Contentment

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Why We Believe: Finding Meaning in Uncertain Times

  We have to work with human nature as it actually is, and confront the fact that ‘tribal bias is a natural and nearly ineradicable feature of human cognition and that no group – not even one’s own – is immune’. 10 Evolutionary pressures have ‘sculpted human minds to be tribal’, leading to the potential for social antagonism and violence. The New Atheism suggested that religion is the cause of toxic social division; a more reliable view is that our instinct for tribalism often seizes on religion for its own ends. Like just about everything that human beings turn their hands to, this enterprise of believing can go wrong. As we have seen, beliefs can lead to discrimination, violence and prejudice. This, however, points to the need to be critical and reflective about those beliefs, and how they are enacted and embodied. We can’t change who we are – but we can try to live ethically and peacefully. Paradoxically, it is the belief that we should live in these ways that allows us to subdue and redirect our more fundamental human instincts – a point emphasised by Thomas H. Huxley in his famous 1893 lecture ‘Evolution and Ethics’. For Huxley, ethical values – which human beings create – can help suppress our more fundamental primitive tendency towards violence, rooted in a distant past. The solution to toxic beliefs is not a crude abolition of the category of ‘believing’, but the search for better forms of believing that foster good lives, individually and communally. Much research has been carried out on the way in which belief systems are correlated with flourishing and resilience, at both the individual and communal level. This research often focuses on how beliefs help individuals cope with ageing, trauma and uncertainty; in recent times, its scope has been expanded to include indigenous communities, exploring how their beliefs and practices enable them to survive, particularly in the face of colonialism and the erosion of their traditional cultures. 11 A recurrent theme to emerge from this research is that existentially disengaged beliefs do not seem to encourage human flourishing or create resilience. We care about beliefs that make a difference to us. I was fascinated by the 2006 debate which led to Pluto being reclassified as a ‘dwarf planet’ by the International Astronomical Union. But did it impact on me in any meaningful way? No. It was interesting in a detached sort of way. I also believe that the atomic weight of the chemical element chlorine is 35.453 – not because I’ve checked this out myself, having outsourced this matter to the scientific community at large. But if it turned out it was 35.467, I would shrug my shoulders. It would be interesting, but not personally relevant to me, even though it might be important to theoretical chemistry. Yet other beliefs make a profound difference to how we understand ourselves, and feel about our lives. Human flourishing seems to rest on three broad pillars: truth, purpose and meaning.

• From The Nasty Bits: Collected Varietal Cuts, Usable Trim, Scraps, and Bones (2006)

  As The World's information channel informed us that winds were now approaching gale force and seas rising to eighteen feet, the captain's voice suddenly issued from hidden speakers over my bed (more shades of The Prisoner), assuring passengers in a casual, conversational tone that conditions would "probably" not get too much worse and chiding those among us who had apparently been complaining that the seas had been too calm and unexciting. This is another difference between you and me and the very rich: The very rich, among them most residents of The World, for instance, have previously owned yachts. They know what it feels like to have your stomach rise up into your rib cage every few seconds while the floor heaves and pitches around you. And they seem to like it. I have to admit, the ship managed the seas beautifully. Even when swells reached the occasional twenty-seven feet, my sleep was undisturbed by groaning or creaking, the shriek of protesting beams or stressed rivets. The hull, as if surrounded by shock absorbers, handled every crashing wave with a solid, well- muffled authority. Nothing in the apartment moved or dropped save an occasional book flopping onto its side. Pots and pans stayed on the stove, lamps stayed on tables, doors remained shut, cabinets closed. As the ship rose and fell, the most violent movements were inside my stomach as I was squashed and lifted (rather gently I confess) above and into my firm and expensive bedding. I don't know that I would ever buy a residence on The World, regardless of what lottery I might someday win, or that I would ever book lengthy passage in her rental suites or studios. Most of her residents own two or three homes, which suggests a net worth unattainable in my lifetime and the lifetimes of all my friends put together. As delightful as it sounds to drop by one's floating home- away-from-home in say, Sydney, sail for Ho Chi Minh City, disembark for a few weeks, then rejoin her at some other port of call by plane—or private jet, as some surely do—I am not, I think, a seafaring man. I wish The World well, and all the intrepid souls who sail within her. They know better than I the ways of the deep blue sea—and how cruel a mistress she can be. They are used to solitude and are, I think, surprisingly self-sufficient for a demographic no doubt used to much pampering.

• From Why We Believe: Finding Meaning in Uncertain Times

  Rituals do not change the external world; their impact lies on the internal world of the believer – someone who inhabits a community of beliefs. As Xygalatas points out, while rituals have no impact on the physical world, they help human beings cope subjectively with a complex and sometimes senseless world. They enable us to ‘connect, find meaning and discover who we are’. Rituals are acts through which we create meaning and facilitate social connection to others. Some rituals are highly individual and idiosyncratic – such as Rafael Nadal’s complex preparations for tennis matches.21 Perhaps the most famous of these involves water bottles. ‘I put my two bottles down at my feet, in front of my chair to my left, one neatly behind the other, diagonally aimed at the court.’ Nadal dismisses any suggestion this is some form of superstition. ‘It’s a way of placing myself in a match, ordering my surroundings to match the order I seek in my head.’22 Yet most rituals are communal and social, involving people gathering together. The disruption of these and many other forms of social gatherings by the COVID pandemic of 2020–22 clearly demonstrated the social importance of these rituals. For religious communities, online worship services proved an inadequate substitute for face-to-face encounters, not least because of loss of the social support that is known to be important for human wellbeing. Communities and Traditions of RationalityIn the ancient world, various schools of philosophy emerged, some of which anticipated aspects of what we now know as the ‘natural sciences’. Each of these philosophical communities developed its own distinct mode of thinking, alongside practising an understanding of how to live authentically that was grounded in those ideas. In classical Greece, Platonist, Aristotelian, Stoic, Epicurean and Sceptical schools of thought emerged, each attracting followers to their visions of the good life. A similar pattern can be seen in China, with the emergence of the ‘three teachings’ of Buddhism, Daoism and Confucianism. In each of these cases, reflecting on how best to understand our world and live meaningfully within it was carried out within a community of belief, developing often quite sophisticated accounts of the acquisition of wisdom and its implementation in real life. Some might be drawn to these schools or traditions on account of their intellectual appeal; others because they were attracted by the quality of life that these philosophical communities seemed to enable or inform. A similar recognition of the importance of communities of enquiry and beliefs can be seen within the modern academic world, especially within the natural and social sciences. The phrase ‘the scientific method’ does not imply a single normative way of gaining knowledge; it rather articulates the general criteria of attention to evidence and critical and consistent thought that are typical of individual natural sciences, yet which are implemented in different ways within each scientific disciplinary community that they consider to be appropriate to their subject matter.

