Travel and Verse

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Tag: food

The Lord’s Work

June 8, 2022 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 121

“They’re doing the Lord’s work here.”

I have said this often. And I mean it.

Now, it may sound like I’m being facetious when sitting at a small table in the hills of Connecticut having a classic American breakfast of sausage and eggs, but believe me, I am in earnest. In fact, that’s exactly what happened last weekend in a small café in the town of East Granby, CT. We walked into questionable-looking strip-mall storefront expecting to be disappointed by overpriced greasy food. But  we were met with the warmest of smiles, bottomless coffee, perfect eggs, and some of the best home fries I’ve ever had. They’re doing the Lord’s work here.

A month ago, my wife, and parents, and I needed a cup of fine coffee. We were having a stroll through the Centennial Park in Nashville, TN (no, I don’t know why they have an exact replica of the Ancient Greek Parthenon of Athens). To our delight we found a spot, just off the park. Walk into Three Brothers Coffee and you will find the staples of the makeup of a quality coffee house: neo-hippie 20-somethings, donning trendy glasses, swaggering behind a triple-group-head espresso machine, gleaming in the light of a neon sign that blasts, “Make Coffee, Not War.” The machine gives a hushed blast, steaming milk. Click, click, click goes the coffee dispenser.

“Anthony!” My ears perk and turn like a deer’s.

I walk to the counter to find a heart-shaped design on the top of my latte. It’s a drinkable work or art. And what’s more, it’s delicious. The caramelly musk of coffee fills the air of the shop. We sat on a well-worn pleather couch that looks like it should be in a college dorm and sipped our drinks.

I think it again: they’re doing the Lord’s work here.

The first time this thought came into my mind was a couple of years ago, in Hawaii. I’ve had the sentiment for decades, but couldn’t really place it until then. Perhaps I was too naïve, young, to put into words how I feel and think about food, drink, art, music, and the like.

One of my favorite restaurants is a tiny Thai place on Ali’i drive in Kailua, Hawaii on the Big Island. Climb the stairs, if you would. Walk into the open-air seating and sit by a window looking down on the sidewalk below you. This unassuming place attracts few tourists (as is the norm with the Big Island). On a hot day in the tropics, I sat just there with my wife and friends. Order, as I did, the Som Tum. And you will not be disappointed when a plate of gently shredded cold green papaya, cabbage, carrots, Thai chilis, and an array of spices tossed in a light sauce arrives in front of you. This was far from my first Som Tum encounter. And it certainly wouldn’t be my last. The cool-fresh spiciness of the salad and bright palate of colors begs to be eaten on a hot day on the Kona coast of the Big Island.

Then it hit me, and I said it allowed.

“They’re doing the Lord’s work here.”

It got a few giggles and comments, but it was true, all the same.

What sat before me was something good—a good thing that was made by hands of a person created by God.

He has created us as creators. We are sub-creative beings. The capacity for mankind to create and craft is seemingly endless. Why is that? I think it’s because we take after our Father. You know, the One in whose image we are made.

He created everything and declared it good. And now, “every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights.”1 Wait a minute. The good things of this world. The things that are beautiful, delightful, true, and lovely, those things are from God?

Emerging from the Reformation, Martin Luther breathed new light into an old idea of the Doctrine of Vocation.2 The Catholic Church at the time said that a religious vocation was only one of lifelong service to the Church. We’re talking priests and other church leaders here.

But the reformed idea of vocation is much different. I like the simplicity of what the Anglicans say—you are called by God “to be and to do.”3

Every thing that we do is for the glory of God. This world needs bakers, and Ramen house cooks, and coffee baristas, and mechanics, and fabric upholsterers, and everything else. And the world is a much better place when Christians who love God and others do those things for Him.

But may I go farther?

What if those people who create and craft and cook and brew know nothing of their Creator? What if those people simply exist and go about their lives, serving up their goods without a thought to God?

Their belief or non-belief in God, their praise or non-praise of Him, does not make what they have created less good or beautiful. Francis Schaeffer taught this for years. He recognized that art displayed the beauty of Christ, sometimes in spite of the artist.4

Just so, a cup of coffee in Malaysia is a gift, coming down from God himself.

