Issue 1

VOLUME ONE / ISSUE ONE FALL 2009

$4.00

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PHOTO ESSAY

DISTRICT QUARTERLY FALL 2009

The Flow of Life Chris Hannent Manteo, N.C.

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DISTRICT QUARTERLY FALL 2009

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STAFF LISTINGS / LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

DISTRICT QUARTERLY FALL 2009

DEANNE REVEL editor-in-chief

BEN WRIGHT copy editor

I’m pleased to introduce the first issue of District Quarterly, District’s new themed magazine. When District went online last year, I was excited but part of me missed the tangible experience of reading a newspaper.

I like to hold a story.

GILLIAN GRAWEY art director

GRETCHEN SCHWARTZ layout

ALLISON BENNETT advisor

Technologies will advance, communication will expedite but there will always be a place for print media because the love for print isn’t dying—not at District. This is our answer: 24 pages each quarter covering a theme the SCAD community can enjoy and share.

I chose travel as the first theme because one of the most appealing aspects of the SCAD community is the diverse student body. Everyone has a story. No matter the culture clash, art always brings the SCAD community together.

“Unique, united. Masterpiece in motion.”

That’s District Quarterly.

Sincerely,

Contributing writers, photographers and illustrator: Lee Burbage Daniel Chavarria Chris Hannant Holly Huit James Mazloomi Brian Noyes Sebastian Pinzon Deanne Revel Kristine Stevens Alan Vance Ben Wright Allison Young

DISTRICT QUARTERLY KEYS HALL 516 ABERCORN ST. SAVANNAH, GA 31401 OFFICE : (912) 525-4713 FAX : (912) 525-5502 QUARTERLY@SCADDISTRICT.COM WWW.SCADDISTRICT.COM/QUARTERLY

Deanne Revel District Quarterly Editor in Chief

CONTENTS

The Flow of Life by Chris Hannant

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR / 4 CONTENTS / 5

10

POETRY / 7 Night Ride by Allison Young

MY HOLY CITY / 9 Top six places to hit while visiting Charleston

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ROAD TRIPPIN’ MIX / 10 Your next traveling playlist.

CHUNCHURRIA / 15 Trying new food “Anthony Bourdain” style

19

PHOTO ESSAY / 19 Palamos by Sebastian Pinzon

NOTHING SAYS... / 20 Ever missed your train in Japan? What would you do?

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ORGANIC SERIES / 24 A look at a small town with a big secret – secret recipe that is. cover photo: Lacoste, France Chris Hannant

What is District Quarterly?

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District Quarterly provides SCAD and its community with original work in a variety of media by SCAD students. It features nonfiction and fiction essays, poetry, sequential art, illustration and photography. The different media is combined by subject and theme to create a truly refined product each quarter.

How do I get involved?

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To get your work published in District Quarterly e-mail quarterly@scaddistrict.com, or attend our weekly District meeting held every Friday at 4 p.m. in Keys Hall at 516 Abercorn St.

DISTRICT QUARTERLY FALL 2009

PHOTO ESSAY / 3

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Sintitulo, Sebastian Pinzon, Bogotรก, Columbia

POETRY

Allison Young

Someone is walking home, or running away.

A playground aches in the night.

There’s the sound of chain links grating in rust, and I feel taken by wings from the city

I know at daylight.

My spokes tick quietly with time.

Dried leaves gather up about my bare ankles and cling to the shelf of my foot.

Street sleepers hunker down

Night Bike, Alan Vance, San Francisco, C.A.

in the crevices of the city.

They stare like hanging notes;

a schizophrenic violin.

I hold my breath and wheel down a side street.

I watch my light wind around the block.

It spots a feral cat,

a quiet fury, for I have trespassed.

I fly over the city’s stillness, hanging precariously between pavement and air. the witching hour trailing at my heels.

DISTRICT QUARTERLY FALL 2009

Night Ride

7

le Beach 225.9 Charleston 107 mi

Beaufort 46.15 on Head 41.70 runswick 78.73 ksonville 139.3

My Holy City Lee Burbage Charleston, S.C.

Road trips don’t necessarily mean packing up and leaving on a weeks-long crosscountry journey. There are plenty of road tripping options nearby. A lot of people might think that Charleston and Savannah have a lot in common, being two Southern coastal towns with a lot of history, but it’s not the case. Charleston and Savannah have completely different dynamics as cities and there’s a ton to do in both.