• From The Nasty Bits: Collected Varietal Cuts, Usable Trim, Scraps, and Bones (2006)

  They simply eat. And living in a country where Chinese, Malay, and Indian cuisines are equally (and proudly) represented, they are accustomed to eating well. When they talk about food they tend to know what they're talking about. They are not snobs and are far more likely to gush about a bowl of noodles at a Mom-and-Pop hawker stand than to be concerned with the new "hot" place. I learned this the hard way, when addressing a black-tie gathering of well- heeled Singaporeans in a swank hotel's ballroom. There was a question from the floor, a fan wanting to know my preferred spot for the local specialty, chicken rice. When I sheepishly admitted that I had not yet tried it, the entire room of five hundred people erupted in loud (if good-natured) boos. This was followed by near anarchy, as the crowd then began arguing passionately among themselves over which of the hundreds of chicken-rice places they should recommend to the pathetically ignorant American chef-author. Chicken rice, by the way, in case you didn't know, is, basically, boiled chicken and white rice. It is to Singaporeans what chopped liver, pastrami, or pizza is to New Yorkers. Everyone has their favorite. Discussing the subject, people tend to get enthusiastic, even contentious. The question of who's got the best could very easily lead to a fistfight—were fighting not illegal (and therefore unthinkable) in Singapore. The next morning, I called my friend K. F. Seetoh, the "guru" behind the Makansutra Guide, a sort of better-than-Zagat guide to Singapore's hawker stands, eating houses, and street food. Eateries are graded not with stars or numbers, but by rice bowls signifying "good," "very good," "excellent"—and the Singlish "Don't try, regret ah!" and the ultimate accolade, "Die, die must try!" Seetoh pointed me to Tian Tian Hainanese Chicken Rice, a closet-size food stall in the bustling Maxwell Road Food Centre, generally accepted as serving one of the very best versions. I ordered a plate from the tiny one-room stall with the head-on chickens hanging from hooks in the window and settled down to eat a heap of soft, pillowy white rice with pale, juicy chunks of chicken piled in the center. A little cucumber, some supersticky spicy hoisin-style sauce, a little grated ginger, and a garlic pepper sauce are served on the side. You mix it all together to fit personal preferences—and they are as varied as the imagination. Looking around at other tables in the long hallway between rows of brightly lit hawker stands, I watched locals eagerly drizzling, dipping, and mixing the basic elements into personalized concoctions, no two plates the same. The dish is remarkable for such a simple thing, almost baby food for adults, a bone-deep comfort food for locals, a reassuring trip down memory lane with every mouthful. And at Tian Tian it was, as advertised, wonderful.

• From Lower than the Angels: A History of Sex and Christianity (2024)

  The sacramentum of marriage had gained extra theological freight among some Western writers from the ninth century in the course of their determined assault on aristocratic ‘resource polygyny’ and on customary law allowing for a marriage to be dissolved. [53] Now the Gregorian revolution embraced marriage within a theological framework of seven sacraments, expanding the scriptural duo of Baptism and Eucharist. Peculiarities remained in this nuptial sacrament. Alone among the sacraments, it was now not available to priests, only laypeople. Moreover, a priest did not perform it: unlike the other six sacraments, it was a work performed by two laypeople – the couple – whose vows the priest merely witnessed and then blessed. The efforts of some theologians to alter that balance towards clerical authority were not successful: there was probably an awareness among clergy that the move would be unpopular. Many laity approaching marriage, particularly women, might relish the thought that their own consent was the crucial element in what they were doing. [54] A sacrament being an outward and visible sign of an inward or spiritual reality, this new reality encouraged a formal ecclesiastical ritual in church for all, for the first time in the Western Church. Western clergy had previously only been involved in negotiating or presiding over royal or noble marriages, but from the eleventh century a long campaign sought to make this requirement universal. [55] This was a marked shift even from the new devotional activism of the Carolingian Church. Carolingian monarchs or high nobility might have considered a church ceremony as bonus legitimation for dynastic turning points, but it had still been optional. In an analogous liturgical situation, the Emperor Charlemagne did not consider giving an active role to the senior clergy present in his chapel in Aachen when he granted his imperial title to his son Louis in 813; the younger man simply took his crown from the altar while everyone present looked on as witnesses. [56] An institution of marriage carefully constructed on the basis of family negotiations had not felt itself needing much confirmation in Christian liturgy. As late as the end of the eleventh century, the German romantic poem Ruodlieb included a prolonged description of decorously cheerful wedding ceremonial in a knightly family. It was still entirely domestic and did not involve a priest at all – all the more remarkable since the poet-author was a monk of the stately Benedictine house of Tegernsee in Bavaria. [57] A significant liturgical symbol of the anomaly in the marriage sacrament now constructed by liturgists was that at first it remained slightly distanced from the interior of the church building. The most prominent liturgical pattern-book in medieval England was the ‘Use’ of Sarum, designed to specify the elaborate round of services in a brand-new cathedral, under construction from 1220 on a virgin site at Salisbury ( Sarum ). Its wedding rite placed the bulk of the ceremony ‘ ante ostium ecclesiae ’, in front of the entrance to the church.

