In the Devil's Garden: A Sinful History of Forbidden Food

by Stewart Lee Allen

  I looked at the man at my side, a priest actually, head of the entire complex, the Jain temple in Calcutta. He was a big-bellied fellow in a white lungi and skin-tight T-shirt. Jainism is the quintessential vegetarian religion, closely related to Buddhism, and I’d come to find out if it was true that followers wore gags to ensure they did not accidentally swallow a fly.

  “So Jains eat no animals of any kind,” I asked. “Not even fish?”

  “No fish,” said the priest. “Never.”

  “Only vegetables—like beans or potatoes.” A confused look crept across the priest’s face. I tried to remember the Hindi word for potato. “Alu,” I said. “Jain eat only alu and …”

  “No!” he bellowed, raising his hands in horror. “No alu!” You’d have thought I’d suggested he liked to eat little girls. “Jain no eat alu!”

  It turned out Jainism not only forbids the eating of animals but also considers most root vegetables taboo. Mere vegetarians, in their eyes, are little better than cannibals. The restrictions vary among the world’s 4 million Jainists, but it boils down to eating almost nothing but leafy greens. Potatoes are particularly naughty because they are a kind of root and therefore are akin to seeds. Figs are also a no-no because they contain so many seeds, as no doubt are kiwi, corn, and almost every other food that makes the vegetarians’ life occasionally bearable. The guiding principle behind these regulations is a belief in nigodas, or simple souls, which are beginning their long journey through endless reincarnations. They are thought to inhabit almost every fruit or vegetable, as well as substances like honey, hence the saying “He who eats honey commits a sin equal to murdering seven villages!”

  Despite what seems like a fanatical veneration of life, the Jains’ motivation is curiously anti-life, at least life on Earth. Every nigoda a Jain sucks down inhabits his or her body, and, because nigodas are young souls facing many earthly lives, their presence in the body increases the host’s earthly attachments. This makes attaining moksa, or Nirvana, much more difficult, forcing the Jain to return to Earth for yet another life. This thought is apparently so unappealing that Jains condone suicide if followers starve themselves to death and so empty themselves of nigodas—the real sin of suicide would be if they took the life of some not-ready-for-moksa-soul(s) that happened to be in their lower intestine. True believers follow these principles to insane degrees. The ground on which they walk is preswept to ensure nobody gets squashed underfoot. Sudden movement in the dark and on grass is forbidden for the same reason. Even defecation is limited to stony places so one can see what’s underneath, lest a nigoda inadvertently meet a truly unsavory end. The three-thousand-year-old cult is slowly disappearing, but you can still see their dust collectors in the streets of India. Look for an old man pulling a cart decorated with the Jain symbol of purity, the swastika. His job is to collect dust swept up by Jain housewives and store it in a sealed room for twenty years so the life forms in the dirt can die a natural death.

  The French Connection

  The main holdout in today’s free-range love fest between the diner and his dinner is the revered, the delicious, the divine, le foie gras. “The goose is nothing,” rhapsodizes Larousse Gastronomique , “but man has made of it a kind of living hothouse in which there grows the supreme fruit of gastronomy.” The gem in question is created by shoving enormous amounts of feed down a goose or duck’s arguably willing throat until its liver has doubled or tripled in size. Needless to say, animal-rights activists routinely protest the treatment as inhumane. Some countries have recently banned foie gras, and the European Union is currently considering passing a continent-wide ban on the practice of force-feeding. While farmers generally claim that the animals don’t mind—the French government even measured the endorphin levels of forcefed ducks to prove they love the process—many have seen the writing on the wall and are experimenting with herbal appetite stimulants and electrode probes to stimulate the brain center responsible for eating, thereby making the geese gorge themselves voluntarily.

  None of this, however, deters world-class cuisinier Jean-Louis Palladin, who happily became an international criminal for le Foie in the 1970s. The American government at the time had banned the importation of raw foie gras for fear that it would bring foreign diseases into the country. But Palladin, now chef at the acclaimed Napa Restaurant in Las Vegas, conspired with culinary legends like Jean Banchet of Chicago’s Le Francais and Andre Soltner of New York’s Lutece in a liver-smuggling cartel intent on addicting America. At some point one of the chefs even traveled the country cooking the contraband for gourmands, but the tour came to an abrupt halt when he accidentally burned down the mansion of a Texas wine collector.

