Where to begin a blog about vegetarian food? Many readers are reluctant to appreciate the charms of a meal that never breathed, (even if they don’t see it that way) and so a blog about food from the earth needs to be interesting. I, personally, find vegetarian food quite interesting because it forces me to step out of the box that many Americans are so unquestionably stuck in. How can a person fathom eating a full meal (let alone every meal) without the main American course—meat! Well let me tell you it’s an adventure every time you step into the kitchen or into a restaurant. In a new restaurant you feel like an explorer in a new world. You take the foreign menu and search, full of hope and excitement, for the little green leaf icon next to an item or the little green V (green is such a lovely color, isn’t it?) Some restaurants are full of glorious little green icons and your job is easily done. Others leave you with an exciting challenge—which item will lend itself best to having the meat stripped away, leaving a delicious dinner sans meat for a reasonable price in its wake? No matter how you come to your vegetarian solution, it’s an adventure and you can’t help but feel the satisfaction of a person who worked just a little bit harder to make a statement (to yourself if no one else) about just how much you love animals and disapprove cruelty. In the grand scheme of things, the statement is quite small given how easy it is to make the decision and how little effort it requires to enjoy the fruits of the earth’s labor. It’s interesting when people seem offended that I would put “so much effort” into caring about animals when there is copious human suffering in the world. To that I say of course human suffering is an important problem for which I wish I had an answer. But I do have one answer that benefits the world in many ways: there is nothing I can do to stop the suffering of another being that is easier than making a simple decision at every meal that I will not eat an animal.
With that I take you to a fond vegetarian food memory that I enjoyed on an unsuspecting balmy day in Aruba (Dutch Caribbean). I was on my honeymoon and my hubby, ever the review-conscious traveler, had figured out down to a veritable science where we could go and have the highest probably of experiencing a delicious meal. We had grappled with the age-old question: do we return to places I remembered loving or do we venture out to new, untested restaurants. Shawn’s adventurous nature led us to the highest reviewed, and by all appearances, most unassuming restaurant in Aruba. By unassuming I do not mean that it was a hole-in-the-wall. To me, these restaurants are nothing if not assuming—if recommended, they often provide the best food you can hope to ask for in a new city. By unassuming I mean something that most Americans would be pleased as punch to find—the restaurant seemed to be a mediocre tourist trap. That is not to say that the ambience was not quite lovely. As many of the new touristy restaurants in this particular new strip mall in Aruba have proven, the American tourist clamors for candles and lovely hanging lanterns and outdoor wicker bench seating and unidentified but beautiful artwork on the walls and—of course—a random flat screen tucked away in the corner. But on to the positives.
We entered Papillon, self-declared French Carribean cuisine, nestled between the raucous “Senor Frogs” and the creepy “El Chico.” Thankfully, the restaurant is tucked away in the back of the complex, recessed from the noises of other, less-worthy restaurants. We were greeted by a charming and attractive young Dutch host who, in a flourish of lovely foreign accent and cheery chatter, led us to a table on the patio. Our reservation proved unnecessary as the place was surprisingly-and perhaps alarmingly-empty. I must say that at that moment the nervousness at our choice melted away as I took my first glance at the menu. Tucked away comfortably beneath the meat selections was the “Vegetables” Section—how nice. My eyes were drawn to the Funchi Napolean. Not knowing what funchi was, I was thrilled and intrigued by the wild asparagus, the “drizzle” of balsamic syrup and basil pesto, the cherry tomatoes, and the melted French brie. Tantalizing.
Our server was doe-eyed and attentive, hailed from Holland, and, like so many other 20-something servers on the island, was spending his summer working in Aruba because of its Dutch connections. He explained that Funchi is Caribbean polenta and I was sold. He convinced us on a bottle of wine, snapped up our order and menus, and whisked away to get our complimentary appetizer course. That day (our first of two dinners at Papillon), the appetizer was shrimp in some kind of creamy, buttery sauce that Shawn raved endlessly about. I waited patiently for my vegetables.
A generous bit of Riesling later, I was faced with a beautiful site: glorious golden cakes nestled on top of what just had to be that creamy melted brie, with the cheery and beautiful green asparagus poking out from beneath it. The tomatoes floated lovingly on the drizzle of pesto and balsamic—a beautiful palate of colors and shapes and sizes to soak in. These wonderful colors and shapes and textures, I remind you, are often overpowered and go unnoticed in a dish with meat as the main.
My first bite had to be good—to be fair, it had to include a representative sample of the flavors and textures on the plate. I painstakingly gathered a corner of the polenta, a snap of the asparagus, a squished tomato slathered with balsamic and pesto, with the brie binding it all together as a happy, gooey family. Were it not cliché to describe it as a flavor explosion, those would be my words. Instead I’ll just leave it to your imagination: the polenta was perfectly fried to a delicate crunch with a satisfying squishy chew and the brie had that tangy sweet melody that always causes my eyes to roll. The asparagus added a satisfying crunch that was not to be outdone by the contrast of the juicy tomato innards and the pang of the balsamic on the back of my tongue that I enjoyed last. I delicately constructed each bite and rolled it generously through the balsamic and pesto—not to miss a single thorough flavor experience, beginning to end. I think I blacked out because before I knew it, the delicious piece of art that had been put in front of me not minutes before had disappeared—down someone else’s gullet I presume—and all that remained was a white plate, smeared with what balsamic couldn’t be soaked up or scraped away.
A wonderfully, surprisingly, enchantingly delicious meal and experience from menu to dessert and, in case you’re wondering, Shawn’s experience was equally enlightening and he only got to eat meat!