• From Why We Believe: Finding Meaning in Uncertain Times

  But what is the status of this line of reasoning? Let’s be quite clear: this does not, and was not intended to, constitute a rational proof for God’s existence. Perhaps C. S. Lewis’s idea of a ‘supposal’ might be helpful here – a provisional assumption, proposed as a possible explanation of puzzling observations or experiences, which requires testing. Suppose there is a God, such as that which Christianity proposes. Does not this fit in well with our experience of reality? And is not this resonance indicative of the truth of the supposal? The approach is clearly not compelling; it is rather suggestive , hinting that the best way of testing a worldview might not be to assess its individual components, but to step inside the larger vision of reality that it enfolds, and test its quality and depth. One of the most important functions of a worldview is to inform and give stability to notions of meaning and purpose. In the next section, we shall consider how beliefs undergird these two important themes, which are of considerable importance to personal and social existence. Meaning: On Finding Significance and Purpose While some philosophers, such as Susan Wolf, appreciate the importance of the question of meaning, the most significant engagement in recent years with the pervasive human desire to find ‘meaning in life’ has come from psychology, which has sought to establish both what people understand by ‘meaning’ and the difference that this makes to their lives. The psychologists Login George and Crystal Park concluded that whether life is perceived as ‘meaningful’ or not is shaped by ‘the extent to which one’s life is experienced as making sense, as being directed and motivated by valued goals, and as mattering in the world.’ 51 Detailed surveys persistently indicate that human beings consider it to be important to have a perception of coherence in life allowing us to make sense of the world and our own personal existence; a sense of purpose , in which we discern core aims and aspirations for life; and a conviction of significance , in which our lives matter and are seen to have value. 52 A helpful distinction can be drawn between ‘cognitive’ and ‘affective’ aspects of meaning. The former is about making sense of one’s experiences of life, while the latter concerns the feelings of satisfaction, fulfilment and happiness that result from our belief that we are living and acting meaningfully. 53 Is this human longing for meaning in life a ‘want’ or a ‘need’? 54 Is meaning something that some feel they would like, an optional extra that might add something to their existence? Or is it deeply rooted in our fundamental humanity, without which we cannot flourish – especially in the light of the ‘existential nihilism of the scientific worldview’? While this debate continues, an excellent case can be made that this is something integral and essential to human actualisation.

• From Austerlitz (2001)

  him under the chin, they never touched the ground again. As night fell they would rise two or three miles in the air and glide there, banking now to one side, now to the other, and moving their outspread wings only occasionally, until they came back down to us at break of day.—Austerlitz had been so deeply immersed in his Welsh tale, and I in listening to him, that we did not notice how late it had grown. The last rounds had long since been poured, the last guests were gone except for the two of us. The barman had collected the glasses and ashtrays, wiped the tables with a cloth, and was now waiting to lock up after us with his hand on the light switch by the door. The way in which he wished us Good night, gentlemen, with his eyes clouded by weariness and his head tilted slightly to one side, struck me as an extraordinary mark of distinction, almost like an absolution or a blessing. And Pereira, the business manager of the Great Eastern, was equally civil and courteous when we entered the hotel foyer directly afterwards. He seemed positively expectant as he stood behind the reception desk in his starched white shirt and gray cloth waistcoat, with his hair immaculately parted, one of those rare and often rather mysterious people, as I thought on seeing him, who are infallibly to be found at their posts, and whom one cannot imagine ever feeling any need to go to bed. After I had made an appointment to meet Austerlitz the next day Pereira, having inquired after my wishes, led me upstairs to the first floor and showed me into a room containing a great deal of wine-red velvet, brocade, and dark mahogany furniture, where I sat until almost three in the morning at a secretaire faintly illuminated by the street lighting—the cast-iron radiator clicked quietly, and only occasionally did a black cab drive past outside in Liverpool Street—writing down, in the form of notes and disconnected sentences, as much as possible of what Austerlitz had told me that evening. Next morning I woke late, and after breakfast I sat for some time reading the newspapers, where I found not only the usual home and international news, but also the story of an ordinary man who was overcome by such deep grief after the death of his wife, for whom he had cared devotedly during her long and severe illness, that he decided to end his own life by means of a guillotine which he had built himself in the square concrete area containing the basement steps at the back of his house in Halifax. As a craftsman, and having taken careful stock of other possible methods, he thought the guillotine the most reliable way of carrying out his plan, and sure enough, as the short report said, he had finally been found lying with his head cut off by such an instrument of decapitation. It was of uncommonly sturdy construction, with every tiny detail neatly finished, and a slanting blade which, as the reporter remarked, two strong men could scarcely have lifted. The pincers with which he had cut through the wire operating it were still in his rigid hand. Austerlitz had come to fetch me

• From The Nasty Bits: Collected Varietal Cuts, Usable Trim, Scraps, and Bones (2006)

  I handled the gentle, slow-motion cantering of my kitchen floor well, I thought, for a landlubber, and when the time came, the steaks joined the potatoes in the reassuringly named Competence B-300 oven until medium rare. Soon, Nancy and I, in fluffy white ResidenSea bathrobes, were sitting at our dining room table, a towering floral arrangement dead-center, eating perfectly respectable Black Angus steaks and crispy-skinned potatoes, accompanied by an astonishingly affordable bottle of Brouilly. Emboldened by this early success, I rose early the next morning and confidently made omelettes aux fines herbes, chopping the fresh herb and parsley with the delightfully sharp knives provided. I'd seen a pretty impressive selection of stinky French cheeses at Fredy's and had over-optimistically ordered an Epoisse and an Alsatian Muenster. But when I went to fold a slice of the Muenster into my omelette, it became clear that this particular cheese had seen better days. My omelette tasted like a dead man's feet, with a dreadful ammonia aftertaste, and ended up in the food disposal (which worked like a charm). Nancy, however, was very pleased with her cheese-free omelette, happily poring over the day's Times. Later, in that happy, hazy, lazy, semisunstroked state that comes with too much time spent drinking banana daiquiris (made with real bananas) poolside, I was in no shape to cook much for lunch. I padded down to Fredy's for a fresh baguette and some cold cuts. Though dress during the day was casual (there is a dress code after six), passing a few silver-haired gentlemen in crisp khakis, handmade bespoke linen shirts, and thin timepieces, I felt like Gilligan, crashing a party for the Howells. Back in my apartment, I made sandwiches, soppressata and jambon blanc for me and sliced steak (leftover from the previous night) for Nancy. Suffering from an inferiority complex while shopping in my jeans and T- shirt, I'd overcompensated by buying a bottle of Roederer Cristal to wash the sandwiches down. I may not have been rich, but I was, after all, living as if I were—if only for a few days. Feeling on top of the world as only the drunk can feel, a here-today-gone-tomorrow-what-the-hell kinda rich, I finished my sandwich and the champagne and staggered through my living area, past the couches and armchairs and cocktail table, out onto my veranda and flopped into my Jacuzzi. The perfect end, I thought, to a perfect meal. Before dinner, Nancy and I watched a video from the ship's extensive library on our big-screen TV, the wretched, incomprehensibly awful Arabesque—the only positive effect of the film being that after eighty minutes with Sophia Loren, I was in the mood for Italian.

