I spent a night at a Buddhist temple last weekend in South Korea. It was not everything I'd hoped for. The translation was poor, the temple's construction crews and streams of visitors made it less than relaxing, and the floors of our sleeping room sat atop an all-night fire. Yes, it was August in tropical, muggy Korea. No, I was not enlightened.
The food, however, wasn't bad. Spicy, simple and vegetarian -- a trio that's pretty high on my menu. For dinner the first night we ate cafeteria style. I grabbed my big, white bowl and scooped in steamed rice, sesame-flavored spinach, pickled cucumbers and tofu. There were few other things I tried, including some squiggly, thick threads closely resembling Styrofoam drenched in hot sauce. Those didn't go down so smoothly. But go down they did.
At a Buddhist meal, every morsel on the plate must be eaten. This is to save the life (or perhaps the afterlife?) of the hungry ghosts. These poor creatures are just one form on the evolutionary journey toward enlightenment. Leaving a speck of rice in your bowl would muddy the dish water, the ghosts' sole bit of nourishment. That, in turn, would cause the hungry ghosts with their parched but narrow throats to choke. I never quite got the cause and effect of this story. If the hungry ghost remains hungry, what's the point? Nevertheless, I would feel sad if my dirty bowl choked the ghoulish fellows. And, anyway, I'm always pretty partial to cleaning my plate.
The food, however, wasn't bad. Spicy, simple and vegetarian -- a trio that's pretty high on my menu. For dinner the first night we ate cafeteria style. I grabbed my big, white bowl and scooped in steamed rice, sesame-flavored spinach, pickled cucumbers and tofu. There were few other things I tried, including some squiggly, thick threads closely resembling Styrofoam drenched in hot sauce. Those didn't go down so smoothly. But go down they did.
At a Buddhist meal, every morsel on the plate must be eaten. This is to save the life (or perhaps the afterlife?) of the hungry ghosts. These poor creatures are just one form on the evolutionary journey toward enlightenment. Leaving a speck of rice in your bowl would muddy the dish water, the ghosts' sole bit of nourishment. That, in turn, would cause the hungry ghosts with their parched but narrow throats to choke. I never quite got the cause and effect of this story. If the hungry ghost remains hungry, what's the point? Nevertheless, I would feel sad if my dirty bowl choked the ghoulish fellows. And, anyway, I'm always pretty partial to cleaning my plate.
It was the dining experience itself, that caused me to come away feeling hungry. This was especially punctuated during our breakfast, a traditional monk meal. Our four bowls came neatly stacked, tied up with linen and chopsticks. This I liked, and I wished they had sold them in the gift shop. (Yes, the temple had a gift shop. I suppose the Vatican does too.)
The meal was simple -- rice, broth with bean sprouts, a few side dishes. The service was elaborate. Members of the group silently spooned out rice and water and such to each diner, along with accompanying genuflections. No one was allowed to talk, to ask for a little more or a little less. No one smiled. Getting all the food in the proper order and in all the proper bowls took about half an hour. Eating took about five minutes. The no-talking rule continued as we tilted our bowls over our faces, using the chopsticks to shovel in rice behind a mask. The purpose is to bring solemnity and dignity to a sparse meal. That's nice, but I've felt more purpose peeling a banana. I peeked around the room to see people quickly eating in silence. I felt lonely and lost my appetite.
This was an especially hard lesson in light of just finishing "Heat," the hysterical and myopic story of a man's obsession with learning the ways of a professional kitchen and meat carving. I didn't miss the meat or the terribly graphic cleaving scenes. I missed the laughter, the yelling, the sizzle, the sounds of somebody working and living and -- gasp! -- savoring food. I spent our monastic breakfast wishing I could sneak back in the kitchen. I pictured a few strong women stirring pots, complaining about their kids, laughing with the rice-filled mouths. That would have been much more zen-ful for me.
The meal was simple -- rice, broth with bean sprouts, a few side dishes. The service was elaborate. Members of the group silently spooned out rice and water and such to each diner, along with accompanying genuflections. No one was allowed to talk, to ask for a little more or a little less. No one smiled. Getting all the food in the proper order and in all the proper bowls took about half an hour. Eating took about five minutes. The no-talking rule continued as we tilted our bowls over our faces, using the chopsticks to shovel in rice behind a mask. The purpose is to bring solemnity and dignity to a sparse meal. That's nice, but I've felt more purpose peeling a banana. I peeked around the room to see people quickly eating in silence. I felt lonely and lost my appetite.
This was an especially hard lesson in light of just finishing "Heat," the hysterical and myopic story of a man's obsession with learning the ways of a professional kitchen and meat carving. I didn't miss the meat or the terribly graphic cleaving scenes. I missed the laughter, the yelling, the sizzle, the sounds of somebody working and living and -- gasp! -- savoring food. I spent our monastic breakfast wishing I could sneak back in the kitchen. I pictured a few strong women stirring pots, complaining about their kids, laughing with the rice-filled mouths. That would have been much more zen-ful for me.
Tea-time was a welcomed improvement. Although the translation was awful, I could tell people were enjoying themselves. The monk who kept our tea cups full had a permanent smile on his round face. He looked like a caricature, but a true and happy and comfortable one. He talked and smiled and answered questions about his life without any pretension or worry. A few cups of tea and a slice of watermelon took an hour to consume. My head hurt a little from the lack of translation, but I was very full at the end.
Next, of course, we were off to lunch. This time I was a little more timid about what I put on my plate, knowing I'd have to eat every bite. I was lucky to only take one piece of fried rice cake, a chewy concoction that tasted like an unsweetened marshmellow. Normally I like gooey, rice-flour desserts, but this one wasn't my thing. My friend was in worse shape. She had taken of bowl of what she thought was cucumber soup. She took one bite and died a little hungry ghost death. "I'm screwed." She thought it was too salty, and I tasted. It was actually sour and sweet and salty and spicy, a thin, pickled juice with floating bits of pear and daikon and red chilis. If you could turn the flavors of Thai cucumber salad into soup, that's what it was. I liked it fine. "You don't like pickles, do you?" I asked. Turns out she hates them. I pulled the bowl toward me.
Then I noticed a miraculous thing had happened. We were talking! So was everyone around us. The no-talking rule had lasted two meals, but it failed miserably at the third. The room had cracked open with conversation. Some things, like squeaky plastic bits, are an acquired taste. It's nice to know that a more important thing -- enjoying a meal with friends -- is universal.
Next, of course, we were off to lunch. This time I was a little more timid about what I put on my plate, knowing I'd have to eat every bite. I was lucky to only take one piece of fried rice cake, a chewy concoction that tasted like an unsweetened marshmellow. Normally I like gooey, rice-flour desserts, but this one wasn't my thing. My friend was in worse shape. She had taken of bowl of what she thought was cucumber soup. She took one bite and died a little hungry ghost death. "I'm screwed." She thought it was too salty, and I tasted. It was actually sour and sweet and salty and spicy, a thin, pickled juice with floating bits of pear and daikon and red chilis. If you could turn the flavors of Thai cucumber salad into soup, that's what it was. I liked it fine. "You don't like pickles, do you?" I asked. Turns out she hates them. I pulled the bowl toward me.
Then I noticed a miraculous thing had happened. We were talking! So was everyone around us. The no-talking rule had lasted two meals, but it failed miserably at the third. The room had cracked open with conversation. Some things, like squeaky plastic bits, are an acquired taste. It's nice to know that a more important thing -- enjoying a meal with friends -- is universal.
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