If Charleston and Savannah are sister cities, then they’re sisters who haven’t spoken in 20 years, excluding the occasional snide comment. I am a Charleston native.

I grew up in Charleston. My dad grew up in Charleston, and his father grew up in Charleston.

My dad’s family actually has not left Charleston since the American Revolution.

For some reason Savannahians historically hold a grudge toward Charleston and its people. They might have peninsula envy.

Who can say?

Still, this one-sided feud should never deter you from taking the short trip from Savannah to Charleston. It only takes about two hours. From Savannah, just follow Highway 17 North across the Talmadge Bridge and then follow the signs to Charleston. Highway 17 will end up right in downtown Charleston. But once you’ve packed your car full of friends, gassed up and reached your destination, what should you do?

Here are the top six places to hit up while in Charleston: • 52.5 Records: If you consider yourself a music fan, then you have to stop by here.

There is no question about it. If you don’t, you will die unhappy. One wall of the store is lined with racks of records. New and old albums are mixed together. If you are a

5 miles 0 miles miles 33 miles

• Kudu Coffee House: Kudu Coffee is the best coffee shop in the city of Charleston. In some aspects it is like every other independently owned coffee shop in the country, or maybe even the world. It’s just a building with a fenced-in courtyard.

Because it is owned by a couple who moved to Charleston from Africa, you can get Swahili lessons from either owner, one of whom is always manning the register.

It’s hard to say what is so amazing about Kudu Coffee House. It’s just comfortable.

Even if you have never been in the shop before, you just feel good. It isn’t a pretentious, uppity coffee shop, though some of the patrons might be.

In the end though, it is still the best coffee shop in the city. Plus, the coffee is really good, and the prices are reasonable.

You can find Kudu Coffee on the corner of King and Vanderhorst Streets.

• Waterfront Park: In contrast to the previous items listed, this is a typical tourist thing to do. All around, there are tourists walking around, talking and making noise.

There are times when the park is pretty much empty, usually in the morning and around lunchtime.

Being out in the sun is just nice. The salt air shoots up the sides of the walls from the ocean and assaults your nose. There just isn’t anything quite like it. It’s simple. It’s a basic pleasure. It’s a great break. And I love it.

• Market: Most locals stay away from Market. Some people might tell you that if it is your first time to Charleston you need to go to the Market, which runs on Market Street from Meeting Street to East Bay Street. I might be inclined to agree with them. The Market is a big part of Charleston’s history. The Market was where slaves were sold. Once a market of humans, it has moved on from a dark past to embrace its tourism possibilities.

There are several open-air buildings comprising the Market, and at the entrance and exit to each building sit a few women weaving sweet grass baskets, which is mesmerizing.

• Concerts: We all know when it comes to live music in Savannah, it is lacking in a few areas. If you are under 21 you have very little hope to actually see any bands play.

In Charleston, you will always have someone to see. A good place to start looking for a show is to check out the Charleston City Paper. They list almost every musical event in the city for the week.

Not to mention that the “Soundboard,” as they call it, is about three pages long. You can go to a show at 52.5 Records, or maybe check out the Music Farm. The Music Farm brings in acts as diverse as the Wu Tang Clan, Snoop Dog, the Drive-by Truckers, Hank III and the New York Dolls. There are also about 15 other smaller venues scattered around the city.

• King Street, the main drag for locals, lends itself to the younger population as well. While cruising King Street you can find almost any type of food, including lots of meals conducive to a student budget.

Actually, you can find just about anything you want on King Street: shopping, food, pawn shops, record stores, music, the Apple Store, vintage shops, ice cream and art supplies.

These are just a select few of the huge number of things to do in Charleston. So put down any preconceived notions about your adopted sister city and take the plunge.

You might even change your mind.

9 DISTRICT QUARTERLY FALL 2009

99 miles

vinyl collector, then you may spend hours flipping through the racks of music.

The other side of the store is dedicated to posters and DVDs. Straight down the middle of the store is a long wooden rack of CDs. The rack, like the records and DVDs, runs the entire length of the store.

