Felicia Campbell: Global Flavors

Felicia Campbell Published Clips 150 Montague Street, #3R Brooklyn, NY 11201 k.felicia.campbell@gmail.com

Photograph by Felicia Campbell

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LAMB Chicken KEBABS Corn STEAK Ribs FISH Hamburgers SHRIMP

THE

memories

Hearts and Minds

An American soldier falls for the food, and the people, of Iraq by felicia campbell

I

l a nded in k u wa it on February 28, 2003, less than a month after my 19th birthday, as a private first class with the rest of the 101st Airborne Division. Two years earlier, after an aimless semester of college during which the Twin Towers fell, I’d filled out the information request form on GoArmy.com, looking for some direction in my life. I was thrilled when we were deployed to Iraq. It felt like my chance to do something important.

I was among the first wave of American troops in Iraq; it would be months before military living quarters and chow halls and roads were in place. That lag time—and the absence of basic comforts like food and water—set my life on a path I couldn’t have imagined. It fueled a hunger in me for something pleasurable and real, and drove me to cross the neatly drawn military line between “us” and “them.”

It was a journey I made stomach first.

We were staged at Camp Udairi, a tent city in the desert on the Iraq–Kuwait border. Nineteen days after we arrived, a TV was wheeled into our tarp tent. President Bush appeared onscreen and said, “The enemies you confront will come to know your skill and bravery.”

The war was on. We crossed the border under fireworks of Scuds intercepted by Patriot missiles and drove toward Baghdad. We pushed north hundreds of miles across a sea of sand, and when we stopped, we slept outside on cots where vicious biting flies woke us every morning. Until suppliers from the base in Kuwait could catch up with our convoy, we each made do with one MRE (Meal Ready to Eat) and two liters of water a day. Just enough to survive.

All the MREs had the same basic components: a squeeze packet of peanut butter or cheese-flavored spread, tasteless crackers or flatbread, stale Skittles or cake, and an entrée pouch. To “cook” the entrée, we slipped the pouch into a plastic sleeve outfitted with a water-activated heating pad, added water, and closed the sleeve quickly. A violent boiling would shake it for a few minutes, then fizzle out with a nauseating chemical gasp. Entrées ranged from the fear-inducing

Country Captain Chicken, a breaded gray lump, to the coveted Hamburger Patty. The latter came with barbecue sauce and was believably beef-like. We attempted to make other meals palatable, crushing crackers over pasta for texture and spreading peanut butter on dry pound cake. But mealtime on that convoy remained a disappointment.

Ev e n t ua l ly, t h e de s e r t gave way to patchy grassland. We began to see people: women in flowing black garments, men herding goats and working in the fields. Our commanders had told us we weren’t to trust any of them, so I kept my head down and my gun at the ready. We bypassed Baghdad, continuing north to a former Iraqi air force base in

The warning signs went up, painted on plywood boards: “Unauthorized eating establishment, eat at your own risk” Nineveh. Qayyarah Airfield West was a tumble of bombed-out buildings stripped of electrical wire and filled with debris, but to us they looked like palaces; they meant no more sleeping outside under tarps. I could see foothills in the distance, and the sun was softer here. Most important, there were rumors of real food. One rubble heap was being turned into a dry goods shop that was also going to sell hot meals.

The grunts from the 327th Infantry Regiment’s 1st BCT “Bastogne,” whose headquarters were across the road, had tagged the would-be shop with their insignia, a cloverleaf, so the place became known as “The Club.”

Pretty soon chips, sweets, and Coca-Cola cans adorned with squiggly Arabic lettering were lining its shelves. In a courtyard in the center of the building, a collection of plastic tables and chairs were set up like a restaurant, the menu limited to grilled chicken and pita. The Club was run by Iraqis. This wasn’t a surprise at Q-West—about a month after we arrived, they started letting Iraqi nationals onto base

to deliver water and other supplies—but there was always a divide between the Army’s official and unofficial lines on them. The officers in Washington claimed that we were helping rebuild the Iraqi economy by supporting new businesses. But on base, as soon as the shop opened, the warning signs went up, painted letters on plywood boards: “Unauthorized eating establishment: Eat at your own risk. It is against military regulation to intentionally harm your body. Use discretion when consuming unsanctioned food.”

