10 Reasons To Love Hating Cilantro, Number 10: The Esoteric Company

As 2008 nears end, I've set up an ambitious plan to conclude the year with my top 10 reasons to love hating cilantro. Today: The Esoteric Company

With my favorite shows now off the air on HBO (Sopranos, Six Feet Under) or in off-season (Big Love), I've found the need to dig deep into the realm of shows I didn't watch when they originally aired but can easily score for free online, on-demand.

The Grey's Anatomy period was a sad, but short, experiment in this genre: Emergency, patient has an explosive lodged in his arm and Dr. Meredith Grey must hold it place or everyone will die!--but there have been more rewarding examples. Friday Night Lights was pure joy and Arrested Development requires no further lauding than it's already received--that show's hilarious. But the O.C., co-starring Peter Gallager and his eyebrows (to off-quote Sarah Vowell) is a current guilty favorite. Like any self-respecting O.C. viewer, I watch not for Ryan and Marisa, but for Seth Cohen and his delicious adolescent, but preternatural brand of sarcasm.

No matter how stupid any episode's given plot, no matter how much the writers insist on giving pretty but retarded at acting Mischa Barton lines, Seth Cohen gets you through and keeps you coming back.

But of course there are other characters on The O.C., like the requisite parents in any high school primetime soap, and less requisite ones like the parents of the requisite parents--enter Caleb Nichol, father to Seth Cohen's mother, WASPY but witty Kirsten.

A mere 24 episodes into the first season--dammit I just learned Caleb dies in the second season, beware, the internet will tell you everything!--I can tell you that Caleb's deep distaste for cilantro has come up in not one but two episodes. In both cases, this hate arises as Kirsten scrambles to prepare one kind of high-society party or other for her difficult tycoon of a dad. "No no, dad can't take cilantro" she warns the cooks and caterers as if this pickiness were the very proof anyone watching needed that Caleb really is a powerful, particular man. "He'll notice even the slightest amount," she continues.

In 2003 when the show first aired, the season in question, season 1, stretched to May of '04, cilantro had considerably less notoriety. The two leading blogs in cilantro hate, this one and that other one didn't even exist! People weren't as into food yet, though they were getting there, and I think this choice of herb (also suprisingly referenced in My So-Called Life) was meant to show just how classy yet have-it-his-way Caleb was, may he rest in peace (Though I really suspect one of the writers hates cilantro, but that's neither here nor there).

Well, if Newport Beach's richest, most powerful man is in my club of hate, I can't quite say why, but I tell you I'm thrilled to have him, may he rest in peace. There's a kind of existential allegiance in those moments, when you realize that fictional or not, there are people you have deep, deep connections to (in this case hating cilantro but it could be something less meaningful I suppose) that you never would have known about, had it not randomly come up.

I like to think there will be a time in my life when someone, perhaps a real life Orange County real estate mogul, perhaps a holy rollin' Republican evangalist, and I will share a special bond when we realize, over passed canapes, that we share at least one thing, and because of that one thing, even if we don't see eye-to-eye on everything, a spoken or unspoken understanding and connection otherwise lost will have been shared.

But until this person rears his hummer-driving head, it's me, Caleb Nichol and the countless unknown of you out there...

The Hate Lives On and Paris Too!

It appears I have "fans," and these fans, if you will, have grown agree with me, disappointed, nonplussed.

Well, we can't have that, can we?

I remember the feeling, when a certain friend of mine named James had quit writing in his always entertaining blog, I went through all, not some, of the 5 stages of grief. To review, they are: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance. I have accepted that my friend James's "career" has replaced his "blog" (indeed he did just help to elect our new president--an achievement that's sheer awesomeness is ironic retort-proof, an achievement in its own right), but I cannot accept that mine (career) has replaced mine (blog). (It's funny, I was complaining to my boyfriend how much David Foster Wallace's () annoyed me, and yet...) Please loyal fans, go through but 4 stages of grief, rest on your depressive laurels and be ready for what I have to say next--I'm back and so too is my deep, serious hate of cilantro.

Perhaps an anecdote is in order.

Recently, in the blogless month of October, I took my first excursion abroad. I went to Paris, which is apparently the most touristed place in the world. Who knew? Apparently my friend's father who was nice enough to share his apartment with us for a week, apparently he knew, pretty awesome.