• From The Nasty Bits: Collected Varietal Cuts, Usable Trim, Scraps, and Bones (2006)

  Schutz and eventually the repugnant Hitchcock were favored with regular tables of their choosing. Hitchcock was additionally favored with the offering of a free renovation of his kitchens in Bucks County, South Hampton, and Manhattan (supposedly from Rob but actually from a Schutz-controlled contractor). The restaurant was saved. The Puebla Posse soon ran the kitchen—even hiring additional friends and family members from their hometown of Atlixco. Though Rob continued to retain the title of chef, Manuel was given the day-to-day responsibility of running the kitchen and the title of chef de cuisine and a sizable raise to go with it. Needless to say, everyone got a generous Christmas bonus. No one got kicked out of their apartment. Credit card payments were made. Thousands of miles away, new satellite dishes appeared on rooftops in tiny Mexican towns. Best of all, Rob continued to cook now and again. On slow Sunday or Monday nights, his black Town Car would pull up outside and he'd walk briskly through the dining room as voices hushed and people pointed out that "the chef is here." He no longer ventured into the dining room. He never schmoozed. With his future secure, he gave up his dreams of television. Though he worked relatively little at Saint Germain—or anywhere else for that matter—content to golf and read and dream much of the time, to settle things with old wives and current girlfriends, he did drop by now and again. He'd put on a snap-front dishwasher shirt, some faded checks, his old clogs, and an apron. He'd tell Segundo, or whoever was working saute that night, to knock off early and he'd cook. He'd cook every order off his station, and off others besides. He'd stay till the very end, until the last order was gone. Then he'd dutifully clean and wipe down his station like he'd done when he'd been young and coming up. Afterward, he'd sit at the bar with his crew, who were now allowed to drink at Saint Germain, and they'd review the evening and tell stories and bust each other's balls. They'd tell stories, like the night of the Christmas Miracle, when the restaurant was saved. When they'd stayed, the whole crew, to drink the remainders of all those magnificent wines left over from their new benefactor's table and to congratulate themselves on their good fortune. A few days or weeks later, he'd return. And do it again. He'd cook. He'd cook like an angel. COMMENTARY SYSTEM D I wrote this piece shortly after Kitchen Confidential came out and was clearly feeling nostalgic for my kitchen and my cooks.

• From Lower than the Angels: A History of Sex and Christianity (2024)

  Churches were in the position of the Church of the East under Sasanian or Muslim rule more than a millennium before; all they could do was to police their own communities as best they could and assert monogamy as an ideal for Christian identity, against considerable alternative social pressures. Such was the case in imperial and early Republican China, where, just as in early medieval Europe, Christian Churches faced a legally established social institution of concubinage, only abolished by the Republic in 1929. Some missionaries took a lenient view: in the 1920s, Bishop Frederick Graves of Shanghai emphasized that he was not going to insist on a man ending his relationship with a woman who under Chinese law was a concubine, but ‘innocent of wrongdoing’; all three parties in the relationship would suffer. It was enough that the Church should postpone the man’s baptism till either the wife or the concubine died. In a masterly piece of analogous pragmatism, his contemporaries as Anglican bishops in China generally allowed baptism to the women involved, since the Lambeth Conference of worldwide Anglicanism in its pronouncements on polygamy had said nothing specific prohibiting the baptism of family members of polygynous men. [52] In Ethiopia, Africa retained one ancient indigenous Christian culture, whose Christian monarchy rode out Western colonialism throughout the nineteenth century, crushing an invading Italian army at Adwa in 1896. Over the centuries the Ethiopian Orthodox Church had come to an uneasy understanding with polygamy. This marital custom was general in African cultures to the south but, more importantly, it reflected the peculiarly strong identification of Ethiopian Christianity with Judaism that steadily grew between the twelfth and seventeenth centuries. Ethiopian Christians reached back to the Hebrew Bible and adopted Jewish customs that the rest of Christianity had dispensed with, including circumcision and abstention from pork: likewise, polygyny. King Solomon was a role model for Christian kings of Ethiopia (from the thirteenth century the dynasty claimed Solomonic lineage), and that included his impressive array of wives. The habitual royal enthusiasm for multiple marriage was one of several long-term bones of contention between Ethiopian monarchy and clergy. The foundational compilation of local Christian literature, the medieval Kebra Nagast (‘Book of the Glory of Kings’, actually regarded as part of the canon of Scripture in Ethiopia), proclaims Ethiopian royal descent from Solomon and the Queen of Sheba, while tartly pointing out that ‘after Christ, it was given to live with one woman under the law of marriage’. Monarchs ignored this pronouncement, as did very many of their subjects. Ethiopia’s compromise remains that lay polygynists reverently refrain from becoming communicants, and instead centre their devotion on a rigorous programme of fasting. [53] In Africa beyond the Sahara, marriage was a universal institution, but also very remote from the nuclear family systems of nineteenth-century Europe.

