It was not an ordinary occurrence for me, the air was filled with vibrant and delicious spices which overwhelmed my senses. The filtered light of the mosaic windows danced upon the proud standing stalls of devout chefs and epicureans. There was a stall for every conceivable palete and from all corners of the globe. I had been here for several hours and felt as though I had barely scratched the surface of what this vast, yet warm and intimate food market had to offer.
My parents and grandparents migrated from Russia soon after my birth. It's hard to believe that was sixteen years ago now. I was raised on the cooking of my beautiful Babushka. She worked tirelessly in the kitchen. Her short, plump figure battling by the stove day in and day out to cook for the large family. I often joked that her pale skin would be burned by the stove if she wasn't careful... she wasn't one for jokes. Her posture worsened every time I saw her and her hair grew longer and greyer each day. But I loved her unconditionally. She always cared for me. My Babushka has always been a wonderful cook; my personal favourite is her beef stroganoff.
Despite the aroma of unfamiliar scents that lingered in the air, it was the familiarity of the Russian stall that caught my attention. Titanic waves of nostalgia battered my bones, drawing me with its alluring smell. The homely stall was decorated in traditional Russian colours of red, white and blue, complemented by the illustrious beef stroganoff. Adjacent to the stroganoff laid other famous dishes - syrniki, kulich, varenyky, but the stroganoff stole the show! Its platter was nearly empty whereas the others still had more than half to go. The stroganoff was definitely the favourite amongst my fellow Russians. I reached for a sample of the glorious stroganoff and slowly drew it to my mouth as if the two were destined to come together. Suddenly I notice a force like an anvil powerfully smack my hand. It was my friend, who had been the one to convince me to come and explore the food market. "I cannot believe you are here, in this colossal food market with limitless variety of food, yet STILL are eating RUSSIAN cuisine!" he exclaimed shaking his head. "Follow me" he beckoned.
The air changed, my level of comfort decreased exponentially with every step I took away from the congenial stall. There was a dominant scent of cumin, coriander, cinnamon and many more which I had not learnt the smell of. He was leading me to the Arabic section. The air was not only filled with beautiful scents, but also the peaceful melodies of an oud player. We stopped suddenly, my friend gestured to a nearby store with a cheesy grin. He picked up a flatbread and began to pile on ingredient after ingredient. Finally, he enthusiastically handed it to me, smiling wide. I hesitantly took a bite... my eyes opened up wide. The strong garlic taste from the hummus complimented the soft and delicate pieces of steak which melted in my mouth, the cheese oozing out. So many amazing and complimenting flavours danced about my tongue. I had never tasted something like this before, and it was absolutely superb in every way. Tasting food is like exploring, every new flavour, aroma and sensation is like uncovering an undiscovered treasure. Tasting food is like travelling, every new cuisine taking me to another place, culture and history; today I had travelled the world.
After hours of trying everything I could find, enjoying the new taste sensations at every opportunity, I returned home. When I opened the door, I was greeted by a familiar smell... Babushka was cooking my favourite, beef stroganoff. She lovingly greeted me, asking what I had in my hands. I had brought home all the new spices I had tried at the market. I implored her to put some new spices into the stroganoff.
"I will NEVER!" She retorted in a defensive manner.
Dinner that night was an arrangement of abuse and disappointment, as my large family cut down all my attempts of conversation about gastronomy being vast, and expanding to other cultures' cuisines being necessary for society to improve."do you not like my traditional cooking anymore?" Babushka blustered "это пиздец" she continued, swearing in Russian under her breath. After she blew off some steam I cautiously suggested "Tomorrow we have the same meal; however I will modify it with spices I brought home. Then you can decide which you prefer. Deal?" They reluctantly agreed.
The next day, I was adamant that my family should try the new tastes, as I knew they would love it. I would piquantly transform the family favourite: the stroganoff. I spent hours experimenting with the spices to find the right combinations and finally, a beautiful blend like a Tchaikovsky (who was a family favourite) symphony was created. I served it to my family. They were hesitant. I waited anxiously. The first bite. I instantly looked to my Babushka. I noticed her eyes open wide with astonishment, similar to how mine did at the food market. YES! She loved it.
After years of strictly sticking to Russian food, they sat in silence and ate; downing my modified stroganoff like it was their last meal before death row. The whole family loved it. An orchestra of compliments flooded the room, jubilantly thanking me for my persistence to push forward, for embracing multicultural cuisine.
After the meal we sat around the television. The sound of Tchaikovsky's "The Nutcracker" was drowned out by conversation of experimenting with new foods. Babushka even mentioned getting Chinese take-out for dinner tomorrow night. Our tastebuds will lead us to many more countries in the future.
YOU ARE READING
Gastronomical Travel
Short StoryI wrote this short story for my English finals in year 12. The story had to follow a theme of discovery, and while I was experiencing writer's block I was very hungry... so I wrote a story about discovering food. :)
