A month ago I set out on a journey. I was going somewhere very special. I was going to go vegetarian.
Like all ventures into the unknown it was preceded by trepidation, as I contemplated the prospect of future challenges as-yet vaguely comprehended. This journey didn’t involve me actually moving, but I felt like an intrepid explorer none-the-less – I needed to discover whether some long-held notions about myself really were true: Was I really going to be able to survive on vegetables alone? Would I not wilt just like the greenery I’d be eating? Would not my natural carnivorous instinct to devour meat take over, and have me clawing at the butcher’s door the very first evening, like an alcoholic sitting outside the liquor store all night?
One month on, I know the answer to all these questions is simply No. It’s telling however that the real hurdle to succeeding at this endeavour was the initial uncertainty, the step into unchartered territory. I am still not well versed in vegetarian cooking by any means, and it is a little cumbersome sometimes to find appetising food in some places when you go out, but these are minor hindrances – the real obstacle to going green was in my head.
So it can be done. Fine. I knew that. I’m stubborn and disciplined enough that if I set my mind to something I can do it for a month. But what about how I feel? What about the training regime?
Well, I’m happy to report that I feel just fine, as energetic as ever. I injured my back, and then had a week when I was ill, which meant I didn’t work out as much as I would have otherwise, but I’ve still racked up twelve training sessions in the last month, so the diet isn’t doing any harm to my energy levels.
I didn’t keep track of what I ate in the end, and I know I ate more sweets than I usually would, but I didn’t gain (or lose) any weight, so I assume it’s not been a bad diet in terms of nutrition. I’ve obviously eaten more greens than I normally do, too, and my body is still – erm – adjusting to the amount of lenses and beans I’m consuming, but all told I think I’m eating at least as healthily as before.
And of course no animals had to die for me to live this month, which is a really nice thought.
So will I continue? Yep. I don’t see that I can justify not doing it. I do miss some things, like salmon sushi when we have our family Friday sushi dinners, but not enough that I can’t do without, and as long as that is the case, I feel a moral obligation to try to do so. I might not stay vegetarian forever, but for now I’ve officially Gone Green.
And so I passed into week three of my salad-munching new lifestyle. Actually, I lie: no salad was harmed in the making of this vegetarian*. At least not yet. You see, Monday eve saw the first delivery to my doorstep of a box full of veggie ingredients and (more importantly) easy-to-make recipes.
And so I started cooking vegetarian food with some confidence for the first time. Courtesy of Hello Fresh! (The French-speaking world has a love for English names that is only matched by their inability to come up with ones that make any sense…)
The recipes ranged from familiar with a twist (mac ‘n’ cheese with pumpkin and lasagna with eggplants and soy milk) to weird and wonderful (chachouka and dhaal). Those are actual words, by the way, not onomatopoeia describing how I sounded trying to eat these newfangled dishes. Newfangled to me, that is: the people of Mexico and India might have an ax to grind with me over that description.
The kids were not enamoured with it all, but then neither were they when I served meat dishes in the past, so I’m not that concerned. Funnily, my daughter (who was the one that wanted to become vegetarian) is less enthused than my son, to whom eating with bread is a brilliant improvement upon cutlery, and who now speaks of digging up the old sand pit and turning it into a vegetable plot. Go figure.
Mmmm… yummy!
Unfortunately I came down with strep throat and had a temperature for four days, so I wasn’t particularly hungry for most of the week, but what is surprising is that at no point during these three weeks have I had a yearning for anything animal to eat. I thought I’d be going through withdrawal symptoms akin to those I experienced when I gave up nicotine or caffeine, but… nothing. No cravings, no seeking out illicit bacon dealers on deserted street corners, nothing.
That bodes well for next week, after which the challenge is complete. I really don’t know what I will do after that. Watch this space.
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* Although the trees in the garden are starting to look very good to me. Coincidence?
I was travelling with my son, who is of that age when nothing beats pasta and pizza, so we were both enjoying the food on offer (something that wasn’t the case during the first week…!). Here’s how it went:
Their breakfasts aren’t very healthy, but cornetto alla crema (pastries filled with vanilla) and cappuccino are both veggie-approved, so that’s what we had, more often than not. (Hey, I didn’t make the rules…!)