• From The Nasty Bits: Collected Varietal Cuts, Usable Trim, Scraps, and Bones (2006)

  I will cook what is here. It recognizes the incomparable joys of eating wild strawberries or white asparagus in France, fresh baby eels in Portugal, tomatoes in Italy. The Bloods, in my experience, rooted as they are to place and time, are more likely than not to cook with real, heartfelt soulfulness and integrity, seeking to nurture, sooth, comfort, and evoke, rather than dazzle. I always liked to think of myself as a Blood. Having recently traveled the world, often to very poor countries where being a Crip is not an option, I was enchanted again and again by cooks making fresh, vibrant, hearty, and soulful meals, often with very little in the way of resources. Like with the early culinary pioneers of France and Italy, the engine driving great cooking in Vietnam and Mexico, for instance, seems to be the grim necessity of dealing with what's available when it's available—and making the most of it. I've yammered endlessly, tiresomely, on the desirability of food coming from somewhere, that the sort of regional, seasonal fare that so many French and Italians grew up with is what is missing from much of American and British culinary culture. But now I don't know. There is more than a whiff of dogma in the Blood argument. The French "Group of Eight" chefs who decried the introduction of "foreign" spices and ingredients into haute cuisine strike me as the same crowd who want every movie to be a bloated, government-funded costume drama starring the inevitable Gerard Depardieu. I once heard a Parisian chef, while watching a comrade from Alsace make choucroute garnis, comment, "Thees is not French." An element of jingoism hangs in the air when some chefs decry "outside" and "foreign" influences on cooking—a scary overlap between those decrying foreign- influenced food and those decrying foreigners. And the organics mob, so fervent in their recitations of the dangers of pesticides, hormones, antibiotics, and genetic manipulation, often sound as if their agendas are driven by concerns far from taste or pleasure. The "slow food" lobby, arguing for sustainable sources of food, organic and free-range products, cruelty-free meat, and a return to a photogenic but never-to-be-realized agrarian wonderland, seem to overlook the fact that the stuff is expensive, and that much of the world goes to bed hungry at night—that most of us can't hop in the SUV with Sting and drive down to the organic greenmarket to pay twice the going rate. Don't get me wrong. I like free-range; it's almost always better tasting. Wild salmon is better than farmed salmon, and yes, the farmed stuff is a threat to overall quality. Free-range chickens taste better, and are less likely to contain E. coli bacteria. Free-range is no doubt nicer as well; whenever possible we should, by all means, let Bambi run free (before slitting his throat and yanking out his entrails). Since I serve mostly neurotic rich people in my restaurant, I can often afford to buy free-range and organic.

• From The Nasty Bits: Collected Varietal Cuts, Usable Trim, Scraps, and Bones (2006)

  Next time I'm asked the question, I'll be ready with a very respectable answer. From Tian Tian, I wandered down to stall number five, an establishment called, appropriately enough, simply "Oyster Cake." The woman proprietor proudly told me she's been serving the same dish, and only that dish, for forty- five years. I figured, correctly, that after all that time she had to be pretty good at it. A throng of local customers, lining up for the deep-fried, Foochow-style beignet of oysters, minced pork, prawns, and batter, seemed to support this conclusion. I sat down at a center table (all the businesses share and jointly maintain the bare, bolted-down center tables), poked a squeeze bottle of spicy pepper sauce into the center of my cake, and gave it a good squirt. Pure goodness, washed down with a tall cup of sugarcane juice from an adjoining stall. Once I got started, it was hard to stop. At a business advertising "Pig Organ Soup," a brightly colored sign offered the appetizing-looking Malay specialty, ba ku the. I sat down once again and was presented with a brightly colored bowl of tender boiled pork ribs in a bowl lined with greens and clear, piping-hot broth. I ordered a freshly made mango juice and happily gnawed bones and slurped broth until full. It was tough to leave. Left untried were dozens of specialties, including an entire halal section set apart from the other stands; fried mee suah, sporting a tempting-sounding combination of mussels, pig's stomach, prawns, chicken gizzards, liver, and squid; and laksa, a spicy broth of seafood, noodles, and coconut milk. There was an enormous line of people waiting for a congee-style porridge—as in Taiwan and Thailand—and everywhere I looked, there seemed to be good, fresh, brightly colored stuff, brimming from crowded stalls with proud-looking proprietors. The place was clean, organized, friendly, and informal. Each business prominently displayed its grade from the health department. At the end of the day, in keeping with Singapore's stringent food- handling requirements, all leftovers would be disposed of—every business starting the next day from scratch with all new ingredients. This is what a food court should be, I thought, as I waddled toward the door. Imagine if there were a food court near you, at the mall, for instance, where instead of the soul-destroying mediocrity and sameness of American fast food, a wide spectrum of ethnically diverse lone proprietors—all of whom had been perfecting their craft for decades—offered up their very best. Imagine independently owned and operated businesses next door to each other, each serving one specialty as far from and different from the adjacent offering as each individual culture.