Screen-printed band and concert posters line the walls. It’s beautiful. I make a point of stopping by every time I go back to Charleston. If you plan ahead, it’s always worth it to catch a show on evenings when the store doubles as a venue.

The best part about 52.5 Records is that they sell every genre: indie music, underground, rap, hip-hop, electronic, techno, blues and folk. If you can think it, they have it. To top it all off, they also sell beer.

MY HOLY CITY

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Road Trippin' Mix

Home Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros Up From Below

Blister in the Sun The Violent Femmes Violent Femmes

Fake Palindromes Andrew Bird Andrew Bird & The Mysterious Production of Eggs

Wagon Wheel Old Crow Medicine Show O.C.M.S.

Little Green Bag The George Baker Selection Little Green Bag

Rear View Mirror Grandaddy Just Like the Fambly Cat

Popsickle The Starlight Mints The Dream that Stuff Was Made Of

Of the Mountains Dan Deacon Bromst

Ben Wright Greenville, SC

My best friend and I have designated “bridge songs.” To us, there is nothing better than a good track to hit when you get on the Talmadge Bridge, headed to destinations unknown. Here’s a playlist—just enough to fit on one CD—chock full of songs that are great for road trippin’.

It starts with my quintessential bridge song

by Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeroes, perfect for singing along and putting you in a driving mood, whether you’re headed to or from home.

What follows are great songs for cruising down the interstate. Dan Deacon’s “Of the Mountains” begs to be turned up loud with the windows down. Hendrix’s cover of “Like A Rolling Stone” is a great reimagining of Dylan’s rambling classic.

“King of Carrot Flowers, Part. 2 & 3” has one of the best build ups of any song I know—pumping me up for anything. The playlist ends with a Brazilian Girls song, perfect for preparing for your arrival.

I can be found in my car screaming along to all of these songs (with the exception of Sigur Rós, when I just babble).

So learn them, love them and get cruisin’.

ROAD TRIPPIN’ MIX

King of Carrot Flowers Pts. 2 & 3 Neutral Milk Hotel In The Aeroplane Over the Sea

Like A Rolling Stone Jimi Hendrix The Jimi Hendrix Experience

Disco Science Mirwais Production

Summertime Clothes Animal Collective Merriweather Post Pavilion

Rag & Bone The White Stripes Icky Thump

Fight Test The Flaming Lips Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots

Ramble On Led Zeppelin Led Zeppelin II

Shangri-La Electric Light Orchestra A New World Record

Inní Mér Syngur Vitleysingur Sigur Rós Með Suð Í Eyrum Við Spilum Endalaus

California Dr. Dog Takers & Leavers

Internacional Brazilian Girls New York City

DISTRICT QUARTERLY FALL 2009

Weapon of Choice Fatboy Slim Halfway Between the Gutter and the Stars

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SCAD Travel

DISTRICT QUARTERLY FALL 2009

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@SCAD: SCAD Travel Deanne Revel Birmingham, Ala.

I always thought the rooms behind the DSGN bookshelves in the Ex Libris basement were stock rooms, but they’re offices for SCAD Travel.

SCAD Travel is a full-service in-house travel agency serving the SCAD community for both corporate and leisure travel. The agency is over 10 years old and currently has two employees, Darlene Marshall, SCAD Travel Director and travel agent Theresa Muller.

The agency handles SCAD Athletics travel, off campus trips, guest artists and speakers coming to the college and all corporate travel for the college including President Paula Wallace’s travel. In addition to these responsibilities, the agency can also plan vacations for any member of the SCAD community—at no cost.

Unlike other agencies, SCAD Travel charges no booking or consultation fees.

“Since September 11, the whole travel community has changed,” Marshall said.

“Airlines don’t pay commissions and most agencies are trying to make those commissions up in the service fees.”

Those service fees add up. “$25 for a car. $50 for a hotel. $100 for their consultation fee—just to sit down and talk,” Marshall said.

At SCAD Travel, booking, consultation, even research from the beginning to the end of a trip is free.

Marshall is a graduate of the Disney College of Knowledge and a Sandal’s Beach specialist for weddings and honeymoons, but is also a Certified Travel Counselor (CTC) and can assist on any trip.

There are also local benefits in and around Savannah for SCAD family including negotiated and discounted rates for hotels and rental cars and tourism planning.

“It’s a service to the students on behalf of the college,” Marshall said.