So I was nervous as I stood in line at The Club, my weapon slung over my back like a messenger bag, but I was also tired of eating tasteless rations. When I got to the front and saw the handwritten sign that simply said “$2” and handed over the money, I didn’t look up at the owner of the brown hands that passed me a Styrofoam plate lined with thick, soft, warm flatbread topped with half a chicken.

I was thankful that the food looked straightforward and safe, delicious even. The skin was crispy, charred-brown, and shiny with fat. I tugged a piece off the bone. It was as moist and flavorful as the rotisserie chicken my mom used to buy at King Soopers back home in Denver.

But it was smokier, more complex, and bursting with flavors unfamiliar to me. I wrapped pieces of meat in the pillowy bread that was stained with grease from my fingers. I ate and ate, the flavors of cardamom, coriander, fenugreek and turmeric, cloves and allspice, pepper and rose hips striking my palate, many of them for the first time. They were the tastes of what Iraqis call bahar asfar, yellow spice, brought centuries ago from South Asia. They were flavors I grew to know well, and to crave.

I wolfed down my chicken and considered ordering more for later. But I didn’t; as satisfying as it was to taste fresh food, something was missing. Unlike the countless times I gobbled an MRE solo, I suddenly longed for someone to sit and eat with me. The next evening I asked three other girls in my platoon to join me; we had spent little time together until then, but that marked the beginning of many

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todd coleman

Djaj bil-bahar il-asfar, Iraqi yellow spice rubbed chicken (see page 44 for recipe).

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nights we spent at The Club. We’d devour the chicken, followed by a packaged cake bought from the shop, and when I started requesting the tea I saw the Iraqi shopkeepers drinking, they smiled and brought it to us in their own chipped mugs, served extra sweet, with leaves swirling in the amber liquid. Despite the kindness of those men, I still didn’t trust them or look them in the eyes. Ignoring our hosts, we would laugh loudly and tell dirty stories, smoking and drinking their tea into the night.

eaten many meals in the Arab world, my cravings remain unsated. I continue to look for Iraqi chicken, not for the sumptuous flavors, but because it reminds me of that time in my life and those gracious men from The Club.

I know I’m unlikely to ever see them again, but I still long to thank them for feeding me.

With that simple grilled chicken, they nourished my humanity, so often the first casualty of war.

Si x mon t hs in Iraq and we had given up dreaming about going home; eight months, and Q-West had become home. The girls and I made our way toward the familiar glow of The Club through the hot summer nights and cold autumn ones. We were there during weeks of boredom and weeks when mortars rained down as intermittently as the winter showers.

Even after the opening of the long-awaited chow hall, we returned every Friday for cake and tea. And I would go whenever cravings for the chicken hit me. As a soldier, I ate robotically, but in The Club, I dined like a human.

Over those weeks, I began to do a dangerous thing for a soldier: I began to feel and I began to see. I finally started looking at the Iraqi men that served me—young, bearded guys in checked turbans. I thought about the people I had met on patrols: the women in the villages who had embraced me and kissed my cheeks as their children looked up from their sides; the professor who asked if we were going to free Iraq from Saddam or simply take his place, and the knot of guilt I brushed aside as I told him I didn’t know. I thought about the people brave enough to be kind to me even as I wielded an M16-A4, prepared to turn it on them. Yet it had taken me countless cups of tea to simply meet the eyes of the men pouring them.

Nearly a year after crossing the Iraq–Kuwait border, we were told it was time to go home.

