I stand accused
of loving a cuisine
while refusing to accept several of its ingredients.
I have pleaded guilty to the appetite.
I contest the jurisdiction of the court.
The prosecution calls this hypocrisy.
I call it having a palate.
The judge asks whether I understand the seriousness of the charges.
I say I do.
He asks whether I have anything to say in my defence.
I say I would prefer to see the menu first.
The court calls for order.
I ask whether that is a starter.
The judge warns me that humour will not be entertained.
I ask whether that includes the food.
He asks me to show some respect for the institution.
I say I have always respected institutions.
I simply prefer not to consume all their constituents.
The prosecution begins.
EXHIBIT A. RAW BREAD.
I have been known to eat bread
without toasting, grilling, roasting
or otherwise introducing it to the concept of personal development.
I apply sauce on it undone.
And eat.
The prosecution submits that this is not a meal.
It is a culinary first draft that has somehow made it past the editor.
I maintain that bread is bread,
regardless of whether it has fulfilled its potential.
The prosecution asks whether I would eat a raw potato.
I say no.
It asks why.
I say I have standards.
The court records the first contradiction.
I object to the word contradiction.
The judge asks on what grounds.
I say the bread has done nothing wrong.
The judge says that is not a ground.
I say neither is a potato.
The objection is overruled.
EXHIBIT B. RICE.
I prefer my rice overcooked.
Not soft. Not fluffy. Not even mushy.
I want the grains to surrender their individual identities,
dissolve their borders
and enter into a permanent state of collective governance.
I want rice that has abandoned the idea of being separate.
Rice that has seen individualism, considered the evidence, and found it exhausting.
The prosecution calls this culinary negligence.
I call it consistency.
It asks whether I believe every grain should be allowed to retain its individuality.
I say not in my kitchen.
The court records the second contradiction.
I ask whether the court has ever tried eating individual grains of rice with a spoon.
The judge tells me to answer the questions.
I ask whether he has any.
EXHIBIT C. POTATOES.
I love steak.
I have no philosophical objection
to a piece of animal being served
with its internal geography still visible.
I do, however, object to mashed potatoes.
In fact, potatoes in any form really.
The only exception is French fries.
Here, I demand an almost unreasonable degree of crispness.
I want potatoes fried
until their agricultural origins become a disputed historical claim.
A French fry should not bend.
It should not yield.
It should have the structural integrity of a minor construction project.
The prosecution asks
whether I consider this a reasonable expectation of a vegetable.
I say I consider it a reasonable expectation of a French fry.
It asks whether the potato has been informed of this distinction.
I say the potato has had enough time to figure it out.
The court records the third contradiction.
I ask whether a court can convict a man for having a preferred texture.
The judge says it can convict him for contempt.
I ask whether that comes with fries.
The judge says no.
I ask whether that is a matter of principle or a budgetary constraint.
The judge calls for order.
I am beginning to suspect that the court has a very limited menu.
The prosecution rests.
I ask whether it has anything else.
It says Indian Chinese.
I say I was afraid of that.
I love Indian Chinese.
Not casually.
Not occasionally.
I am emotionally, intellectually
and possibly matrimonially invested.
I have memorised their menus
with the devotion of a man
preparing for a civilisational collapse.
My relationship with the cuisine is serious.
My relationship with its ingredients is subject to terms and conditions.
Until the garlic arrives.
I object to solid garlic.
I also object to capsicum.
Bell peppers, in any of their various aliases, disguises or geographical identities, are equally unwelcome.
I have no objection to these ingredients contributing to the flavour.
I simply object to their physical presence.
I welcome their labour but not their personhood.
Their contribution but not their participation.
I want the benefits of a coalition government
without having to look at the coalition partners.
The prosecution calls this hypocrisy.
I call it a special request.
The prosecution asks
whether I would like a cuisine to accommodate my preferences.
I say yes.
It asks whether I would like that cuisine to remain authentic while doing so.
I say yes.
It asks whether I understand the problem.
I say I understand the menu.
The judge asks whether I understand the meaning of authenticity.
I say I understand the meaning of hunger.
He says that is not an answer.
I say it has always been a more persuasive argument.
The prosecution submits that Indian Chinese,
in its authentic form,
contains ingredients I find objectionable.
I ask the prosecution to define authentic.
It says authentic means authentic.
I ask whether this is a culinary definition or a circular argument.
The judge says the question is irrelevant.
I ask whether circular arguments are permitted
in a court that keeps going around in circles.
The judge calls for a recess.
During the recess, I make my case.
Indian Chinese is a negotiation
between cultures, ingredients, techniques, migrations and appetites.
It travelled. It adapted. It improvised.
It acquired a new identity in a different country.
It did not remain untouched by the journey.