What would stand out to many in Paris is how awesome the food is, and certainly this was not lost on me. Practically the entire purpose of my trip was to go to Paris, eat croissant and not check my email for 9 days. On all accounts, the trip was a success. But there is more to Paris than croissant of course--there are also macaroons (the best are at Pierre Herme), pan au chocolat, steak frites, everything in the world you could ever want with ham and cheese (omelet, croque monsieur, sandwich mixed, quiche, dear god it's so good), and the list goes on. Of course there's the cafe and the champagne and the wine and the wonderful fact that to imbibe is to live, to not hold your liquor a little is ok, and to not hold it a lot is just, well, it's gauche, ok.

But it's what Paris is not, of course, that makes it awesome. Paris is not a place one goes to feast on cilantro, though it disappointingly if not completely predictably is now present in the newer, nicer restaurants, the kind that are just like the newer nicer restaurants in New York except the menus are in French and the people are too. Since all the fancy New York places are run by chefs from France, well, it's like buying Chanel shoes in Paris--sure you can, but what's the fucking point? Which is to take nothing away from probably the best meal I've ever had and certainly the most expensive, the 12+ course affair at Pierre Gagnaire--Yummo! It was a pleasure to explain in broken French, oh who am I kidding, it was in English, when the waiter asked:

"Do you have any dietary restrictions, things you won't eat, etc.?"
"Just hold the cilantro, please."
"But you don't have a problem with say foie gras, or frog legs or lightly poached oysters?"
"God know, what do I look like a freak?"
"Thank you madam, Chef will be most happy to prepare your meal sans cilantro"
"Merci monsieur."

And so the meal was divine and, my friend Margaret did have a course featuring cilantro, while mine sported sorrel--cilantro haters really do win sometimes.

But it isn't just the Michelin 3-stars that know how to cater to cilantro hate, it's more importantly the bistros, the cafes, the brasseries (the real French food if you ask me) where you don't even have to ask Chef to prepare you a special course, there simply isn't any of the stuff in the house to begin with. So thank you Pierre, thank you nameless cafe and thank you Paris for nine days without an email, without a worry and without a trace of cilantro.

Verdict: Cilantro Guilty

I hate cilantro is not a performative statement. Saying it doesn't make it true. Wittgenstein would disagree with me here, but I hated it before I had words for it--the hate is stronger than even the words to describe it.

But there are other phrases that are performative: I do and I bet you come to mind, but so does another--Guilty.

My stint, which started today and will end I don't know when, as a duteous Brooklyn potential juror has got me thinking about all kinds of words: objectivity, (don't believe in it) judgment, (don't like it) guilty, (gross--do you know anything about the prison system? did you watch the OJ trial?) innocent (we're all guilty, did you read the Brother's K?)--words I have problems with, but it's not the words, it's what they represent. These are judicial words. Words meant to mean something concrete, serious and true. Words that weigh. Words that enable judgment. But, you know, that's just not how I feel about things.

When I say I love you, I know I'm saying the truth, not because it applies to certain feelings but precisely for the opposite reason, it just feels true. Maybe expressing that I would need to feel someone was guilty would get me out of jury duty. They like to tell you to pay attention to the facts of the case, to the evidence and then ask asinine questions like:

"Are you capable, Miss [I scream not married] Hollingsworth, of paying attention to the facts?"
"Sure," I respond.

"Have you prejudged this case Miss Hollingsworth?"
"No, but, I have, you know, opinions..."
"Oh, yes of course and I'd urge you to hold out on sharing those... but of course you have opinions as you say.."
"Yup"
"But you haven't judged"
"No, I don't know how I'd rule at this point" (laughs)

and I'm wondering if I have a shot in hell of getting on this jury (I find out tomorrow). What's weird is that I'm kinda into it. It's such a specific experience. They didn't say we couldn't talk about it. They probably should have? Anyway, it's a small case and the defendant is that city of New York. God damn it all to hell. I love New York--the city of taxes, taxes that pay me to do jury duty, taxes that pay the plaintiff for whatever the fuck happened to her and is New York's fault (or is it?!) Taxes! Love them. Suck it Sara Palin. I made $40 today serving my country! (though I guess you have to be tortured as a POW to get the full, authentic serving your country experience).

Well, anyway, whatever happens, probably won't end with me Law & Ordering someone into a guilty verdict (I'd hang that jury so fast if prison were involved). I don't make a lot of performative statements. Guess I prefer to take it in, observe stuff, then write stuff. I hate cilantro: it's easy to say, to write because it's specific, it's true (if we agree hate is a strongly negative feeling toward a thing) and I don't have those kinds of dogmatic, strong, true feelings about things like, oh, whether someone is guilty or not, but believe me it's very hard to explain to an ambulance-chasing attorney and his apathetic defense counterpart that all these feelings of ambivalence somehow tie into my hate of cilantro. It just doesn't roll off the tongue.