A service without a fee.

For more information on SCAD Travel, e-mail Darlene Downs at ddowns@scad.edu or call (912) 525-7560.

©2009 Wachovia Bank N.A. and Wachovia Bank of Delaware N.A. Members FDIC. All rights reserved. 093434

14 DISTRICT QUARTERLY FALL 2009

Get your artwork published!

District is SCAD’s student produced online newspaper, and is the official student voice of SCAD. Participation is open to all majors. We’re looking for writers, photographers, videographers, sequential artists/cartoonists, illustrators, etc. If you have an interest, we have a spot for you.

Interest meeting are every Friday at 4 p.m. at Keys Hall.

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CHUNCHURRIA

DISTRICT QUARTERLY FALL 2009

Chunchurria

inserted my toothpick into the most appetizing piece of chunchurria and slid it into my mouth. The first thing I tasted was the smell—dank, rotten, and completely alien to my senses. Next, my teeth broke through the crunch of the outer shell only to find a Holly Huitt chewy center, like a linguini noodle that is five minutes away from Greenville, S.C. al dente. “Not bad,” I said to my boyfriend and his sisters, who I went to Colombia, South America for several reasons: to visit were eying me skeptically. “It just tastes like fried stuff.” I coolly my boyfriend, to improve my Spanish and to get out of Savannah. went in for seconds, managing to snag a less crispy piece that took a But the truth is, one reason trumped all the others: food. I good five minutes of jaw work to break down. As I continued to eat dreamt of warm, corn-heavy arepas filled with salty white cheese, the chunchurria—some extra crispy, some barely fried, some salty, crisp-skinned chorizo blistering on smoking grills and translucent some oily—there was one common factor. The smell. I couldn’t plantain chips dipped in tangy, sour cream-like suero. So when I figure it out. It smelled both familiar and unfamiliar, both earthy found myself standing in the tiny town of San Antonio holding and rotten. We saved half of the plate for my boyfriend’s mother, a steaming pile of intestines on a Styrofoam plate, I asked myself, who was working at a nearby country club, and as we got in the “where did I go wrong?” I blame Anthony Bourdain, the gangly, car, everyone agreed that the intestines weren’t too bad. Thank you, tough-talking host of the Travel Channel’s “No Reservations.” His Anthony, I thought to myself. I couldn’t have done this without mindless culinary courage infects viewers as you. We reached the well-manicured parking he strolls around the world, praising chicken’s lawn at the country club a few minutes later feet and pig’s ear. and pulled in between two unnaturally clean “This is the best part,” he says as he sucks Mercedes. As we jumped out of the car, we the brains out of a crustacean—and I believe left the foil-wrapped plate of chunchurrias him. Yes, I think to myself, Anthony would sitting in the middle of the back seat, where it never lead me astray. When Bourdain was waiting for us 30 minutes later. I opened appeared in Colombia early in the year, I the car door first, and my gag reflex kicked almost fell out of my chair. Here it was: in. The entire car was brimming with the my first chance to actually visit the same unidentifiable smell—a smell that seemed restaurants and street stands as him. I could mildly unpleasant before now had everyone sit at the same tables, grab the same fork, in the car screaming and gagging. “What the same glass, the same saltshaker. I was is that?” I choked out between gasps and pumped. Pumped enough, in fact, to drive coughs. My boyfriend looked at me in that 12 hours from Bogotá, along narrow roads you-think-you-want-to-know-but-you-don’tbarely clinging to sharp, densely vegetated really-want-to-know way. “I don’t think mountains. San Antonio sleeps between the those intestines were cleaned very well,” he heavily trafficked city of Rionegro and the said bravely. And all of a sudden, it hit me. heavily populated Medellín, only stirring The mysterious smell—the earthiness, the from its silence late at night when the bars sourness, the dankness—was the smell of old, Chunchurria is fried pig intestines, “the business end of the large intestine” open and the street stands unpack their nasty poop. Poop. I had been eating intestines carts. Suddenly, the barren white-tiled square stuffed with stale poop. The glitz of the is bordered by rows of blue-tented street vendors and the sizzling oil and the browning vendors, the screaming hot surfaces of griddles bowing under the butter and the piles of food handicapped my power of logic. Of weight of corn cakes and sausages. Bourdain sat on a rickety stool, course these intestines were once used, as, well, intestines—but I under flickering, swaying light bulbs at these very street stands for didn’t think about that at the time. Why? Because I was in Anthony one reason: chunchurria, or, as he put it, “the business end of the Bourdain mode. I was fearless. All I could think was don’t get large intestine.” sick, don’t get sick. Luckily, I wasn’t alone. My boyfriend and his As I sat on a similar wobbling wooden bench under dim, greasesisters were gagging and panicking at the same time. There was no coated light bulbs a year after Bourdain, I felt confident, even smug trashcan in sight, and littering was out of the question. “Just get rid about the fact that I was about to embark on such an extreme of it,” I begged my boyfriend and so he did what anyone would do culinary adventure. in the same situation: he put the plate under the well-oiled tire of a My boyfriend placed the order and I watched spoonfuls of stiff, nearby Mercedes. We drove away with the windows down, the last light brown intestines splash into murky oil, bobbing up to the acrid fumes of chunchurrias whipping into the night air—the only surface like a broken funnel cake. They came out clacking against clue that a deserted, foil-tented plate rested on the damp grass in the slotted spoon, the exteriors hard and glossy, the interiors almost the shadow of a luxury automobile. black. Someone offered me a toothpick and I accepted it casually, Lesson learned. as if eating intestines were an everyday occasion. I nonchalantly