Things at Q-West were hectic as we scrambled to move out, and my trips to The Club became less frequent. On one of our last nights, I finally met the owner, a fat, boisterous man with a close-cut beard who tried to tell me about his wife and kids in a broken mix of Arabic and English. I searched for the word for “thank you” but wasn’t able to remember it.

In the decade since then, I have learned the word for thank you—shukran—along with thousands of others. And my life gained the direction that I was seeking back when I enlisted. I went to graduate school for food studies and became a writer with a focus on Middle Eastern cuisine. Though I have since

(Iraqi Yellow Spice Rubbed Chicken)

Djaj bil-Bahar il-Asfar Serves 2–4

This fragrant spice-rubbed grilled chicken (pictured on page 43) was a favorite of saveur assistant editor Felicia Campbell when she was deployed to Iraq. For hard-to-find ingredients, see page 108.

2 2 2 6 4 4 4 4 1 1 1 2 1 1⁄2 1 8

tsp. coriander seeds tsp. cumin seeds tsp. whole black peppercorns cardamom pods dried chiles de árbol, stemmed allspice berries whole cloves dried rose hips tbsp. curry powder tbsp. ground cinnamon tbsp. ground sumac tsp. ground ginger tsp. freshly grated nutmeg tsp. ground fenugreek cloves garlic, mashed into a paste Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste 2 chicken halves (about 3 lb.)

Flatbread, such as naan, for serving 1 Heat coriander, cumin, peppercorns, cardamom, chiles, allspice, and cloves in a 10” skillet over medium heat until seeds pop, 1–2 minutes; let cool. Transfer to a spice grinder with rose hips; grind and transfer to a bowl. Stir in curry, cinnamon, sumac, ginger, nutmeg, fenugreek, garlic, salt, and pepper; add chicken and toss to coat. Cover and refrigerate overnight.

2 Heat a charcoal grill or set a gas grill to high; bank coals or turn burner off on one side (see “Grilling 101,” page 98). Grill chicken on hottest part of grill, flipping once, until slightly charred and cooked through, about 45 minutes or until an instant-read thermometer inserted into thickest part of thigh reads 165°. If outside starts to burn before chicken is cooked, move to cooler side of grill until done. Rest chicken 10 minutes; serve with flatbread.

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Homestyle Recipes from

BlueRibbon

PIES 7 SUMMER FAVORITES

AMERICA’S HEARTLAND All-Time Classics GREAT FRIED CHICKEN PRIME RIB PICNIC SALADS LEMON LAYER CAKE

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Extra-Crispy Fried Chicken See page 74 for a recipe.

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Appetizers and Sides ✪ COWBOY CAVIAR

(Black-Eyed Pea and Hominy Salad) Serves 6 –8 A lime juice and spicy Sriracha marinade gives this summer side dish (pictured on page 85) a zesty kick. ∕4 ∕4 3 1 1∕2 1 1

4 3 2 1 1 2 1 ∕3

1

cup fresh lime juice cup olive oil tbsp. Sriracha hot sauce tbsp. honey Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste cloves garlic, finely chopped plum tomatoes, cored and finely chopped jalapeño peppers, stemmed, seeded, and finely chopped green bell pepper, stemmed, seeded, and finely chopped small red onion, finely chopped 15.5-oz. cans black-eyed peas, drained 15.5-oz. can golden hominy (see page 108), drained cup finely chopped cilantro, leaves and stems

Whisk lime juice, oil, Sriracha, honey, salt, and pepper in a large bowl. Add garlic, tomatoes, peppers, onion, peas, and hominy; toss to combine. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate at least 2 hours or up to overnight. Stir in cilantro before serving.

