Jun 30, 2009

My Precious

Don’t accuse me.
I’ll confess.

My eating habits are unconventional.

I’m whole-food vegetarian since celebrated Angelica Kitchen occupied a hot jammed storefront one block east of Trash and Vaudeville on grimy Saint Marks Place.

As a chopstick clicking, glassy-eyed evangelical  macro-neophyte, I rained a heavy-hand of sesame gomasio onto every mouthful of hijiki-laced Dragon Bowl. My innate palate for nature’s true flavors did not spring forth overnight.

I’ve followed the fundamentalist quest from one camp to the next. Swinging like a  B-Movie Queen on a vine: raw food to cooked, ayurvedic to live, congee to kichari. All the while sprouting, soaking, juicing, judging.

The food-freak believes in manna.
Food as the path to knowledge.
Nirvana via the alimentary canal.
A quest for the one perfect food among the many.

Goji berry!
Jungle peanut?
Wheatgrass juice!
Early morning mid-stream sip of urine?

Gandhi drank his, the enthusiast promptly iterates. Suggesting that daily urine drinking is the foundation for peaceful revolution and democratic self-rule.

Moreover that he and Gandhi are woven of one cloth: DIY home spun, seasonally, and locally grown.

Artwork by Barry Silver

This nutritional nectar lifts the seeker to a pinnacle of knowledge. From these heights, often mistaking his sprouting jar for a papal dispensation, the seeker beatifically glows.

Or rather gloats.
In a superior sense-of-self, with license to judge all ordinary food eaters (um, err everyone, that is).

At that stratosphere, the whole nourish-thyself jag becomes just a little too precious.

Precious.

Yes, that’s how I felt about dining at Pure Food and Wine .

The garden is gorgeous. As is the staff.

If you arrive for dinner, having dashed the city from early morning, toiled a job (which you’ll be grateful you have when the bill arrives), your hunger may not be sated by these small-plate portions. Unless you arrive a self-satisfied raw-foodist.

In that case, enjoy! A sliver of papery turnip ruffled over a blobble of nut puree may actually look and taste like ravioli.

Methinks raw food living best enjoyed naked under a Hawaiian coconut palm, sucking sticky mango flesh off someone else’s fingers while reclining just outside the front flap of your yurt.

A name is after all, only that.

Dining in Pure’s garden with Popeye-gunned, first-husband The Impact Addict, how pure could a girl feel?

Purity is a state of mind.

Or not.

Categories: Kiki Eats, Kiki Sez

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,