Anchovies, Beef Heart and Cilantro

You'll please pardon my linguistic atrophy--it's been awhile.

They say memory isn't (please, someone, explain to me why "isn't" isn't in my firefox dictionary--y'all download 3.0?--readers, so much has happened) so reliable, so it's going to require a leap of faith for you to believe my account of a dinner a fortnight past, but, suffice it to say, I have a preternatural memory, especially for all-things involving cilantro.

One of my good friends is leaving New York to work for the Obama campaign. This is a trend a lot of my friends are partaking in--not the work for Obama thing, the leave New York (me) thing. First there was good friend who moved to Cairo, then there was other good friend moving to Argentina in two months (I won't mention her name in the event her employers are reading--surprise!!) and then this guy, my best guy friend that isn't my boyfriend in the whole state of New York--moving.

Well, that's neither here nor there except that we had a sort-of goodbye dinner together. As I said, it's been a couple of weeks (I have, a few weeks ago, taken a real grownup job that has been a bit needy time-wise). We went to Marlow & Sons. This is a restaurant I can't help but love despite the fact that hipsters love it too--this is true of a lot of things in Williamsburg. Great oysters. The same menu of 10 things everyday, except the way each is prepared changes with what's in season and presumably the chef's whim. I've never had anything I didn't really like there.

That was, at least, until a couple weeks ago (God, I should write murder mysteries--you didn't know where this was going, did you?) when we ordered the beef heart. I'm basically of one mind when it comes to offal: I'll try it. I don't always like it, but I often do, and, you know, I'm out to eat, so, let's, like, try something new. Especially when I'm with a group of experimenters, as I often am--I like to just order weird shit, especially when I'm in good hands like at M & S.

I asked the waiter how the heart on anchovy crostini was and he responded with something like: "Oh my hold fucking christ it is so good you won't believe it." While bordering on the too-much enthusiasm in a response category, it seemed clear his answer was an endorsement, and so we ordered it. I said something snarky like "Wow, your chef really went for it with the anchovy AND the heart, huh?" He knew what I was saying. Bold. Real bold.

My review of the heart is this: it was fine. I wouldn't eat it every day. I wouldn't spit it out. It was just fine. I'd never had heart before and have no source of comparison. It seemed like it was probably cooked properly, it was just sort of OK. The anchovies were a bit much (I find they almost always are unless they're used where they belong--in caesar salad dressing or as a flavoring in some sauce or dip or other kind of condiment situation) and didn't help things out--they took things from fine, to less-than-fine. What changed things dramatically was the accoutrement. I've never seen such an egregious affront to my cilantro hate, maybe ever.

With the thinly sliced heart and anchovy crostini was a green salad of what looked to be parsley tossed in a very light vinaigrette. Of course, as any good cilantro hater would, I asked (aloud) if it could be, was it possible, could it be cilantro? I didn't really think it was--who would do such a thing? But wouldn't you know it? An absolutely mammoth pile of cilantro was just lying there nearly naked, adorned by nothing more than some fresh lemon, a little olive oil, some salt, some pepper and my rage, contempt and nonplus.

This was no normal cilantro. No, this was local, organic, seasonal, probably god-damn heirloom cilantro. In other words, it tasted like the Platonic ideal of cilantro, which is to say the Platonic ideal of gross. I promptly told my waiter, relating the same lesson I will take with me from the experience: When a chef is bold enough to pair beef heart with anchovy, he's not going to think twice about serving it with a heaping pile of cilantro--and you're a fool to think otherwise.

Independence (from Cilantro) Day

As a precocious, egomaniacal kid, the fireworks meant a lot to me growing up. See, they would happen on the 4th of July, while my birthday is on the 12th of July, (and I always used that syntax to describe my birthday, being in addition to precocious and egomaniacal, patriotic in the precise way of a nuance-free 5-year-old) and my recollection is that my father would tell me every year the grand fireworks were part of my birthday celebration, not so much that they were for me but that they were somehow part of the Erin Hollingsworth birthday gestalt, if you will.

So it's in this context that I came to know fireworks, Independence Day, the whole thing; America's birthday and mine are, in my mind, intrinsically linked. Of course, as I've grown older I've realized this isn't strictly true, but one doesn't easily shake-off childhood associations. This association has also become more disturbing as each year of age brings another year of Bush--another year of mitigated freedom. The fireworks, invented by the Chinese, are less magical and more ironic--China kicking our economic asses and everything. But as we grow older, we find new ways to enjoy things we used to, or we probably should try.