  “It was the work of a very small handful of dedicated chefs,” says Michael Ginor, author of Foie Gras: A Passion. “They were among the first to bring true world class French cuisine to this country.”

  The most popular method of hiding the livers was to stick them down the gullets of monstrously large monkfish flown in from France; the last place most customs officials care to stick their arm. Palladin claims he used to slip about twenty of the jewels past federal customs inspectors each week. Although the clientele at his Jean-Louis Restaurant in D.C.’s Watergate Hotel included dozens of high-profile politicians, no one seemed to notice the federal offenses featured nightly. “We never put it on the printed menu, so there would be no evidence, you see?” explained Palladin. “It was only recited by the waiters, and besides, I am thinking the restaurant it was too expensive for the customs people to eat there.”

  Seared Foie Gras with

  Polenta and Mushroom Ragout,

  Port Reduction

  This concoction comes from Michael Ginor, owner of Hudson Valley Foie Gras. Be aware that foie gras’s high fat content, about 90 percent, means that overcooking can lead to disastrous results.

  FOR THE WILD MUSHROOM RAGOUT:

  1 tablespoon olive oil

  1 pound assorted mushrooms like shitake, chanterelle, portabello, trimmed and wiped clean

  1 shallot, diced

  2 tablespoons unsalted butter

  3⁄4 cup ruby port

  1⁄4 cup balsamic vinegar

  1 cup dark duck stock

  1 teaspoon fresh thyme

  1⁄2 teaspoon kosher salt

  1⁄4 teaspoon ground black pepper

  Heat a large skillet over medium heat. Add olive oil and heat. Add the mushrooms and shallot and toss. Add butter and cook until the mushrooms are golden and tender, about ten minutes. Remove from pan. Add port and balsamic vinegar and swirl around the pan. Continue cooking while scraping the bottom of the pan. Add duck stock, thyme, and salt and pepper, and simmer until reduced to a sauce like consistency, about ten minutes. Return the mushrooms to the pan and toss thoroughly. Set aside and keep warm.

  FOR THE CREAMY POLENTA:

  8 cups water

  2 teaspoons kosher salt

  2 cups stone-ground yellow cornmeal

  4 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature

  1 cup heavy cream

  1⁄2 cup grated Pecorino Romano cheese

  1⁄2 teaspoon black pepper, or to taste

  Bring water and salt to boil over high heat in a medium-size pot. Gradually pour in the cornmeal, whisking constantly. When the mixture begins to bubble, reduce the heat to medium-low and cook, stirring, until the cornmeal begins to thicken, about ten to fifteen minutes. Slowly whisk in the remaining ingredients. Continue cooking until the polenta just begins to pull away from the sides of the pan, about three to five minutes. Serve soft, as soon as it is ready.

  FOR THE FOIE GRAS:

  1 fresh foie gras, grade A (about 1 1⁄2 pounds)

  Kosher salt to taste

  Freshly ground black pepper to taste

  Devein the foie gras. Slice in 1⁄2-inch-thick slabs. Score one side of each slice in a crosshatch pattern with a sharp paring knife. Season both sides liberally with salt and pepper. Heat a dry skillet on medium-high heat. Add f
oie gras a few slices at a time and sear about forty-five seconds. Turn over and cook another forty-five seconds, until medium rare. Remove and drain on paper towel. Discard any rendered fat and repeat until all slices are cooked. Serve immediately, scored-side up.

  TO ASSEMBLE:

  Have mushroom ragout and polenta ready to serve. Sear foie gras according to instructions. Place approximately 3⁄4 cup of polenta in the center of a heated plate. Top with two slices of foie gras and ladle mushroom ragout around polenta. Sprinkle a few grains of sea salt on top of the foie gras and sprinkle some chopped chives hither and thither. Serve.

  Vicious Little Red Man

  When a gang of California cops tortured some environmentalists in 1997 by pouring pepper spray directly onto their eyeballs, a chili-savvy jurist should have had but one question: Was the officers’ spray pasilla-based or habanero-based? If it was the ultrahot habanero, the cops should have faced felony charges. But if it was just smoky-mild pasilla , well, a misdemeanor would do.