10 1 1 2

cloves garlic, finely chopped medium yellow onion, thinly sliced cup dry red wine cups chicken stock Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste 1 ∕4 cup roughly chopped sage 1 ∕4 cup roughly chopped tarragon 2 tbsp. sherry vinegar 8 tbsp. unsalted butter, softened 12 oz. baguette, thinly sliced on the bias Microflowers, for garnish (optional; see page 108) Crème fraîche, for garnish

1 Prepare a stovetop smoker: Place wood chips in a small pile in center on bottom of smoker. Place drip tray and rack on top of wood chips. Arrange tomatoes on rack, cut side down, and slide on lid. Place smoker on a stovetop burner over medium heat.

When smoke appears, let tomatoes smoke about 7 minutes. Turn off heat; let sit, covered, 10 minutes more.

2 Heat oil in a 4–qt. saucepan over medium-high heat. Add half the garlic plus the onion; cook until soft, 5–7 minutes. Add wine; bring to a boil. Cook, until reduced by half, 5–7 minutes. Add tomatoes, stock, salt, and pepper; return to a boil. Reduce heat to medium, cook until tomatoes break down and soup is slightly thick, 45–60 minutes. Stir in sage, tarragon, and vinegar. Working in batches, purée soup in a blender. Return to saucepan; keep warm.

SMOKED TOMATO SOUP Serves 6 –8 This thick, tangy soup from Ludivine restaurant in Oklahoma City (pictured on page 81) gets additional depth of flavor from smoked tomatoes.

2 tbsp. mesquite wood chips for an indoor smoker (see page 108) 3 lb. ripe plum tomatoes, cored and halved 1 ∕3 cup olive oil

3 Heat oven to 350°. Mix remaining garlic with butter, salt, and pepper in a bowl. Place baguette slices in one layer on a baking sheet; cook until lightly toasted, 8–10 minutes. Spread garlic butter on slices. Sprinkle with microflowers, if you like.

4 To serve, ladle soup into serving bowls; garnish with a swirl of crème fraîche. Serve buttered baguette slices on the side.

3 GREAT HEARTLAND COOKBOOKS As we cooked through pamphlets, cookbooks, and even home recipe cards for this issue, a few resources rose to the surface as our essential guides to the heartland kitchen. The Prairie Farmer-WLS Cook Book (The Prairie Press, 1941) contains recipes from issues of Prairie Farmer Magazine, printed between 1841 and 1941, and from the magazine’s 20th-century radio station, WLS, which broadcast cooking tips to homesteaders. The book, a historic artifact in its own right, inspires with frontier recipes for vinegar pie and fried cucumber, which delivers on its promise to be “one of the most delicious dishes you can imagine.”

At Willa Cather’s Tables (Allen Press, 2011) gathers recipes from the family and friends of the region’s most celebrated writer, in addition to providing

recipes for the foods that wend their way through her early 20th-century novels.

Like Cather’s writing, these recipes draw from the immigrants who made the heartland home. Sweets like Czech poppyseed tortes and ostkaka, a Swedish ricotta cake, had us reaching for both our aprons and Cather’s seminal novel O Pioneers! Prairie Home Cooking (The Harvard Common Press, 1999) by heartland cookbook icon Judith Fertig is a tour de force of the region’s layered foodways, providing historic context and personal anecdotes along with each of her 400 recipes for downhome dishes like summer peach jam, prize-winning barbecued ribs, and Exoduster stew—a one-pot meal of sausage, smoked turkey, and green beans brought by emancipated slaves. —Felicia Campbell

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Saveur

Italiano Americano: A Guide to America's Little Italies

Between 1876 and thirdofofItaly's Italy's population immigrated to Between 1876 and1924, 1924,almost almost one one third population immigrated to America, spreading America, spreading and settlingflavors acrossand thetechniques country. from Bringing ingredients, country.

Bringing ingredients, the various regions of Italy, these adv dishes astechniques unique as their new communities, givingof rise to dishes of both Italy and their flavors and from the various regions Italy, theseevocative adventurous This hybrid Italian-American cuisine has evolved into one of thegiving best-loved genres in America to Italians created dishes as unique as their new communities, rise to city evocative each has itsofown flavor. a tournew of our favorite Little Italies, sea to shining sea. dishes both ItalyHere's and their American homes.