It did not arrive with its original paperwork intact.
It became something else without necessarily ceasing to be itself.
We call it Indian Chinese.
Two identities sharing a hyphen,
neither particularly interested
in asking the other for permission.
And now the prosecution would like to establish that this cuisine,
which has survived generations of reinvention,
must be protected from a man who doesn't want to eat a piece of capsicum.
I submit that this is a disproportionate response.
The prosecution insists that I am tampering with tradition.
I ask whether tradition has ever been anything
other than the accumulated record of people
tampering with what came before them.
The judge asks me to stop making history sound like a cooking experiment.
I ask whether he has ever eaten a samosa with ketchup.
He asks what that has to do with the case.
I say I am establishing precedent.
He calls for tea.
The judge orders tea.
Milk. Sugar.
Two biscuits.
He dips one into the tea.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
The biscuit loses structural integrity and collapses into the cup.
I request that this be entered into evidence.
The judge declines.
I ask whether the biscuit was consulted
before its composition was altered.
He says biscuits do not have rights.
I ask whether vegetables do.
He says I am not helping my case.
I say I haven't been helping the case of vegetables either.
The judge says that is precisely the problem.
The prosecution calls its witness.
A self-described culinary traditionalist.
The witness claims to appreciate authentic Italian food.
He orders pineapple on his pizza.
The prosecution asks
whether he considers pineapple
an appropriate addition to a traditional pizza.
The witness says he likes it.
It asks whether he understands
that certain ingredients are not traditionally associated with the dish.
The witness says he doesn't see the problem.
It asks whether he would accept the same liberties
with a traditional Indian dish.
The witness says that would be different.
I ask how.
He says he knows what he likes.
I ask whether this principle applies universally.
He says obviously.
I ask whether it applies to me.
He says obviously not.
I ask whether he would care to explain the distinction.
He says he doesn't have to explain his preferences.
I say neither do I.
The witness is dismissed.
I am pleased with the proceedings.
For the first time that afternoon,
somebody has made an argument I can agree with.
The prosecution objects to my interpretation.
The judge sustains the objection.
I ask on what grounds.
He says the objection is sustained.
I say that is not a ground.
He says it is now.
I ask whether the court is familiar with the concept of precedent.
He says yes.
I ask whether it intends to follow any.
He says that is entirely at the discretion of the court.
I say I see.
Discretion is a wonderful thing.
It allows the powerful to have preferences
without having to call them that.
The judge tells me not to editorialise.
I tell him I thought that was what the court was for.
He says the court is not interested
in turning a simple food preference
into an existential crisis.
I say that is unfortunate.
It appears to be the only thing on the menu.
The judge has had enough.
He offers himself tea.
The stenographer stops typing.
The judge asks why.
The stenographer says he isn't sure
which parts of the proceedings
are supposed to be entered into the record.
The judge says everything relevant.
The stenographer asks who determines relevance.
The judge says the court does.
The stenographer asks whether the court's own contradictions are relevant.
The judge asks who hired him.
The stenographer says the court did.
The judge asks whether he is aware that his employment can be terminated.
The stenographer puts down his pen.
I ask whether this is an official adjournment or an unofficial disappearance.
Nobody answers.
The prosecution requests an immediate adjournment.
I request that the court examine its own constitution.
The court refuses.
I ask whether it is opposed to constitutional amendments.
The court says it is not.
I ask whether it would consider an amendment
to accommodate my dietary preferences.
The court says absolutely not.
I ask why.
The court says because some things must be preserved.
I ask whether it has ever considered
that preservation and preference might be two different things.
The judge says the court has heard enough.
The court retires to deliberate.
It returns with no verdict.
The official reason is a lack of judicial consensus.
The unofficial reason is that
nobody can establish
whether the court is defending culinary tradition
or simply protecting its own right to have things its way.
The proceedings are adjourned indefinitely.
I am free to leave.
I don't.
I am waiting for my order.
Chilli chicken.
Noodles.
Extra sauce.
No solid garlic.
No capsicum.
The waiter returns.
"The chef says he can prepare it without capsicum, but it won't be authentic."
I ask whether the chef has ever made it that way before.
The waiter says no.
I ask whether the chef has ever made it without garlic.
The waiter says no.
I ask whether the chef has ever made it exactly the way I want it.
The waiter says no.
I smile.
"Then perhaps neither of us knows what we're talking about."
The food arrives.
I begin eating.
A piece of capsicum turns up in the noodles.
I pick it out.
Then another. And another.
The waiter watches.
"Would you like us to remake it?"
"No. It's fine."
"But you're removing all the capsicum."
"Yes."
"Then why not ask the chef to make it without?"
I look at him.
"I don't believe in wasting food,..."
I remove another piece.
"..just ingredients."