  Chili peppers have been associated with violence since Christopher Columbus met them in the New World five hundred years ago. He’d been hoping to make a fortune buying India’s precious black pepper. When he realized he’d failed to reach Asia, the wily Portuguese simply dubbed the brown-skinned Americans Indians, and their piquant spice chili pepper, to convince his backers they’d almost gotten to India and so ensure funding for the next expedition. The so-called Indians proved exceptionally generous with their spices. They literally threw them at the Europeans in the form of “chili bombs”— calabashes full of smoldering habaneros —that they tossed over Columbus’s fortress walls in an attempt to drive the foreigners out of their country. While not as theatrical as the medieval habit of tossing plague-infected cadavers into besieged cities, it was probably quite effective; burning chilies emit gases that make it almost impossible to breathe.

  The Native Americans (Mayans, Aztecs, etc.) have used chilies like this for ages. Mayans disciplined children by holding them over smoldering jalapeños, a child-rearing trick still popular among their descendants in the Mexican highlands. Ancient Panamanians strung them on their canoe prows to discourage marauding sharks. When the Incas of South America met Europeans in battle, they threw the invaders off balance by burning huge piles of rocoto chilies (so named because they’re potent enough to raise the dead) as the two armies collided. The more peaceful Hopi Indians simply placed rows of them on their doorsteps to keep out the white spirits. It didn’t work, but people today still hang chili crosses over cribs to ward off evil.

  The chili pepper’s violent nature derives from a tasteless chemical called capsaicin that’s so potent 1 part in 11 million causes a sizzling sensation. It’s akin to putting a lit match in your mouth, and biting into a well-endowed chili causes the body to produce a host of compounds designed to help us deal with danger or pain. The first high comes from adrenaline, a natural chemical that sometimes enables people to perform incredible acts of strength and violence. This rush is probably why fighting cocks in Mexico are forcefed chilies before they go into battle, and why the government of Peru banned hot-pepper sauce in their prisons. This initial buzz is followed by the release of endorphins produced by the body to dull pain. Chilies, however, produce only the illusion of heat by depleting nerve endings of something called Substance P. Since there’s no “real” pain to dull, the endorphins produce a quasi-narcotic bliss instead. This, in turn, leads to what Dr. Andrew Weil has called “mouth surfing,” where groups of gastro-masochistic degenerates spend their evenings going from pasilla to serrano to chipotle in search of ever-greater “rushes that enforces concentration and brings about a high state of consciousness” until, ears steaming, eyes popping out of their sockets and howling at the moon, they seek refuge in a cool, crisp Corona. It’s the equivalent of bungee jumping–chili scholars call it “constrained risk seeking”— and has been fetishized in hot-pepper sauces with names like Psycho Bitch, Mad Dog Inferno, Sudden Death (with ginseng!) and the classic Dave’s Insanity Sauce.

  A South American plant that produces short, intense rushes followed by a false sense of well-being. Sounds a bit like cocaine. You could even still blame the (Christopher) Colombian cartel. Perhaps it says something about our culture that although we have often outlawed foods that engender love or sloth, the one most closely associated with anger has only been banned once. Homicide Salsa, which featured a murder victim’s body outline on the label, was temporarily withdrawn from Chicago markets last year when a preacher objected that it glamorized violence.

  Insanity Popcorn

  The nastiest, the most viciously nerve-shredding torture is generally agreed to be Dave’s Insanity Sauce. It was Dave’s concoction that inspired the Guatemalan Insanity Sauce that gave Homer Simpson a psychedelic experience in the classic 1997 Simpsons episode. Dave’s also has the honor of having been banned from the National Fiery Food Show in Albuquerque, New Mexico (an elderly customer tried it and suffered a slight heart attack). So beware. Creator David Hirshkop, who wears a straitjacket to chili-sauce shows, suggests that you never use more than one drop at a time. For those with more reasonable appetites, there’s Temporary Insanity Sauce.