So I invite you to lean in.

Can you smell the drifting coffee aromas mixing with the spicy hints of your bowl of noodles? That’s goodness, my friend. Don’t left a moment like this pass you by. Don’t waste the good gifts that come from God. Whatever you do, if you’re eating or drinking, do it to the glory of God and recognize it as a good thing.

The waiter serving you, the barista crafting that special cup, they are doing the Lord’s work, whether they know it or not. For God is their Creator and they are a sub-creative being displaying the beauty of Christ, knowingly or unknowingly.

I like my little saying. It’s a reminder to me of the delights that God gives us and the beauty all around us, pointing us to Christ.

They are doing the Lord’s work here.

 

anthony forrest

 

  1. https://biblehub.com/niv/james/1.htm
  2. https://www.thegospelcoalition.org/essay/the-doctrine-of-vocation/
  3. https://www.churchofengland.org/life-events/vocations
  4. Read Art and the Bible by Francis Schaeffer

Fish and Chips, Three Ways

August 27, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 77

Seattle, Washington, 2015

I peered out the small airplane window and glanced worriedly back to my watch. There was simply no way I was going to make the next flight. But maybe, just maybe it would be late and I could run to the gate. I had a vision of myself running like OJ Simpson, stiff-arming people through the airport. (We’re talking pre-scandal OJ. Check it out here. You’re welcome.)

I looked back out the window and saw my gate. What luck, I was pulling into the gate adjacent to my next flight. But alas, my luck ended there. I watched helplessly as my next flight pulled away from the gate and taxied down the jetway. That was it. I had no other options for getting from Seattle to Ketchikan, Alaska until the next afternoon. I now had an unexpected stopover. And the solution to an unexpected stay in Seattle is simple—Pikes Place Market.

Backpack on shoulder, I stepped off the bus in front of the iconic sign, right above the fishmongers. After several minutes of gleeful fish-throwing observations (Yes, fish throwing. Check it out here.), my stomach told me to find some fish of my own.

I bypassed several nicer-looking places with patio-seating and large menus. I knew what I was looking for: a hole-in-the-wall. Sure enough, on the pier and under a shanty sat three greasy stools and a small counter. The stocking-cap-wearing chef (?) threw a pile of fried fish and French fries on a day-old copy of the Seattle Times. I doused the luscious heap of Pacific Cod and fries with fresh-squeezed lemon and gratuitous amounts of tartar sauce (call me a heathen). Nothing beats the west coast for the market flavor of fish and chips.

Howth, Ireland, 2019

The small fishing village of Howth sits just east of Dublin. In fact, it’s one of the most pleasant train rides leading out of Dublin. Ivy-covered houses line the tracks that lead all the way to the ocean. When you get to the ocean, you’ll find a lovely little village with a lot of scenic hikes and great food. Some say that on clear day, you can look out toward England and see Hollyhead, near Liverpool. Ireland supports the cliché. Ireland is exactly what you’d expect: green, beautiful, friendly, all the people have wonderful accents, and the food is outstanding. But in a place where they literally call fish and chips “Dublin Caviar” how does one decide where to eat? Nearly every restaurant and pub serve outstanding food. But when you step off the train in Howth and walk just a little way up the street, you’ll see Leo Burdock’s. Please, if you go to Dublin, eat there. We placed our order and began to take a picture of the restaurant. But the owners would have nothing of it.

“Come on back,” they said with a smile. So, I jumped the counter and got my picture with the laughing crew. We chatted about Ireland and America until our food came. They sat a glorious mound of fish and chips on a platter in front of us. Each serving is two pounds of fish and potatoes. This time, I poured the malt vinegar with reckless abandonment.