Thisfrom hybrid Italian-American cuisine has evolved into one of the best-loved genres in 1. New York City: (http://www.saveur.com/article/Travels/Italiano-Americano/2) (http://www.saveur.co America today, though fromand cityManhattan to city each has its own flavor. Here's a tour of Americano/2) Arthur Avenue (http://www.saveur.com/article/Travels/Italiano-Americano/2) our 2. favorite Little Italies, from sea to shining Philadelphia: (http://www.saveur.com/article/Travels/Italiano-Americano/3) (http://www.saveur.com 1.

New York City: Arthur Avenue South Philly (http://www.saveur.com/article/Travels/Italiano-Americano/3) sea.Americano/3)

3. San Francisco: (http://www.saveur.com/article/Travels/Italiano-Americano/4) (http://www.saveur.co and Manhattan

By Felicia Campbell Americano/4) North Beach (http://www.saveur.com/article/Travels/Italiano-Americano/4) 2. Philadelphia: (http://www.saveur.com/articl South Philly 4. St. Louis: (http://www.saveur.com/article/Travels/Italiano-Americano/5) The Hill (http://www.saveur.com/article/Travels/Italiano-Americano/5) 3. San Francisco: North Beach 5. Chicago: (http://www.saveur.com/article/Travels/Italiano-Americano/6) (http://www.saveur.com/article Taylor Street (http://www.saveur.com/article/Travels/Italiano-Americano/6) 4. St. Louis: The Hill 6. Boston: (http://www.saveur.com/article/Travels/Italiano-Americano/7) North End (http://www.save Americano/7)

5. Chicago: Taylor Street 7. San Diego (http://www.saveur.com/article/Travels/Italiano-Americano/8) 8. Baltimore (http://www.saveur.com/article/Travels/Italiano-Americano/9) 6. Boston: North End 9. Providence: (http://www.saveur.com/article/Travels/Italiano-Americano/10) (http://www.saveur.com/ Americano/10) Federal Hill (http://www.saveur.com/article/Travels/Italiano-Americano/10) 7. San Diego 10. Bloomfield, PA (http://www.saveur.com/article/Travels/Italiano-Americano/11) 11. Wilmington, DE (http://www.saveur.com/article/Travels/Italiano-Americano/12) 8. Baltimore 12. New Haven, CT: (http://www.saveur.com/article/Travels/Italiano-Americano/13) Wooster Stree (http://www.saveur.com/article/Travels/Italiano-Americano/13)9. Providence: Federal Hill [pagebreak] 10. Bloomfield, PA Credit: Landon Nordeman New York City 11. Wilmington, DE

With New York the home to the largest Italian American community in the country, it seems app 12. New Haven, CT: Wooster two Little Italies: the original on Mulberry Street in Manhattan, and what some call the real Littl Street in the Bronx.

Page 1 of 13 Arthur Avenue Along Arthur Avenue from 184th St to 187th Street, and 187th St over to Belmont Ave. Full article available at http://www.saveur.com/article/Travels/Italiano-Americano

Excerpts from Souciant May 2012

Food / Travel

Wrong Side of the Mosque

by Felicia Campbell on May 8, 2012 • 8: 18 UTC Driving into Old Lahore, the streets narrow, crowded with motorbikes zipping dangerously close to brightly-painted busses packed with passengers spilling out of their doors. Cracked concrete steps lead into doorways.

Clusters of men sip tea served from steaming cauldrons in front of shabby looking cafés.

Looking up, I see taller buildings, whose octagonal windows reflect the sunlight. Balconies with arched detail mimicking the minarets of a mosque are visible under the flapping flags of dingy laundry. Visible between the buildings is one of the most identifiable landmarks in South Asia, the Badshahi Mosque.