  To indulge in this masochist-machismo, first pop 3 ⁄4 cup of popcorn. While it’s exploding in the background, melt 2 tablespoons of butter with 1 tablespoon of brown sugar and 1 teaspoon of Lowry’s seasoning salt (or something similar) and exactly one drop of Dave’s Insanity Sauce. Melt slowly, don’t brown the butter. Pour on finished popcorn and toss to coat. Make sure you do not get any of this stuff in your eyes.

  Stinking Infidels

  The Queen of Sheba’s hometown is not much to look at nowadays. There’re lots of empty bottles of Bijan perfume. Goats munch blue plastic trash bags. Dust. It’s a dump, but three thousand years ago the town we now call Mar’ib (in Yemen) was the center of the world. Its temple to the Moon goddess was the most holy spot in Arabia. It also possessed the world’s first serious dam. But the true measure of Mar’ib’s sophistication was its stand against halitosis. You can read about it on some ancient bronze tablets in the Moon Temple, how the Moon goddess struck down two men with a terrible disease for the sin of having “prayed in Her temple after eating a meal of stinking plants and onions.”

  Their sin had been bad breath, in other words. Garlic breath to be precise, since the stinking plant mentioned is the Stinking Rose, which, along with its henchmen the onion and the leek, continues to divide the world into admirers and sworn enemies. Many office-bound Homo sapiens today still forgo the herb, lest they, like the two Arabs in the inscription, offend the powers that be—just replace the word gods with its workplace equivalent. “The gods, being imagined anthropomorphically, were held to be influenced by odor,” wrote Semitic scholar K. van der Toorn in his analysis of the Maribean tablets. “Thus one could please the god by burning fragrant materials as a ‘soothing odor’ … and caution not to offend the deity by foul breath could be the corollary.” The outrageousness of the duo’s breath can be measured by the fact that they had to perform the same penance as some men who’d been caught sodomizing each other on the temple’s grounds.

  The idea that bad breath and sodomy (in church) are comparable offenses might strike some as odd, but one shouldn’t underestimate how strongly people used to feel about stench. With reason. Tests indicate that people who lose their sense of smell or taste also tend to lose all sexual impulses, and over 90 percent suffer serious depression. The reason for this is hard to pin down, but these senses are the only ones that interact directly with the part of the brain that controls our most primitive emotions. They have a particularly strong relationship to anger and fear because of their original role as a means of alerting us to dangerous predators or poisonous food. Some human behaviorists even believe the way we express anger evolved largely from our reaction to dangerous tastes, hence the peculiar facial grimaces associated with these emotions. That’s pretty damn hard to prove, but a good indication of the extreme earl
y importance of these senses is that our body has only four genes to govern the sense of sight, but over a thousand devoted to smell/taste.

  Smelling good has always been particularly important when dealing with the gods. The world’s earliest international trade routes developed to transport perfumes. Egyptians were so concerned about afterlife B.O. that they drowned their mummies in myrrh and frankincense. The first Christmas presents were perfumes, and any number of Catholic saints owe their beatitude to their corpses’ propensity to smell like roses. These are all what Toorn would call “soothing odors,” pleasing to the gods. More pungent odors enjoyed a less-savory reputation, particularly the Allium family of onion and garlic, which is said to have sprouted from the Devil’s footsteps as he fled the Garden of Eden (garlic from his left footprint, onion from his right). Egyptian priests had to abstain from the duo, and until the nineteenth century, no devout Muslim would go near his mosque smelling of the stuff. Likewise, although the Bible records how Jews pined for garlic while starving in the desert, their rules once forbade eating these delights before noon. Priests who ignored the regulation were removed from the synagogue.

  Instead, garlic’s powerful ectoplasmic emissions were used to inflict a supernatural violence. One Sanskrit manuscript calls it “The Slayer of Monsters,” and though King Tut’s mummy may have reeked of myrrh, his cronies made sure to leave a few heads of garlic in case their Pharaoh needed to fight off enemies. Thousands of years before its current California incarnation, the Persians held an annual Garlic Festival at which they served demons a dish made of garlic, rue, and vinegar. The soup was supposed to taste so bad that the spirits would leave in a huff. Babylonians held aloft a clove when exorcising possessing spirits, and Romania’s cathartic dancers, the calusari, used copious amounts of the raw stuff in their rituals. I will pass lightly over the obvious connection to the long-suffering vampires of central Europe.