Grand Marais, Minnesota, annually

Blindfolded and dropped onto the North Shore of Lake Superior, most people would guess they were in Maine or some other rocky and oceanic local—unless, of course, you’ve been there. The Lake stretches for miles and miles and states and states. And every year, my family heads up there in search of solitude and rejuvenation. The frigid water laps the rocky coast. Pines and boreal trees sway with the almost-constant breeze. The small town of Grand Marais is a favorite in Minnesota. Most residents of the State love it and make the journey at least once a year. And just as you drive into the town, look to your right and you will see a little café called Dockside Fish Market. The Lake teems with an abundance of Whitefish, Pike, Walleye, Salmon, and (my favorite) trout of many types. When I was a lad growing up in Wyoming, I didn’t really think that anybody ate any other fish but trout. I had not been confronted with the great Northern Pike or the elusive Walleye. I now love it all. But each year at Dockside, I get a basket of Lake Trout. We usually sit on the patio in the back and we eat our fish and chips in the cool breeze of Lake Superior. It is a tradition we are not soon to break.

anthony forrest

Penang

June 18, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 69

I’ve heard travelers and friends call Penang the Pearl of the Orient. And it certainly is a pearl. It sits brightly on the west side of Malaysia, just south of Thailand. Between a large population of Chinese, Indian, and Indonesian peoples, Malaysia also has massive colonial influences. Penang seems to be the center of it all. And when all these people came to Malaysia, they brought their food.

When it comes to excellent food, if you want it, Penang’s got it.

We step out of the cab onto the busy street, ducking into a side-alley. Although only mid-morning, the heat already grew oppressive—but it’s almost always like this, so close to the equator. We had been promised excellent noodles. I found this to be a bold promise. Everywhere I turned in Malaysia, there seemed to be excellent noodles.

I sit down in a plastic chair under a tin-roof awning. A busy Chinese woman greets us in passing. It hardly matters where you find yourself in the world, you can always find the equivalent of a rushed diner waitress, pen behind ear, placing short orders. Since I know neither her name nor how it would be pronounced, let’s call her Ethel.

She questions us.

I say, “good morning.” It’s the only thing I know how to say in this language. It’s a hobby, I’m a short-term collector of “good mornings.”

My friend knows all the right words. He orders for us. And he knows exactly what I want first.

Coffee.

Ethel scoops coffee grounds into a metal pitcher and pours in boiling water. She then slings it back and forth, pouring the slurry into kind of fabric bag, allowing the coffee to sieve through into a cup. She does this a dozen or more times, back and forth.

While I’m mesmerized by this very foreign coffee-production process, my friend spots somebody eating a variety of steamed buns at another table.

We definitely need some of those. He slips away to find the vendor.

But just now, Ethel shows up with the coffee. Street coffee in Malaysia comes in a plethora of forms. I couldn’t even begin to broach the topic of coffee varieties in this part of the world. But this coffee, like many here, is sweetened with condensed milk. I stir it with a Chinese soup spoon and take a sip. It’s not translucent, mildly viscous, and definitely strong. Just what the doctor ordered.

And when I set my cup down, I see my friend has returned with a couple of large steamed buns—one with meat and one with some kind of sweet substance. We tuck into our coffee and buns.

Presently, Ethel places two heaping bowls of noodle soup in front of us. It’s a beautiful broth with several types of noodles and meats. I see pork, chicken, and what is probably a type of blood pudding. It’s spicy and probably the best soup I’ve had.

Food in this part of the world is dangerous. It gets in your blood like an infection. There is no cure, only disease management. Frequent transfusions of coffee and noodle soups is the only way to manage symptoms.

The first time I ever ate really good food in Asia, I felt like had been living in a the dark up until that point. Sure, I had a flashlight, but as soon as the first sip of broth hit my lips, and I plucked up that first dumpling, my eyes were opened. I could see in the dark.

Yes, I know I’ve mixed a couple of metaphors here. Call it night vision, call it a disease, call it anything you’d like—food here changes you.

Food in southeast Asia, shared with a friend, makes for a fine memory. And what are memories but stories of our life?

Recently, I heard British chef Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall say that, “the best food is food with a good story.”

anthony forrest

 

A Snapshot of Maine

April 23, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 61

Our rental car swerved back and forth along the skinny, winding road. Scrubs and trees lined either side. But we could see through the trees and scrubs and the ever-present mist, the Atlantic Ocean throwing itself on the rocky coast. An amazing aspect of the eastern coast is the close proximity of other States. The same can be said of Europe. If you were to fly into Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam, The Netherlands, you could take the train and be in Germany in one hour, Belgium in under two, and at the furthest, France in a cool three and a half. Rent a car at Boston’s Logan International Airport and you have the eastern US at your fingertips: Rhode Island, Connecticut, New York, New Hampshire, and lastly, one of our favorites, Maine. Again, all within three hours of driving (insane traffic notwithstanding).

