider eating a Leberkässemmel, and that I do not recommend it to anyone with the tiniest bit of concern for health, calories, and the like. Thomas Mann nicely characterized Munich women as a little too strong, and things haven’t changed since then.

Copyright 2006 Jens Haas

However, there’s one bit of glamour that is worth mentioning. This is the phenomenon called Schumann. Schumann is an actual person, a tall guy with a tan, a super-elegant suit, and a bicycle (very Munich!). He is a local celebrity of the most amusing kind. First, he has a night club, Schumann’s Bar. Second, he has a lunch restaurant and café, called Schumann’s Tagesbar. Third, he is the author of several books on drinks. Fourth, he became, at a rather advanced age, a fashion model. In essence, and perhaps that is really all I should be saying, he is very beautiful. And if you walk down 5th Avenue, you may well see him looking down at you from a billboard (he certainly looks like he steers away from Leberkässemmeln.)

But since I am more interested in food than in anything, let me turn to the reason of why I am mentioning all of this: Schumann’s Tagesbar has one of the very best Italian chefs ever. Part of the arrogant charme of Schumann is that there is no listino di prezzi, no menu. Tourists thus stay out of his places. One needs to ask what there is for lunch, and there are always just a few choices, but everything is delicious. In fact, lunch is very affordable, but I am going to take this back, since the aura of luxury keeps away the crowds, and that of course is entirely necessary for this aura to persist. But to my dear readership, a circle of the select, I am happy to recommend a plate of cannelloni, or vitello tonnato, at Schumann’s Tagesbar.

Coming up: Retro Food