15

Sweden, James Mazloomi, Princeton, N.J.

Sweden, James Mazloomi, Princeton, NJ Sweden, James Mazloomi, Princeton, N.J.

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Palamos, Sebastian Pinzon, Bogotรก, Columbia

20 DISTRICT QUARTERLY FALL 2009

Nothing Says Thank You Like Del Monte Pears Kristine K. Stevens Savannah, GA.

During a vacation I spent wandering around Japan, I had a plan.

Each night returned to my brother Carl’s apartment in Nagoya, a city located in the middle of the country. But one night I went home with a stranger instead.

Early that morning I hopped on the sleek Shinkansen, the Japanese bullet train with Superman-like running speeds of 188 mph. Before my stomach demanded breakfast, I arrived in Hiroshima 260 miles away.

There, I watched elementary school children drape rainbowcolored chains of origami cranes over World War II monuments and toured the nearby war museum. One of its relics was a set of stone steps from an apartment building. My head bowed when I realized that the shadowy outlines on them were all that was left of two people who had been vaporized by the atomic bomb.

As the sun was setting I caught the train home. Correction: I caught the wrong train home. This became apparent when I noticed that the other passengers were not professionals in business attire, but blue-collar workers and uniformed school students.

To confirm my mistake I approached a gaggle of little girls, all dressed in navy blue sweaters, white shirts with Peter Pan collars and navy blue pleated skirts.

“Is. This. Train. Going. To. Nagoya?” I asked in English, carefully pronouncing my words.

They giggled and conferred what the gaijin (non-Japanese) woman might have said.

“Yes,” said one.

“No,” said another.

“Maybe,” said a third.

“Shit,” I said to myself. Not only did we have the language barrier, but also a cultural one. It is impolite to deliver negative responses in Japan.

I went back to my seat and, moments later, heard a quiet voice.

“So sorry. My English is very poor.”

I turned toward my savior, a young Japanese woman wearing a white blouse and black dress pants.

“Your English is very good.” I moved over — wedging my six-foot frame sideways in the narrow seat — and patted the seat for her to sit down. Perhaps a different question would get the correct answer.

“What is the last stop for this train?”

“Gifu City,” she said with downcast eyes. This was about 18 miles away from Nagoya.

“Does another train run from Gifu City to Nagoya?”

“Yes.” She nodded, happy to please. “I will help you find the right train.”

The next hour was sprinkled with simple words and sentences.

Her name was Amiko Yamamoto. She lived in Gifu City with her family. She worked as a secretary.

When the train stopped, she guided me over to the train office.

Her conversation with the station manager started out fast and fluid, but slowly ground to an awkward silence.

Time to whip out my secret weapon even though I was embarrassed to do so. It was a card Carl had prepared when I arrived in Nagoya.

“I know you are very independent, and this is a very safe country, so I’m fine with you wandering around. However, this might be handy if you need a little help,” he had said handing it to me.