Our only goals: drive to Maine, eat a lobster.

The tiny rental car careened around corners as we passed through New Hampshire, and onto the last US State before Canada. The coastal road opened up to the idyllic Maine portrait. Wooded lands lay to our left and rocky shoreline lay in spotted fog to our right. Tall pines dripped misty dew onto our windshield. It was not, as Dickens would say, “foggy withal.” We saw easily through it. But the fog hung in the air, nonetheless, contributing to the very picture of Maine that we expected find. 

We only had a few hours before we had to be back in Boston. So we followed our map up the coast, looking for lobster. This was before either of us had a smartphone—it’s a miracle we found Maine. A mere 25 minutes north the border lies the little village of Perkin’s Cove. And if you’re driving south, it’s only 25 minutes from Kennebunkport (which I mention only because I love saying Kennebunkport).

We turned into this seaside fishing town and gazed across the cove to find a tiny restaurant literally named the “Lobster Shack.” We were in the right place.

The wooden door creaked as I pushed it open. Immediately, the smell of lobster and steam rushed out. It might have been foggier inside then out. The man behind the counter regaled us with the daily process of walking the 50 feet to the dock, buying freshly captured creatures of the deep, and bringing them back to the live tank where we now stood. The lobsters probed the walls of the tank with their antennae and jumped about. After making our selection and ordering other goodies, we found our seat.

We feasted that day.

There is something surreal and important about enjoying local specialties. Whether it’s a steak sandwich in Philadelphia, tri-tip and chicken in California, or lobster in Maine, can you really know a place or a people without eating what they eat?

 

anthony forrest

United by Food

February 20, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 52

The best mushrooms I have ever eaten are found in the town of Mae Sai, Thailand. Specifically, at a Chinese restaurant that specializes in Yunnan food. Yunnan province in China lies a mere five-hour drive from this place.

Turn right out of the restaurant and go to the border—about a quarter mile.

Cross the Myanmar border, pending any security problems, and continue onto Myanmar National Highway 4 until you get to Mong Lah Rd and turn right. This will in turn take you to the province of Yunnan in southernmost China.

The food there is spicy and very good.

But, truthfully, I’ve never been to China.

So when a friend told us that a family member owned a Yunnan restaurant, we jumped at the opportunity to meet up.

We were met by people we did not know, to eat food we’d never eaten, in a place we’d never been, to experience things we’d never experienced. But the company of strangers quickly shifted to friendship. I sat next to a cousin of a friend. His English faltered and crumbled at every attempt, which is more than I can say about my Chinese. Somehow, I found out that he likes to run (as do I), orders his running shoes from Japan, and owns a tire company nearby. But as the food hit the table and the chopsticks began to fly, language skills didn’t seem to matter so much.

The giant marble table had a type of “lazy Susan” that covered most of its surface. Each person got an empty plate set before them. And all the food was shared as the lazy Susan was wheeled about. A tray of mushrooms appeared and I took several and placed them on my plate. The mushrooms were quartered and had been soaked in a brine of soy sauce and some other spices, then baked. It gave the mushrooms a dense, almost crunchy texture.

If there is one thing that me and the Chinese man communicated clearly that night it was that these mushrooms blew us away. Food crosses far more borders that any ambassador.

The reason TV food shows attract people is that food unites us. Eating ties us together. Whether black, white, Chinese, or Jewish, you have to eat. And it’s not something reserved for only a select people. Perhaps that’s why poverty and starvation give us so much sorrow.

I recently heard former astronaut Garrett Reisman say that, “the things that unite us are stronger than the things that divide us.” Not only does this saying make me feel good, but I think I actually believe it. Sure, it’s cliched and a little derivative. But the dividing aspects of humanity never last. Sure, they might lead to disputes and wars, but those end and peace eventually prevails. And though the dividing factors of life tend to get a lot of attention, the factors that unite us are far more important.