Turning onto a quieter side street, it appears as though we are driving straight toward that grand Lahore mosque. As we pull to a stop just shy of the barrier wall, a red-colored building on our right catches my eye. There is a clear glass shelf over one door, that upon closer inspection, I realize contains goldfish swimming among lily pads. There is an etching of a crucifix above a small fountain set into the cement of the entrance, and an elephant carved in teak above the door. Even a Buddha and a Krishna have found homes in the buildingʼs façade.

I have reached Cuckoo始s Den. It stands between Heera Mundi or Diamond Market, an area where the dancing girls of Lahore once swayed and enticed men to set aside their morals and rupees for an evening, and the austere mosque from which the calls to prayer erupt powerfully five times a day.

Dinner in the Den Though the red light district of the Heera Mundi has vanished, the neighborhood始s association with the haram is still strong. My future mother-in-law, a conservative Pakistani woman, was uncomfortable dining here and averted her eyes from the portraits lining the walls, though all the figures were fully dressed. Even our young Lahori guide was more excited by the daring of our dining choice than I would have expected, considering that all that lay below us to bring to mind the women who once called out from the doorways were darkened alleys. Our varying responses to Cuckoo始s Den were silenced by our unanimous delight in the perfect meal that we ate.

We had ordered a feast of Chicken Achar, tender grilled cubes of chicken breast marinated in a spicy-tart blend of pickled mango, hot chilies and creamy yogurt, Chicken Boti, a simple chicken kebab, rubbed with dry spices, and the best spinach I have ever tasted, simmered with cream, a mild masala blend and topped with a thick pad of fresh butter. These dishes were accompanied by a cornucopia of breads, from thick, pillowy naan, to the crisper, thinner butter naan and both the thin, tortilla-like baked roti and the light-flakey rounds of fried parata.

Rooftop Refuge The bubbling spinach of Cuckooʼs Den was decadently, dangerously rich. However, it was also comforting and warming. I wanted to run back to the restaurant where I felt, for the first time since arriving in Pakistan, that no one was judging me. Returning to the roof the night after our feast to meet Iqbal Hussain for a smuggled glass of whisky felt like an escape from the restrictive world below. At that moment, I understood why he had stayed, despite his ability to leave, and the hostile urgings of the local mullahs for him to do so.

I sat facing the towering minarets of the Badshahi Mosque and let Hussainʼs even, melodic voice and stories wash over me as I enjoyed my illegal drink, luxuriating in both his company and my own small act of defiance. It seems that the cost of opposing the status quo is often the label of indecency. But as Iqbal Hussain told me, “They did not like me and they do not like me, and I do not like them. But this is my home and I will never leave.”

Full Article Available at

http://souciant.com/2012/05/wrong-­‐side-­‐of-­‐the-­‐mosque/

Food in Zones of Conflict: Cross-Disciplinary Perspectives (Publication Scheduled for 2013, Berghahn Books)

CHAPTER 9 ENEMY CUISINE: CLAIMING AGENCY, SEEKING HUMANITY AND RENEGOTIATING IDENTITY THROUGH CONSUMPTION K. Felicia Campbell, New York University Iraq 2003 I remember MREs (Meals Ready to Eat). Scrounging through the boxes when no one was looking in order to try and find a coveted hamburger patty package. I remember the MKTs (Mobile Kitchen Trailers); which were just large-scale versions of MREs served buffet style. I remember the Iraqi chicken and warm pita bread that we devoured like animals. I remember the ketchup packets decorated with the picture of a little boy’s head, grinning manically between two giant tomatoes. I remember the Iraqi Coca-Cola, still identifiable with its red and white packaging, despite the flowing Arabic script that covered it. I remember the atrocious ‘pizza’ on soggy flat bread, covered in ground meat with crunchy pebbles of blackened cartilage, bitter raw onions and a flavourless crumbled cheese. I remember the strange desserts of flaky pastry surrounding a green mush of chopped nuts, so unexpected in appearance that I was immediately repulsed. I remember being afraid of the food because I didn’t understand the people preparing it. I spent my time looking for the familiar. But then too, even after they built us a chow hall filled with ‘safe’ food, I remember returning ironically to the Iraqi ‘clubs’ to satisfy my lingering craving for that simple chicken and pita.