The card read in Japanese: “Hello, my name is Kristine. If I have handed you this card, I am in need of assistance. Please call my

...she brought home a lanky, red-headed American like a lost puppy... brother Carl Stevens. He lives in Nagoya. He is fluent in Japanese and would sincerely appreciate your gesture.”

I bowed slightly and sheepishly handed the card to the station manager. He read the card, broke out a jubilant smile and rushed to the phone. His smile faded when there was no answer. My brother and his wife, Esther, were probably at the dojo where they practice aikido, a Japanese martial art.

Finally, Amiko confessed that the next commuter train to Nagoya was in the morning. There was a sleeper train leaving for Nagoya in a couple hours, but my rail pass didn’t cover the cost. I would have to pay extra for a ticket.

My budget was tight, so I was willing to lose a little sleep to save about $50. “Arigato [Thank you]. I will wait for the morning train.”

Amiko found this unacceptable.

“Please. You come home with me.”

She gently took my elbow and led me into the darkness outside the train station. My brother had no problem with me wandering about alone, so I felt no hesitation in accepting Amiko’s offer. As we walked several blocks, I marveled at how the doors to adventure fling open in the most unlikely directions.

Amiko and her family lived in a four-story concrete apartment building, reminiscent of mass-produced public housing.

NOTHING SAYS THANK YOU LIKE DEL MONTE PEARS

DISTRICT QUARTERLY FALL 2009

Their petite four-room apartment had white walls dotted with framed pictures of relatives and floral arrangements, plus a couple promotional calendars. There were few things in the rooms: a television on a small table, a couple bookshelves and some square cushions. The rest of their belongings were tucked into the closet space that ran the length of one wall.

Amiko’s father and sister were thrilled she brought home a lanky, red-headed American like a lost puppy, but her delicately petite mother was reserved as I towered above her. Parting my feet, tilting my hips and slouching my shoulders did nothing to shrink the gap. Thankfully, we soon sat down on cushions on the floor in the living/dining/family room and drank hot tea. My 38 Japanese words did not serve us well, but Mr. Yamamoto was delighted to use his limited English.

“I have American friend. He is fireman,” he proudly declared.

“Do you know Michael J. Fox?” Amiko asked.

“Have you ever eaten pecans or raspberries?” I asked.

A couple hours later, Amiko huddled with her parents for a serious conversation. There was a problem. The huddle broke.

“Our pajamas are small,” Amiko said sadly. There was no way I would fit in any of their clothes.

“I am very happy to sleep in these clothes. They are very comfortable.” I was wearing a T-shirt and shorts.

There was a twitter of Japanese as Amiko happily relayed my words. But there was yet another matter, a serious one, and Mr. Yamamoto took on the task of trying to convey the message politely.

“This is bathroom.” He pointed into a closet-sized room with a small white porcelain sink and a crouch-over-it trench toilet on the floor. No reading materials to be enjoyed in there.

I smiled and nodded.

“We have two bathroom. Come see.” We all trooped down two flights of stairs to the ground floor parking garage. Mr. Yamamoto opened a metal door behind one of the cars. Inside was a large, brightly lit room covered with white porcelain tiles. To the left was a changing area and to the right was a deep tub large enough to soak six adults. A small collection of small plastic stools, buckets, scrub brushes, soaps and a faucet were next to it.

Mr. Yamamoto’s brow furrowed as he searched for words — daunted by the fact that bathing was an intimate topic to discuss with a strange woman. Thinking about my brother’s bathroom instructions concerning his tub (the awkward size of a washing machine), I guessed the problem.

“My brother has traditional Japanese bathroom. Soap.” I pointed to the stools. “No soap.” I pointed to the tub.

Mr. Yamamoto clapped his hands with relief. “Yes. Yes.” To bathe, you sit naked on the stool and use the buckets, brushes and soap to scrub and rinse yourself. Once you are clean, you soak in the tub. Everyone in this building soaks in this tub, so if I pollute the water with soap, Mr. Yamamoto will be embarrassed by the inconvenience it will cause other families and will have to clean the tub and pay the considerable cost to change the water.

Crisis over, we marched back upstairs.

Before we pulled out futon mattresses (no space-hogging Western beds or couches here), I gave Mr. Yamamoto my card, and he called

21

Mr. and Mrs. Yamamoto and Amiko

my brother. After Mr. Yamamoto — the man of his family — spoke to Carl — the man of my family — and exchanged the appropriate courtesies, he handed me the phone.