• From Why We Believe: Finding Meaning in Uncertain Times

  Flourishing in an Uncertain WorldThe poet John Keats coined the term ‘negative capability’ to refer to a willingness to accept and embrace ‘being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts. While some might hastily draw firm conclusions about the significance of an idea or event, Keats encouraged remaining in a state of openness, continuing to probe and reflect on a complex reality to gain a more comprehensive understanding of it. Keats grasped the importance of a respectful contemplative musing on an object – such as a Grecian urn – without feeling compelled to arrive at a definitive and conclusive interpretation of its meaning or prematurely shutting down the process of reflection. He was willing to inhabit a realm of uncertainties, mysteries and doubts, affirming and experiencing the complexity and depth of the world rather than trying to subjugate it with the precision of logical analysis.13 This book leaves readers in a similar position. My concern has been to describe the epistemic dilemma in which we find ourselves, and to caution against prematurely dismissing some of the most significant beliefs that have shaped human culture and civilization throughout history. We can prove shallow truths, but not the profound existential, moral and spiritual beliefs that bestow dignity and significance upon human life. Some individuals may find this profoundly uncomfortable and may wish to eliminate the category of belief, or convert their own beliefs into certainties. Yet for reasons that we have explored in this book, I do not consider this to be a defensible position. Recognising that we live in a world of uncertainties, mysteries and doubts may be unsettling; however, this is surely preferable to constructing a world of imagined self-evident truths in response to our aversion to uncertainty. Though we live in a world that is existentially ambivalent and morally uninformative, beliefs make this is a profoundly habitable place by allowing us to see it (and ourselves) in a new way. Beliefs involve us, giving us the capacity to discern or create human meaning, purpose and significance, and live this out in community with others. So why believe? Because we’re human. Because it’s normal. Because it’s realistic. Belief is as natural to human beings as it is necessary for their wellbeing. We have to deal with humanity as it is, as ‘moral believing animals’,14 shaped in ways we do not fully understand by our evolutionary past and cultural present, rather than as the universalised logical or rational calculating machines envisaged by the Age of Reason, which held what turned out to be a forlorn hope of clear and certain answers to our deepest questions.

• From Lower than the Angels: A History of Sex and Christianity (2024)

  [9] As a result, a great change in attitudes appeared in 1930, when the Lambeth Conference acknowledged in cautious Anglican-speak that there would be occasions when ‘a clearly felt moral obligation to limit or avoid parenthood’, and ‘a morally sound reason for avoiding complete abstinence’ would justify contraception in the light of Christian principles. The decision to use contraceptives should thus be up to the consciences of individual couples. More importantly, a majority among the bishops no longer considered birth control sinful by its nature. Some even argued that there was no real moral difference between sexual abstinence and artificial contraception, since both set out deliberately to prevent conception. [10] All through this discussion, eugenics remained significant; it was the chosen emphasis of the Church’s self-appointed expert on birth control, Theodore Woods, the Bishop of Winchester, who noted the alarming decline in birth rate among the middle and upper classes and considered that the lesser orders needed encouraging to limit their families so that the British population would be rebalanced towards the leaders of society and Empire. That argument swayed many doubters, though other speakers did say more about individual morality, and also equity for women. [11] The Anglican Communion had by whatever route become the first major Church grouping in the world to accept contraception as legitimate. The triumph of contraception in Anglicanism was sealed at the Lambeth Conference of 1958, where over three hundred bishops from forty-six countries unanimously decided that family planning was a ‘right and important factor in Christian family life’ – and it seems that where Anglicans lead, the world follows: in 2012 the United Nations declared access to family planning a universal human right. [12] Opposition to this momentous step had been still loud in the Lambeth debates in 1930. Anglo-Catholics were split, the final direction of the Conference being set from among their ranks by the moral theologian and later Bishop of Oxford Kenneth Kirk, while others in opposition echoed nineteenth-century Roman Catholic moral theology, chief among them being the veteran Anglo-Catholic leader and monk, Bishop Charles Gore of Oxford. Gore was an exceptionally clear-sighted theologian, austerely ready to call a spade a spade. He was prepared to spell out the inescapable link between contraception and homosexual sex: ‘what we used to call unnatural vice…appears to be very prevalent now.’ He insisted in classic Alexandrian fashion that there must be a connection between sex and reproduction: to separate sexual pleasure from procreation ‘justifies the philosophy of homosexuality’. Gore was of course perfectly correct, and prophetic of later developments in liberal Protestantism, as we will see. [13]

• From Why We Believe: Finding Meaning in Uncertain Times

  ‘Belief’ is now seen as relevant for both secular and religious domains, encompassing a rich spectrum of possibilities. Religious belief may be distinct in certain ways, but all human beings are ‘believers’ in some sense of the term. Both atheists and religious people can have ‘crises of meaning’ in their lives.8 The study of the process of believing is of wide and general interest, especially in understanding human flourishing. So why do we believe? The anthropologist Agustín Fuentes suggests that it is a bit like asking why human beings have five fingers. We just do. It is the way we are. It is part of the human condition, and it needs to be affirmed and embraced. We believe because we are human. Just like our large and complex brains, our ability to walk on our hind legs, our nimble fingers and hands, and our ability to make tools, the capacity for belief is part of our distinctive evolutionary history. To be human is to be able to believe.9 While nobody is really sure, we can certainly explore how both the act of believing and specific beliefs help to shape and influence the distinctive ways in which individual human beings engage with each other and the wider world. Belief is an ability to make connections that are not directly given in our observations, which open up a grander vision of our world, or to learn to see through the eyes of others, and thus extend the range of possibilities at our disposal. It is important to make a distinction between believing and beliefs. Believing is a human mental process; beliefs are the outcome of this process, often developing and changing over time, through interaction with others and exploration of our surroundings. Although we can ‘articulate’ – to use Charles Taylor’s helpful term – the intellectual content of our beliefs, they are not restricted to the realm of human reason. Beliefs actively shape the way in which we see and experience the world, and the way in which we enact our lives.10 Once a belief is acquired, a process of reflection and adjustment sets in, as the believer explores how this belief shapes their lives, often in dialogue with others who already share this belief, and have acquired a settled understanding of its implications and consequences. Let’s begin to explore the difference that belief makes to our understanding of reality, our modes of experiencing reality, and our way of living. We start by considering an aspect of believing highlighted in Colin McGinn’s stimulating study of ‘mindsight’ – the ability of certain beliefs to refocus the ‘mind’s eye’, enabling us to see the world in a new way.11

• From The Nasty Bits: Collected Varietal Cuts, Usable Trim, Scraps, and Bones (2006)