Then there’s the fact that every unassuming restaurant consistently serves really good food; everywhere we went, plates were filled with gourmet-level cooking. And thanks to the abundance of locally grown quality veg this was equally true for us salad-munchers: every tomato sauce is nectar of the gods, every mozzarella di buffala ambrosia, every antipasta and primo is a deceptively simple dish made to perfection.
So simple, so perfect.
They really have no excuse with their markets looking like they do, I know, but still, other countries have those, too, and they don’t manage to pull this off. In short: if I had to pick anywhere in the world where I could live happily as a herbivore, this would be It.
It-aly may have its drawbacks and weak points (such as rarely holding on to a government for longer than a few months and collapsing infrastructure), but you can’t beat the boot in culinary matters. India might have more to offer due to its sheer size, but since all Indian food could also double as rocket fuel I’m going to give Italy pride of place in this man’s vegetarian food pantheon.
If you are a reasonably well-travelled veggie you may already know all this, of course – a case of “bean there, done that”, as it were – but if not: what are you waiting for?! Avanti!
So I decided to try life as a vegetarian. It didn’t get off to an auspicious start.
Like an addict, I spent the last couple of days gorging myself on my chosen poison before finally taking the plunge, testing if there really isn’t such a thing as too much bacon (there is – a family pack for breakfast for one) and if three cheese burgers in one sitting isn’t better than two (It isn’t!).
My last evening before this experiment begun I dined on goose liver. It was divine. Next morning I played it safe – a known luxury brunch place in town would see me through most of the day (cakes are vegetarian, after all), and the next evening I had arranged delivery of a whole box of meals (well, recipes and ingredients) to my doorstep, which would carry me through most of the week.
It didn’t go according to plan. The brunch place had crispy bacon on everything (or so it seemed), but that I could manage. Worse was the realisation that the food box company wasn’t going to be delivering anything for another week.
Back to the drawing board: Sunday afternoon I prepped as much roasted veg as I could. My vegetarian acquaintances weren’t very forthcoming; all their dishes seemed to require hours of work. A friend tipped me off about lentils with butter for breakfast, which sounds like a cruel joke to me; another veggie friend chimed in with his own top tip: don’t eat anything that has a face. Possibly useful as a guideline, but not helpful when I was staring forlornly into the fridge, wondering what to do.
In the end I survived my first week without any real difficulties, in fact. Sure, pasta and various sweets featured more prominently on the menu than I would have liked, but I didn’t actually crave meat at all, and I certainly didn’t go hungry – if anything I ate more than usual, in an attempt to get enough protein. And I got six workouts in in the gym, so clearly my energy reserves weren’t completely depleted.
So far, so good. Next week I’ll be in Italy for the most part, and if a feller can’t be a vegetarian there, I think India is probably the only place you’ll survive. Watch this space.
From word porn to proper pleasures of the flesh: eating.
Copenhagen is home to NOMA, voted the world’s greatest restaurant several years in a row, but what about other Nordic food?*
I’m very happy to report that I have found some real gems while here, and they are both wonderfully traditional and nydannet – a word that means contemporary, newly created, whilst happily incorporating the Danes themselves – coincidence? I think not.
So, without further ado, here’s the ultimate guide to eating like a Dane:
For breakfast, you cannot do better than pay a visit to a recent addition to the culinary landscape of the capital, Grød. It’s a splendid example of how you don’t need a complicated concept to succeed, as long as you do what you do to perfection. Grød means porridge, and that’s what they serve, with as many as a dozen toppings. The porridge itself is very satisfying, creamy and fresh, and the extravaganza on top ensures that you never get bored. Oh, and you will be full for a looong time afterwards!
It’s porridge, Jim, but not as we know it!
For lunch, foodies and workmen alike have smørrebrød – open sandwiches with a plethora of different toppings, often incorporating traditional components such as herring or roast beef, but with interesting twists. My favorite place is a non-assuming place on Nytorv square, Mät, where you can have as many of these little delights as you like for a fixed price. Buyers beware, however: Danes are environmentally conscious, and the menu specifies that customers will be charged 15 kroner extra for each smørrebrød left unfinished!