In this chapter, themes of subversive personal agency, humanisation and the renegotiation of identity are explored through the narratives of American veterans and their consumption of rations and Iraqi cuisine during and post-Operation Iraqi Freedom. Food is often overlooked in the examination of wartime interactions, but the use of food as a psychological tool of classification in conflict has a long history, from the perceived threat of dehumanisation or barbarisation of the Greeks through exposure to Roman consumption habits in the third century (Purcell 2003) to the feminisation of the Indian vegetarian body in the subcontinent during the colonial era (Arnold 1994). I argue that disgust for the other and his food is a mechanism that mentally aids in the execution of the unnatural acts of war, thus, the adoption of enemy cuisine signifies much more than a change in palate, it signifies a defiant act of agency and the first step in the difficult process of shifting from soldiers fighting faceless enemies to men and women engaging with other men and women on a battlefield whose psychological reach extends far beyond the borders of Iraq. …EXCERPT FULL TEXT AVAILABLE UPON REQUEST (K.FELICIA.CAMPBELL@GMAIL.COM)…

Concluding Thoughts As humans, we operate on a basis of more than survivalism, requiring more than rations to feed our needs for choice and comfort. In demanding to be fed as humans and not as chattel, in

demanding choice, we exercised personal agency. The significance of this lies in the fact that soldiers are conditioned so effectively to operate as actors rather than agents. The fact that the subversion of this ideology played out in the form of culinary consumption points to the basely human nature of this need, a social, rather than purely physiological need. It logically follows that in overcoming preconditioned feelings of disgust and engaging with the Iraqi other through the deeply human act of commensality (when engaged in voluntarily by both parties) would have deep and lasting psychological impacts on returning veterans struggling to make meaning of their wartime experience. The degree to which this affected the Iraqi population is a subject that demands further investigation. What is clear, is that culinary consumption during wartime is more than a utilitarian act or political act (Roy 2010), it is a tool of personal agency and subversion, a core element of humanity, a form of intercultural communication and a deeply engrained aspect of identity (Bourdieu1984) and thus a device through which one may re-examine identity. War is filled with paradoxes. Returning to commensality, the most basic of human acts, is a way in which to make sense of the juxtapositions and perhaps a way in which to reclaim humanity, so often the first casualty of a foreign war.

References: Ahearn, L. M. (2001) Language and agency, Annual Review of Anthropology, 30,109-137 Arnold, D. (1994) The ‘discovery’ of malnutrition and diet in colonial India, Indian Economic Social History Review, 31,1-26 Bourdieu, P. (1984) Distinction. A Social Critique of the Judgment of Taste, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, Mass.

Holt, D.B. (1995) How consumers consume: a typology of consumption practices, Journal of Consumer Research, 22(1), 1-16 Halbwachs, M. (1992) The Reconstruction of the Past. In Coser, L. A. (ed.) On collective memory, University of Chicago Press, Chicago, 4651 Purcell, N. (2003) The way we used to eat: diet, community, and history at Rome, The American Journal of Philology, 124(3), 329358

Roy, P. (2010) Alimentary Tracts. Appetites, Aversions, and the Postcolonial, Durham: Duke University Press Slater, D. (1997) Consumer culture and modernity, Polity Press, Oxford. :134-135 Tam, S. M. (2001) Lost and found? Reconstructing Hong Kong identity in the idiosyncrasy and syncretism of yumcha.

In C. B. Tan (Ed.), Changing chinese foodways in Asia, Hong Kong: The Chinese University Press, Hong Kong : 49-69 Zardini, M. (2005) Sense of the city: an alternative approach to urbanism, Lars Müller Publishers, Centre Canadien, Zürich