And so it is that I greatly look forward to this weekend's festivities, which awesomely will be full of friends old and new, and I'm thinking cilantro-free! You don't get more Americana than 4th of July food: potato salad, BBQ, hot dogs, baked beans, watermelon, (with salt if you have any reverence to either the fruit or your Midwestern roots) and domestic macrobrews. And when and if Americana is overtaken by cilantro, well, the war against gross is lost. Not on my watch America!

Channeling My Inner-Punk

Sometimes things like our jobs, personal relationships, and constant inner-monologues get in the way of what really matters: blogging. Dear readers, I apologize and will not soon let you down again.

The other night I had dinner, a subtle euphemism for blog fodder, with a good friend, her visiting-New York Latin lover (who loves being called that) and my, what I think it is now officially safe to call him, boyfriend. We went to a place called Graffiti, a joy of a dining experience if you're in the area and are open to not-so-much weird food, as much as weird food combinations, most of which work. From the moment the sweet watermelon balanced perfectly with the salty feta, and cool mint hit my impatient mouth...just kidding--I hate that kind of food writing: the watermelon with feta and mint sorbet tasted awesome. So did a lot of other things.

The chef, Jehangir Mehta, earned accolades as a pastry chef at Jean Georges and some other places that also matter, as it were. We met him quickly (the restaurant is very small) and not sure of what to choose, asked him if he would just send out some stuff. "Allergies, restrictions?," he appropriately and kindly inquired. "I hate cilantro," I said, but added: "But I know you're rocking the Asian thing and I wouldn't want to destroy the integrity of your cuisine; let's keep dishes that feature cilantro to a minimum, but do what you must do." And so he sent lots of stuff out (Graffiti is a small plates concept) and I was impressed that foie gras made the cut; there are people who wouldn't have been pleased with the assumption involved. I was very pleased.

A pleasant chickpea flour-crusted skate arrived somewhere in the middle of our degustation. What it was served with I don't really remember except that it tasted good. And also Mehta, bless his heart, brought the cilantro-cumin yogurt on the side. "Mostly it's cumin," he suggested, and rightly so. Some waiters will tell you that you won't really notice the cilantro. This really pisses me off. I will notice the cilantro, while you will not. See, we're different people with different tongues and everything. (It's like telling a die-hard right-to-lifer not to sweat the 'morning after pill': it's just a hypothetical, mini abortion, you see) But Mehta was right. Notice the cilantro? Yeah, cuz there was cilantro in it. But, and I'm getting more and more freaked out by this, I didn't hate it.



I attribute this largely to context. Mehta was explaining the restaurant concept to my ever-inquisitive, ever-gregarious boyfriend using words like "our living room," "inviting," "eclectic," and phrases like "graffiti is an international art and our cuisine is international" to explain the restaurant's name. But when you name a thing a thing, (a restaurant, a movie, a book, what have you) while your intention and inspiration is valid and, perhaps, interesting or amusing, the audience--diners in this case--gets to interpret the name how they want. I think graffiti and I think punk, as in the punk "Fuck you" or rather "Fuck the man" or rather "Fuck everyone" attitude. Mehta certainly doesn't have that attitude but his cuisine's irreverence toward the status quo, toward tired flavors, toward the stuffiness often associated with food as good (if not as inventive) is very punk indeed (by the way, Mehta has a fun quirk of saying "Thank you very much indeed," whenever you complement his food, or restaurant, which comes across as super genuine and hence super charming).

Anyway, I think because we had all signed up, so-to-speak, for this punk experience (I'm not sure pork-abstaining Latin Lover was ever informed he was eating pork), my palate was more willing to be assaulted than normal. I was so happy Mehta had taken the trouble to put it on the side, I figured I'd give it a taste. Cumin's a flavor I've come to really like, although I associate it with Rachel Ray, so I was cool with that, and because it's such a warm, if you will, flavor, the very little bit of (soapy) cilantro did cool it down. Now, I wouldn't say I liked it, because I didn't, but I appreciated it and said, for a moment "Fuck you" to my cilantro hate. But mostly I appreciated Mehta's relentless sweetness and attention to detail.

The skate with cumin-cilantro yogurt certainly didn't come anywhere close to converting me, but it was a nice reminder that cilantro lovers, while morons, can be very nice folks indeed.

Things That Suck More than Cilantro

1. 103 degree days in June (or any month)
2. culantro (more on this later)
3. Nazis