“I was starting to wonder where you were,” Carl laughed.

“I caught the wrong train.”

“No worries. It sounds like you’re in good hands, so here’s a quick primer on how to behave in their house. Sit so the soles of your feet don’t face anyone.”

“Check.”

“Don’t stick your chopsticks straight up in your food. I’ll explain later, but it has something to do with death. Lay them along the edge of the bowl when you set them down.”

“Check.”

“Make a point to slurp your soup. It means you are enjoying the meal.”

“Check.”

“And eat everything they feed you.”

“Uh-oh.” I’m not extremely picky, but some Japanese foods give me the willies, like the sparrow Carl ate for dinner my first night in Japan.

“Do it. And have Mr. Yamamoto write his name and address on a card for you, so we can send them a present.”

“Got it.”

“So have a great time, and I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

The next cultural adventure came at breakfast. Mrs. Yamamoto, wearing a crisply ironed floral apron, had disappeared down the hall to a neighbor’s apartment. When she returned, she kneeled down on the floor and presented me with a tray full of small covered dishes.

She waited for me to respond.

With the whole family as an audience, I started lifting the lids one at a time. A fried egg. A square piece of fried ham. Orange segments. A clear noodle soup. Dry toast. She had obviously consulted with someone about what an American might want for breakfast, and I was profoundly grateful.

22

DEL MONTE PEARS CONTINUED

DISTRICT QUARTERLY FALL 2009

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“Arigato,” I said, tasting everything and slurping the soup with enthusiasm.v She smiled ever so slightly, bowed and disappeared into the other room.

After breakfast, Mr. Yamamoto proudly ushered everyone into the family Toyota Coupe (an impressive status symbol) and drove us to the station. I bowed and said good-bye to the family, but Amiko kept walking with me.

“Are you going somewhere?” I asked.

“I will buy a ticket. Help you get to Nagoya.”

“Oh, no. Please. I will be fine. Thank you so much for helping me and letting me spend time with your family. You are all so wonderful.”

When I got home, Carl and I went to the swanky Matsuzakaya department store to buy a thank you present to mail to them.

My 38 Japanese words did not serve us well, but Mr. Yamamoto was delighted to use his limited English.

7400 Abercorn St. Suite 704 (912) 691-0381

I thought Carl was joking when he led me to a fancy display of American products like Tide and Campbell’s soups, but he said these were the rage. I selected a six-pack of Del Monte pears that had been carefully nestled in a gift box full of decorative straw and golden tissue paper as if the cans were as delicate as fresh Harry & David Royal Riviera pears.

“It’s also good manners to include the shopping bag to show where the present is from, and this one’s their version of a Tiffany bag,” he added.

Perfect. A precious gift for a precious experience.

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Benito’s first bakery that stands today as a staple to the village of La Entrada.

ORGANIC

SERIES Daniel Chavarria

San Salvador, El Salvador

There are places in the world filled with magic, where time seems to stop. Places where donkeys and pigs roam the streets, the signs are hand painted and hung crookedly and the pickup trucks are old. Places where the people are short and dark and the roads are sometimes washed out.

Places of story and myth, where old men sit on their porches talking to their dogs and old ladies go to church just to gossip while children play soccer in the street, shoeless. Places abandoned by time and forgotten by reality.