Let’s just say I didn’t have to pay the forfeit…
No culinary expedition to Copenhagen should leave out JaDa Café. The name means “Oh, yes”, and I dare say that’s what most people whisper under their breath as they enter the establishment: JaDa makes the most gorgeous, custom-tailored ice cream I have ever seen. A perfect spot for an afternoon indulgence, and one likely to be as pleasing to your palate as your eye.
It even comes with the proverbial cherry on top.
It’s a good thing you’re biking around, because by now you have probably gained about 10lbs. However, dinner still beckons. I’ll give you two options:
Just down the street from Grød lies another interesting trendsetter: Manfred’s. Awarded by Michelin, this basement establishment is very relaxed and cozy, but what makes it stand out is that it’s vegetarian, and everything on their menu sourced from the restaurant’s own local farm. I had a seven course meal, and every single dish was surprising and good, from the cold cucumber/buttermilk soup starter to the red beet/blackcurrant/algae dessert.
If instead you want less food, and perhaps some animal protein, I would suggest a visit to Blaaregn, a local eatery where, if you have guts enough, you can find yourself face to face with a cod head on a platter.
Sink your teeth into this cod piece if you dare!
Baked to perfection, this fish – the only one that can compete with the herring for most traditional Danish food – was quite possibly the best seafood I’ve ever had. Baked to perfection with capers and nothing else, its meat was tender, succulent, and somehow a marvellous metaphor: if you dare to go back to your roots (and can face the prospect of putting someone else’s tongue in your mouth) there is no end to the gourmet experiences you can have here!
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*NOMA is an abbreviation for NOrdisk MAd, meaning Nordic food.
It’s December already. Who’d have thought way back in January? I’m still working on my to do list, though, which I guess is a result in itself.
I did say I would try something new and challenge myself every month, and since I cannot go travelling (no more holidays, plus December is a busy month as it is), I have decided to challenge myself at home: I will try to improve my eating habits.
Now, I already eat fairly ok. No eating disorders or anything like that, but altogether too many carbs, too much sugar – and the holiday season hasn’t even begun yet. So… I have begun writing down every last thing that I eat and drink. Nothing fancy, just a list that I keep in my phone.
To my delight I find that the act of writing it down is in itself really useful, because I can no longer hide from myself what I’m eating. It’s culinary mindfulness, if you will. Knowing I will have to write down whatever I eat, I hesitate to allow myself treats that I would normally turn a blind eye to, or justify as “deserved”.
That last statement is particularly absurd, if you think about it. You don’t “deserve” something unhealthy for having done good. First of all, you’re not a dog, you shouldn’t reward yourself with treats, and secondly, surely a good deed should be rewarded with something good, not something you know is bad for you?
This one simple act has other knock-on effects as well. Suddenly I’m more keen on vegetables and clean protein (vegan ultra runner Scott Jurek’s book Eat and Run helped with the former, if not the latter!) and preparing meals in large batches makes more sense, since having ready-made food at hand reduces the likelihood of my straying from the path, be it at home or at work.
So Sunday saw me making oven-roasted sweet potatoes and other veggies and frying up lots of lean chicken, and yesterday I made a double batch of lasagna (admittedly a carb fest, but working out hard you need some carbs, too), and I’m looking forward to trying other stuff as well.
I figure the worst is yet to come – Christmas and new year’s aren’t exactly known for being bastions of healthiness, after all – but I reckon this way I will at least think twice before going Cookie Monster on any of the upcoming feasts.
I’m not going to publish the list itself, but I will let you know if it has any effect. I started this month of traditional gluttony at 83,6kg, which is well above what I feel comfortable with. Changing nothing else in terms of training, it will be interesting to see if this one act of documenting my food intake will have any discernible effect on the scales. Can I get down to my match weight of 80kg whilst eating well and orderly? Well, we’ll see.
October 21st, 2015. To some people this was the day Marty McFly arrived in the future, but I find myself celebrating an event fifty years in the past, namely one of my dearest friend’s birthday. Instead of opting for a more traditional party, he has gathered a group of friends in the Mosel valley to walk the Moselsteig with him. This party of friends fluctuates in size and composition, but the core group is made up of myself, the birthday boy, and four German female friends of his.