 

anthony forrest

 

Travel Journal, 13

May 16, 2019 / / 0 Comments

Chile Pequin

The Sierra Madre Mountains are stunning: pines, cliffs, rolling hills, and alp-like mountains as far as the eye can see. After our plane landed, we stood there amazed. Our hosts greeted us happily and showed us around their mountain home. After we got settled, we toured the local area. The mission hospital, the local church, many warm-hearted people, then we made a quick stop for some fresh blue corn tortillas.

Later that afternoon, we tucked into some of the local fare (including those fabulous tortillas). Also included in the meal was a bowl full of tiny peppers.

“Would you like some Chile Pequin?” our gracious hosts ask.

Are Mexican mountain tortillas blue? Of course I want Chile Pequin.

“Sure!” I bluffed.

Actually, I had no idea what they were. But they were about the size of a pea and dry. The host handed me a little wooded pestle and I went to work on the pepper. After a few flicks of the wrist, I dumped the contents onto my beans and rice.

Wide eyes flicked back and forth. Everybody waited in silence as I took my first bite.

Lava-firebrand-acid-rain fell onto my tongue. Great sweat drops beaded up and rolled down my jaw. It took a couple of tortillas, but the Chile apocalypse subsided. Eventually, those tiny peppers became my friends. And pretty soon I was grinding more.

All was going well, until after supper I reached up and touched my right eye.

Out of nowhere, a demon guided freight train ran over my face. My eyelid slammed shut. I was soon going to have my answer on how I would look with an eye patch.

Without hesitation, our host stood up and produced a tiny plastic cup.

“Here,” she said, “pour this goat milk into you eye.” It was so rapid and I was in so much pain that I didn’t even ask her, “how did you get that milk so fast?” Or, “is this a goat-milk eyewash approved cup?” Or, “where is your goat?”

I poured the goat milk into my eye and the pain was instantly washed away.

Chile Pequin is good.

Goat milk is better.

 

anthony forrest

 

Travel Journal, 2

February 28, 2019 / / 3 Comments

They do that. We drink beer.

Warning: this story is political—but barely.

It was late and everybody was hungry. It was also cold. Tokyo, though sprawling, is easily walkable. Each section (or prefecture) can be reached quite simply by the extensive public transit, coursing through the metropolis like blood vessels carrying people to the vital areas of Tokyo.

We found our hotel after having walked too far. Tired feet, cold bodies, and empty stomachs make traveling the opposite of fun. To make matters worse, many shops and restaurants had already closed. We stumbled about Tokyo near Ueno Park for a half an hour before we walked by a dimly lit café down a dark side street. Elated, the four of us opened the door to the tiny diner to find only two other customers feasting on noodles and beer.

Narita, Japan

We sat down and a boisterous lady came to take our order. She reminded me of a classic diner waitress back in the US: pen in hair, notebook in hand, maybe smells like cigarettes, treats you like family, maybe is family, maybe her name is Marge. All of that—but Japanese. You get the picture.

She spoke no English.

We began grunting at pictures of food on the wall. Her clarifying questions were met with more guttural noises from us. Communication was going as well as could be expected.

Fortunately, a kind-hearted soul at the nearby table began translating for us. With food ordered I talked with our newfound friend.

“Where are you from? I asked.

He pointed to his chest and said, “China. Where you from?”

“United States”

“Oh, Donald Trump?” (His broken pronunciation of the President’s name sounded more like Donut Chum, but I digress.)

We all perked up and agreed. Why yes, we come from the land of Trump. A stern look crossed his face as he leaned in as if to tell us a secret.

“Trade war!” he growled.

Our smiles vanished and a silent pause hit the ceiling. His stern look quickly dwindled and he and his friend exploded into laughter. We all joined in.

“No, no. Is okay,” said he. “They do that… we drink beer.”

Across the Earth, there are people like us—people trying to enjoy life and carry on. As the world’s leaders play political crochet, there are noodles to eat, places to see, views to view, lives to live, and people to laugh with.

Don’t miss out.

anthony forrest

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