ORGANIC SERIES brownies. His shack grew into a concrete dwelling that still stands today, painted La Entrada is not the best town in the a light aqua green, with two murals, one world; it overlooks a rocky point that bearing a smiling Benito and his dog, borders E-15, a rocky point with hardly and the caption “Los Mejores Pasteles a beach. La Entrada has four stores, forty del Mundo.”² The other, a pastry mural houses and sixty dogs. It is the last town depicting the many pies he sells, sort of an before the Cinco Cerros, the five rainforest elementary menu up on the wall for those clad hills that separate Santa Elena from too drunk to speak. It is customary to see Manabi¹. When it is raining La Entrada is village drunks walk up to this wall and point the saddest town in the world, but when at their pastry of choice before collapsing the weather is nice, and you can see the sun into the plastic chairs. shining on the sea, and the You hardly see Benito infinity of the green horizon, Benito became anymore; and only five years it isn’t so bad. ago it was he who sold you known for his La Entrada is world his delicious strawberry renowned for the simple cheesecakes and five-layer heavenly pies and reason that one of its four made to-die-for crusts. He Death-by-Chocolate stores is the best bakery on from fresh cacao beans and the Ecuadorian coast. homemade batter. Now it is worked there for La Pasteleria Benito was son or nephew who sells six years, and then, his set up ten years ago by the the passion fruit pies, pear and sous-chef of Guayaquil’s first suddenly, he left. apple cobblers, crème brulèe five star hotel, El Oro Verde. and flan with bits of fruit. His A La Entrada native, Benito top sellers include key lime left the coast in search of fame and fortune, pie made from scratch everyday and his and better pay than what he made picking caramel cake that should be enjoyed with a bananas in the fields. He found himself glass of milk. Running at $1.50 a slice and cleaning plates in the port city’s fanciest $10 per pie it is hard not to give Benito a hotel. Over the years he climbed the kitchen visit every time we are in the area. Enjoying ladders, largely due to his home-style one of the few culinary phenomena of the cooking and mastery of the fish arts, and Ecuadorian coast, we always eat standing became the second in command in the Oro up, staring at the choppy seas at the rocky Verde’s kitchen. point that is La Entrada.

There he learned the secrets of pie making from his French boss, one of ¹ Ecuadorian States; Santa Elena is the Guayaquil’s finest bakers. Benito became country’s newest state, declaring itself known for his heavenly pies and to-die-for independent from the Guayas State in crusts. He worked there for six years, and December 2007 then, suddenly, he left. ² The Best Pies in the World It is unknown why Benito left the Oro Verde. Some say it was a woman, others say URBANICA it was the French head chef ’s jealousy of Benito’s skill and disdain for dark skinned Every city has its hidden little places, indigenous people from the coast. But places that only a local can tell you about, Benito found himself back at La Entrada that have been around for as long as anyone staring at the sea, deciding what to do with can remember. Places that never leave you. his life.

He then turned around, turning his back AQUI ES YULAN to the sea and built a ramshackle shack across the street that grew to become his The first time I went to Yulan the sun first bakery. was about to come out, and we were sitting He started selling his famous lemon on the sidewalk smoking cigarettes. We meringue pie, and cheap yet succulent had just come from our friend’s graduation

and were still in black ties, looking as haggard and slept in as the bums sleeping on cardboard around the corner, but we weren’t drooling. Gringo was sprawled out in his car, bad salsa music pouring from his open door.

Andrea was wearing my blazer (it was a cold morning) and Fito was shoeless, dancing in the street. Fernando was outside Yulan asking the owner when she would open her doors. We could smell the sausage from the street. It opened at six, but she was debating whether to serve us or not, as we were obviously drunk. But she let us in once Andrea gave her some granddaughter eyes.

Yulan is your typical downtown restaurant; like walking into your grandmother’s dining room. Blue wooden tables shrouded in cheap vinyl tablecloths, cluttered by salt, pepper and two types of hot sauce: the Chinese bottled kind and local homemade sauce explosion placed in a bowl at the center of every table. The chairs are typical plastic chairs for birthdays or outside patios and will crumble if you lean back.

Yulan only has one dish: Caldo de Salchicha, a stew that was made less than an hour ago with pig’s blood, beans, cilantro, morcilla, blood sausage, link sausage, pulled pork, rice, onions, tomatoes and other sausage products. The stew is a rare urban delicacy, and as delicious as a soup can get. It is served from a pot that has made this place a legend, and used to feed the Ecuadorian military. The pot is so big I wondered if it doubled as a bath tub.

Aqui es Yulan¹ is a Guayaquilean institution, a place whose lines reach two blocks at lunchtime. It’s a place often frequented by mayors, presidents and their bodyguards, sports stars, bus drivers, hookers and priests. And here we are at 6 a.m beating the 11 o’clock rush.

The whole city comes here to enjoy their famous Caldo de Salchicha. They have for thirty years and will do so for many more. ¹ ‘Aqui es Yulan’ is the official name, but everybody knows it as Yulan or Yulan’s

DISTRICT QUARTERLY FALL 2009

PASTELERIA BENITO

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