Thus I’m immersed in German from sunrise until sundown, and I become painfully aware how poor my active German is. Looking at it from the bright side, I provide my new acquaintances with some good laughs, as when I refer to Thor as the Donnerwettergott instead of Donnergott (the “Goddammit” rather than the God of Thunder), or accidentally reduce a complete stranger to giggles when he overhears me referring to the breakfast müsli as Vögelfutter rather than Vogelfutter (that one umlaut being the difference between bird feed and f**k feed).
On the other hand the five Germans aren’t spared either. Every five minutes or so they find a word that has at least as many regional variations as there are native speakers present. It is a very telling indication of just how recently Germany was created from a mishmash of little fiefdoms, and how rich and diverse their language remains as a result of all those centuries of relative regional independence.
In fact, hiking along the Mosel you’d be excused for thinking you were transported back in time to The Middle Ages. The river itself is used for transportation the way it has been since times immemorial, Fachwerk houses still huddle together in labyrinthine villages close to the riverside, always with a church in the middle and a castle or ruin typically perched on a rocky outcrop above. Legions of vineyards, brought here by the Romans, march up the mountainsides in straight lines only to meet fierce resistance from the unruly, wild Teutonic forests that still hold sway on higher ground.
Our merry band, too, march up and down the steep slopes. The paths wind their way along the sides of the valley, and it’s hard going, something which the less experienced hikers among us discover to their chagrin. For thirty million years the Mosel has been carving its way into the slate (which itself consists of sediment deposited here at a time before the dinosaurs, when all this was the bottom of a primordial ocean), and the valley runs deep, which means the slopes are very unforgiving indeed, and a fall would oftentimes be fatal.
The fall flora on the other hand is beautiful; beyond the vines are wild cherries, mountain ashes, red oaks, French maples and other trees and shrubs that compete with the river itself for attention. According to our host there’s even something called “Kruppel-leichen” out there (It seems even native speakers can’t always cope with the German language’s propensity for combining words into new words, as one “L” too many here changes the word “dwarf oaks” into “crippled corpses” – not an easy mistake to make in most languages!).
Luckily we don’t see any of those, and avoid adding to their numbers, too, in spite of the treacherous terrain*. Possibly this is due to the fortifying sustenance we are able to avail ourselves of. This being Germany there is plenty of hearty food to be had: schmaltz (rendered fat), blutwurst (blood sausage) and bratkartoffeln (fried potatoes) being a favourite for lunch, especially when washed down with plenty of Federweizen (still fermenting grape juice) – a delicacy often only found in the vineyards, as it doesn’t travel well. But then to be fair, nor does the drinker after a few glasses.
Speaking of that particular lunch menu, one German word that I had never encountered before this trip is Bratkartoffelnverhältnis (fried potatoes relationship). After the Second World War as men were returning home from the front there were a great many widows around that might need the help of a man with this or that, and who in return for this and other services rendered might offer the hungry ex soldier a warm meal. Well, it seems that often enough the men and women found this arrangement to their liking, and prolonged it indefinitely (if unofficially), and this type of relationship became known under that particular moniker.
I should point out that no such relationship was formed during our brief sojourn together (none that I know of, at least!), but one of the women did ask if I was perhaps in love with our host. This after I had opted to serenade him rather than give a speech at the official birthday dinner – she couldn’t know it of course, but the song I had elected to sing was Helan Går, a Swedish drinking song that most Swedes know better than their national anthem. This proved more useful than real serenades, as the wine flowed freely during our nights together. Our demi-centarian is a lover of fine wines, so Bacchus was properly worshipped every evening, with the local Rieslings proving to be mostly excellent choices for our libations**, always accompanied by calls of “Prost!”, the most German of toasts***.
So there you have it. A celebration that included wine, (wo)men and song. Oh, and some wandering. I’ll drink to that. Prost! Whenever you want to do it again, Alter Freund, I’ll be back. To your future!
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* Although one late addition to the troupe barely makes it here before a shot back had him limping to the nearest train station, poor soul.
**Even more fittingly, one of the local villages we hiked through was called Pommern, a bastardised version of the Latin name Pomona, goddess of fruit. Not too difficult to imagine which fruit they had in mind.
***Prost itself is a germanised form of the Latin Prosit (“may it be good”).
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