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Last year, sensing that the Christmas season might be the last one where all the family would be in one place, I got a bit carried away.
Abandoning prudence, I declared an open house and set about cooking on an unprecedented scale. In advance, I made more than 200 pastelles with various fillings, a couple dozen boozy black cakes, and around 300 cookies.
On the appointed day, there was a ridiculous spread of maybe a dozen dishes, including vegan and vegetarian options. It turned out to be a delightful madhouse and in hindsight, I am happy I took the plunge.
I doubt I will ever do it again.
This year, with everyone scattered, I have no extravagant plans. I ordered a wee black cake from Franka Philip because Marlon Rouse’s photos were so enticing, and you can’t ever go wrong with one of Franka’s concoctions. I have no cookie ambitions, though I did soak some golden raisins in beer to see how they would fare, just in case.
But I decided to do a small batch of pastelles. My daughter arrived in the midst of it and I roped her in to encase the banana-leaf packages in foil. Naturally, she tasted one straight from the pot.
Mmmm, she said, delicious, though it’s not authentic. (I’d omitted raisins, olives and capers because of her.)
I laughed and asked her what she meant by authentic. It was something I have been meaning to write about in the context of cuisine, so her choice of word intrigued me.
If you look at as many documentaries and cooking shows as I do, you will know that it is one of the most common words people use to describe a dish they enjoy.
The online dictionary, Merriam-Webster, has dubbed it the word of the year for 2023—on account of the number of times it had been searched. It noted that the word was often linked with expressions of identity, such as cuisine, and generally means “not false or imitation”.
So what do people mean when they call a dish authentic? I’ve long pondered that question, trying to decipher the elements that they think render it a true representation.
It might be that they discern the absence of processed ingredients; you know, the bouillon cubes and powdered and bottled herbs and spices, the canned soups.
It’s not difficult to tell when fresh herbs and spices tickle a pot. It is a subtle elevation that in its own remarkable way takes one back to the cherished meals from a bygone time that were constructed with nature’s bounty.
Maybe that’s what people mean when they say a dish is authentic. Maybe it’s a reaction to eating food that was made from actual food. The produce that you can recognise from a garden; the meat that resembles its living donor; the herbs with their special aromas; they all have a direct link to earth, water and sunlight.
Every dish has its history that is based primarily on the food that was available in a particular region. You ate what was available nearby.
Even within one country, that varied depending on the region. Coastal villages had different fare from inland towns, or hilly terrain. People ate what they produced, and they learned methods of preservation to manage seasonal changes.
Enjoy!
Yet, although a dish may have its origins in one geographical space, it could never be the same even when it is cooked in that same locale. Every cook would bring their particular preference and technique to it.
For instance, take our beloved pelau. There is a basic method to preparing it—the browning of the meat, the pigeon peas and rice with the various herbs. But no two pelaus are the same, unless they are being prepared according to one recipe. But even that recipe will be specific to the person who created it.
Each pelau is subject to an endless array of variations. Some want a host of vegetables, some like sappy rice, others prefer it grainy; dried peas instead of fresh, coconut milk or stock; chicken, beef, pork or vegetarian. (I remember Anu Lakhan’s lovely recipe that was vegetarian, using mushrooms.)
We could go on and on doing it this way or that, depending on mood or the ingredients at hand, but in the end, which is to be called authentic?
I don’t mean to be rude, but in many cooking shows where the tasters are American, they make it a point of declaring a dish authentic. They are usually responding to cuisine that is fairly unfamiliar, dishes with origins from far outside their privileged shores.
How do they arrive at their judgments?
We know that most foods are transformed once they arrive at a new location. They are modified to suit the tastes of the locals. Think of the proliferation of restaurants offering what is called Chinese food (or any other, for that matter)—these dishes have been transformed to please us.
Have you ever witnessed the proclivity of Trinis to douse everybody’s cuisine with ketchup and pepper sauce?
With the seasonal appearance of sorrel, everyone has their version of how it’s made. Fresh sorrel, painstakingly de-seeded and boiled with a range of spices, often sweetened out of its mind—is that more authentic than using dried sorrel?
(Copyright Caribbean and Co)
I think of meals being done in a certain style, rather than question their authenticity. Who’s to say?
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Vaneisa Baksh is a columnist with the Trinidad Express, an editor and a cricket historian. She is the author of a biography of Sir Frank Worrell.