  People I drink with, and listen to music with, tend to gather not at clubs but at favored dive bars where the music and ambiance suits our taste and our demographic. A good jukebox is vital. In every city in America where there are restaurants, there are bars where chefs and line cooks go to relax and kick back. It's never sleek or swank; it's usually a dive, someplace nonjudgmental and forgiving of the occasional bad behavior (and with a liberal pouring policy). It's always open late, as it must be to accommodate cooks' hours, a place where cooks are likely to meet others in their field who share their peculiar half-lives, people who understand what they've accomplished and endured during the last ten or twelve or seventeen hours, and who don't mind the lingering scent of smoked salmon or garlic. In New York, there's Siberia Bar, a dark, shabby, nearly undecorated dump on West Fortieth Street in Hell's Kitchen. No sign on the door, just a red lightbulb. Inside are sagging, hideously stained couches, friendly bartenders familiar with restaurant folk and their peculiarities, and—on both the ground floor and in the dank, brick-lined cellar—jukeboxes brimming with classic Dead Boys, James Brown, Stooges, Modern Lovers, and Velvet Underground. In Chicago, there's the superbly grotty Rainbow Club and the tiny Matchbox, where you're likely to find cooks from Tru or Blackbird or hotel kitchens listening to head-banging anthems. In New Orleans, the last stop for bar-crawling cookies is the supremely squalid and at times terrifying Snake and Jake's Christmas Club Lounge, where winking Christmas lights, a shotgun-shack motif, an esoteric playlist, and "flexible" hours of operation attract some of the Crescent City's finest practitioners of the culinary arts. Miami has the magnificently unreconstructed Club Deuce in South Beach, where original members of the "Mango Gang," among them Douglas Rodriguez and Norman Van Aken, used to congregate, presumably to discuss early experiments with fusion. During the recent South Beach Food & Wine Festival, after the official parties ended, numerous celeb-chef attendees found themselves propped up at the Deuce's serpentine bar watching off-duty ladies of the night play pool. As I lurched back to my hotel, the lion-hearted and still-going-strong Nancy Silverton (of La Brea Bakery in L.A.) was considering grabbing some greasy tacos across the street. But it's Atlanta that can lay claim to the best of the best (which is to say worst) chef-friendly dives in America: the legendary Clermont Lounge, a sort of lost- luggage department for strippers, who perform—perfunctorily—on a stage behind the bar. An Atlanta institution, attended at one time by nearly every citizen high and low, the Clermont changes character somewhat after midnight. The seemingly lost and hopeless give way to a hipster/restaurant trade contingent.

• From Why We Believe: Finding Meaning in Uncertain Times

  Midgley suggests that it is helpful to compare the world to a ‘huge aquarium’, with multiple viewing windows to allow us not simply to consider its many aspects, but to realise that these are elements of a greater interconnected whole. ‘We cannot see it as a whole from above, so we peer in at it through a number of small windows. … We can eventually make quite a lot of sense of this habitat if we patiently put together the data from different angles. But if we insist that our own window is the only one worth looking through, we shall not get very far.’45 Our world demands using a wide range of windows and viewpoints if we are to fully capture its depth and complexity. Midgley’s anti-reductionist strategy of ‘multiple maps’ allows us to capture, represent and, ultimately, safeguard the complexity of our world. We need a collection of maps, each incomplete, to view alongside each other.46 These maps complement, rather than contradict; they each offer distinct accounts of the same territory, providing their own specific information and insights. A political map of Europe is not the same as a physical map of Europe; neither makes the other redundant. The first discloses the political boundaries of its regions, where one nation-state ends and other begins – matters that would be appreciated by refugees seeking safety. The second discloses the location of rivers, mountains and lakes – matters that would be appreciated by tourists and nature lovers. Both serve their own distinct purpose, disclosing only certain aspects of the landscape of reality which can be more fully grasped and comprehended by superimposing these individual maps. Yet when taken together, these maps unfold an extended vision of our world and human existence, allowing us to locate ourselves within its existential landscape. Much the same point was made by Iris Murdoch, noted for her emphasis on the ‘calming’ and ‘whole-making’ effect of beliefs,47 which help us to see the world as coherent and capable of sustaining meaningful human existence. Like Midgley, Murdoch recognised the importance of finding a unifying picture which coordinates the metaphysical (what reality is) with the existential (what reality means). Where Alex Rosenberg believes that the universe is meaningless, recommending judicious use of antidepressants such as Prozac to cope with this unsettling insight, Midgley and Murdoch argue that we can achieve mental stability by discerning the richer vision of the universe that results from interdisciplinary reflection and allows us insights into how we can live more authentically in this complex world.

• From The Nasty Bits: Collected Varietal Cuts, Usable Trim, Scraps, and Bones (2006)

  In keeping with the mantra of "nothing potentially delicious shall go to waste," a plate of savory duck tongues and fork-tender duck feet arrives hot on the heels of the duck itself, all of it revelatory in its wonderfulness. I could easily have spent my entire ten-day trip to China eating at—and writing about—one square block of restaurants, or a single strip of wet market, and never have scratched the surface. China is big. And one lifetime is not enough to fully or authoritatively explore her. But it appears increasingly likely that in future, more of us will have the opportunity to try. In modern China, there are construction cranes everywhere. Roads are widening, dams being built, hotels going up, Western businesses pouring in, along with dollars and more dollars. New street signs are in Mandarin and English, and China projects an impression that she's getting ready to fully assume her role of financial superpower. So, perhaps it's not necessary to go to China. She'll be coming to you. NO SHOES Understand this: I always hated those articles, like the ones in Vanity Fair, featuring the Lifestyles of the Rich and Despotic, where some chicken-brained Hilton kiddie, shriveled Sukarno relative, or Scientologist movie star lets us into their swanky digs to show off their collection of expensive motorcars and Tiberius-inspired plumbing. I don't know why they really publish this stuff. Do the writers actually admire these no-accounts and wish us to emulate their wastrel behavior if we can? Or are the writers, in fact, hard-core Maoist provocateurs, hoping secretly to rouse us ordinary schlubs to a murderous rage with these glimpses into the profligate spending of capitalist grotesques? That said, where I'm sitting right now is a rented villa on the Caribbean island of Saint Martin. Directly in front of me, through open French doors, is a coconut palm, gently straining in the breeze, its fronds brushing against a whitewashed balustrade. In the distance, green-covered mountains, a vast expanse of blue sea —so many shades of blue it looks like a child's crayon box (the jumbo collection)—and beyond, the hazy, distant shapes of the islands of Saint Eustatius and Saba sit on the horizon under puffs of white, gold, and purple clouds. A rooster crows somewhere. Birds cheep vin the garden. The caretaker's dogs gnaw lazily on leftover bones outside the front door . . . Jesus! I think I may have crossed the line into Terminal Michael Winner Syndrome. ". . . While Ricardo, the capable maitre d'hotel, had urged me to dine in the grill room, I opted instead for Le Bateau Rouge, a charming brasserie by the port that Michael Caine had recommended on an earlier visit. I had the sole. And something white and starchy. I think it was a potato." I've been in the West Indies for two months now, and for that entire time I have not once worn shoes or socks.

