There is a word in Portuguese whose translation into English I cannot recall as I write with pen and papers while sitting on the plane: fartura. It means something like “plenty,” and the corresponding image is the overflowing table of cured and tempered meats, succulent fruits from distant lands, delicacies that require days to prepare, fine table linens and unending entertainment at a grand banquet held by some corpulent king centuries past. Like the ripe spread of a long-past royal feast, I spent 35 days indulging in nearly every gastronomic delight that came before me, including some exceptional platters that certainly did not fall under the category of aesthetically or sensorially pleasing but that were consumed because they tempted my insatiable culinary curiosity. I had established but one rule before embarking: listen closely when my stomach says “enough.” With an roughly 80% success rate at honoring my one (albeit self-imposed) rule, I netted four extra pounds and the surreal experience of tasting my way through six different countries and 12 distinct cities.
I tried everything from the extremely authentic (sea bass and local appetizers on the Bosporus followed by nearly hallucinogenic hookah) to the iconic (waffles in Brussels) to the culturally juxtaposed (Yeminite food in Israel and Indian food in Belgium) to the localized version of high fructose, neon colored, corn syrupy, processed beverage (orange Yedigün cola in Turkey) to the nostalgic (ice cream with my old college dormmate) and the whimsically delicious (surprising fish stew chosen from a menu of utterly unintelligible gobbledygook in Antwerp). And, of course, most everything visible that was eaten was fully documented in photographs, with a short caption explanation for those who wished to accompany my gastronomical adventures from afar.
It was sumptuous, delicious, mouthwatering, visually explosive, sweet, sour, salty, tart, spicy and mild. Thirty-five days of sticky, buttery, liquidy, fluffy and thick weighing in my stomach or merely satiating my taste buds and alimentary needs. The surrounding of each and every morsel I put in my mouth was just as significant as the food itself. Preparation began with the atmosphere and did not end even after I paid the bill or bartered in whatever common language I could muster. So, I ate. And tasted. And picked, licked, slurped, bit, sipped, chewed and savored my way through my journey. In short, eating my way through my journey was absolute, delicious bliss.
My quotidian restrictions (to the social extent possible) of understanding the origins of my food and being as respectful as possible of my body, the environment, the economy and future generations was sidelined during these travels for the personal, egotistical goal of sensing and experiencing. Restricting myself to grass-fed, free-range and farm-raised animal products would have left me a vegetarian in the lands of lamb, mussels, sea bream and sausages. The normal rules I impose upon myself in my own kitchen would have left me completely deprived of many of the beautiful conversations I had with friends, acquaintances and locals in every country I visited. I’m sure it could be done. Vegetarians and vegans and diabetics and celiac patients travel contentedly with their diets and likely do not feel any more culturally slighted for such restrictions. But not I. For me, it most certainly would have been a weight holding me back from my objective of unabashed gastronomic indulgence.
Which then became overindulgence. Platitude. Akin to a hangover. After 35 days, it was sensory overload. Hence, “fartura.”
From my unabashed experience, the single greatest need in the face of a full-blown hangover the day after mixing too many drinks and probably too many verbalized thoughts better left unspoken is a tepid shower, fresh clothes and water drunk slowly to flush out the system. That and the sharp insight before forcing yourself out of bed, out of the filthy, sweaty clothes you probably slept in, that you will not repeat this experience for some time yet (not foreswearing an appreciation of alcohol, just promising yourself you best indulge in drinking only to the point where your taste buds and your good senses still respond coherently).
I write now as they serve dinner on the plane. I eat because my stomach is commanding me to respect its needs. But I long for glasses of water to flush out my system and a cool shower to bid to my corporal need to wash the excess from the skin and the pores. For those who are fans of Herman Hesse, this is the point where the ever soul-searching Siddhartha decides to take leave of Kamala and the drinking, gambling and general raucousness that comes to make his feel so bloated.
Will I continue to seek out sumptuous dishes? Drink cocktails? Ingest illicit substances while partying far beyond the limits of my body? Stop for grilled cheese at a greasy spoon at 4:00 a.m.? Try new dishes with less-than-sustainable beef? Break my kitchen rules in the friends’ kitchens and in restaurants? Of course. But for now, once every 35 days and not every day for 35 days is a far more sensible recipe. If I truly miss the sensory experiences, there are memories and documented reminders aplenty.
L’chaim!
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