• From The Nasty Bits: Collected Varietal Cuts, Usable Trim, Scraps, and Bones (2006)

  Who can deny the desirability of experiencing pure flavor, texture, and culinary technique free from the constraints and intrusions of restrictive modern garb? It's an insult to the chef, isn't it? Like trying to eat in a straitjacket or fuck through a shower curtain. I don't know. Maybe I'd better pack one pair of Hush Puppies. Just in case. THE LOVE BOAT Tomorrow, there will be blender drinks and citron presses and fluffy towels by the pool. Smiling attendants will cool us with chilled white washcloths and spray our overheated, sun-browned flesh with refrigerated mist. The New York Times —or the newspaper of our choice—will be waiting in our mailboxes when we wake, our names printed on each page, and if we like, there will be tea and cakes, aromatherapy, a massage. We will glance at each other briefly, wordlessly, across the cigar room or the library or the whirlpool and know that we have made it, that we have put aside the cares of the world, that we have only to rest, to read, to play, to sleep—and that when we wake, we shall be in another time zone, another country. But tonight, seventy-six very rich people are pressed deep deep deep into their custom-made Italian sheets, squeezed down into their mattresses by the rise and fall of the rooms around them—then lifted, as if weightless, momentarily above their beds—then pressed down again. The vast living rooms, dining areas, foyers, bedrooms, and marble-appointed bathrooms that surround them tilt and sway, climb and dive as their floating condominiums negotiate force-seven near- gale-force winds and high seas of eighteen-to-twenty-seven-foot swells. Mashed and elevated ever so gently in their beds, most surely sleep. The ship does not protest. No groans or squeaks or creaking beams. She handles like a brand new Mercedes 600—large, yes, but solid, and smelling of new wood and new money. Through the airtight, soundproof sliding doors to our long outdoor private verandas, the wind and surf, the crash of waves against the hull are barely audible. The rat-tat-tat of raindrops on our outdoor Jacuzzis goes unheard. I'm making osso buco and wild mushroom-black truffle risotto. I'm chopping orange gremolata for garnish in my spacious and well-equipped kitchen as the floor pitches and rolls and threatens to deposit me face-first in the simmering pot of veal shanks on my spanking new, four-burner range top. A load of laundry hums behind me. The dishwasher does its business beneath a long expanse of counter, and when I toss a few herb stems, orange scraps, and vegetable trippings into the food disposal, it devours them without complaint. Tasteful but efficient railings keep my saucepots, plates, and glassware in place while I pick and weave unsteadily to the refrigerator, where a vichyssoise cools beside a constantly restocked supply of imported beer and juices. In the sleek, comfortable Danish Modern bedroom, my wife watches a film from the double bed.

• From The Nasty Bits: Collected Varietal Cuts, Usable Trim, Scraps, and Bones (2006)

  Rather than living behind high walls on the Riviera, or in some faux agrarian-wonderland compound in Napa, or getting their faces and buttocks stretched taut in LA, here they relax, read, spend time with a few select loved ones, looking comfortably untaut and unattractive in their swimwear by the pool: a little mist, a blender drink, a nice nap, some frozen fish for dinner, remaining in contact with their faraway empires via Internet and satellite phone. I will always remember an elegant, silver-haired Frenchman who, during lifeboat drill, looked warily at the rather extravagantly appointed emergency launches and wanted to know only if there was plenty of red wine stored among the provisions. I liked him for that. We ate the osso buco after the ship tied up at Puerto Limon, Costa Rica. And it was delicious. My risotto was perfect. SOUR IS CELEBRITY KILLING THE GREAT CHEFS? There has always been an element of the hustler/showman in the great chef. From Careme's extravagant pieces montees, best-selling books, and careful career management through Escof-fier's shrewd partnership with Cesar Ritz and on into the television age, smart chefs have known that simply cooking well is not enough. The chef in the dining room, mingling with the guests in an impeccably white starched jacket and toque, is a different man than the chef his cooks see. All chefs know and accept how much of the business of fine dining is artifice: The mood lighting, interior decoration, uniformed service staff, the napkins and silver, background music, and erotically descriptive menu text all conspire to create an environment for customers not much different than a stage set. Chefs have always written books, multiplatformed, and performed—to one extent or another—for their public. Whether coddling their customers or snarling at them, a chef caters to expectations, creating an image, hopefully one that will sell more food and attract more public. With the advent of the Food Network and expanded media interest in chefs worldwide, however, the bar has been raised considerably. Speaking well and being good on television, giving good interview—these skills now seem almost as important as knife work. Even the Culinary Institute of America, the prestigious professional cooking school, now offers media training as part of its curriculum. Perhaps, then, they should teach the cautionary tale of Rocco DiSpirito as an example of A Chef Who Went Too Far, one who went over the line—messed with the bitch goddess celebrity and got burned. Before television, Rocco was the well-respected chef of the three-star Union Pacific, a bright, charismatic guy with the world on a string. He was known for his skill in the kitchen, his innovative style, and his insistence on quality. As he became more recognized, he began expanding the "brand," consulting to other restaurants, signing multiple endorsement deals, showing up at openings and promo parties.