My Cup Runneth Over: the World Cup Culinary Challenge Concluded

I know my loyal and faithful fans and readers are waiting on tenterhooks for the next instalment of my World Culinary Cup extravaganza, and I certainly don’t want to disappoint. But as we’re leaving on holiday in a matter of hours, I’ll have to rush this one a bit. (Although I’m the king of leaving things till the last minute, I did have to wait until last night’s final quarterfinal match before I could write this…obviously…)

After the group stages, things started to fall apart on the cooking front. Perhaps it was the initial euphoria that wore off, perhaps we lost momentum, and we certainly lost a bit of inspiration. Doing it the right away became pretty time-consuming and a wee bit stressful at times, rushing around like a blue-arsed fly trying to get the ingredients I needed. I should have just kept it simple and done something like a World Cup Beer Odyssey, as a former colleague Jonathan has been doing (impressively tracking down a Sam Adams for the US, as well).

How to live: Cooking

Every now and then, when I’m in a particularly philosophical and reflective mood (in other words, all the time) and channeling my inner Montaigne, I’m tempted to sit down and churn out a few pieces on ‘how to live’. I tend to think and overthink and contemplate and ruminate on just about every aspect of life. I take notes, I ponder, I come across quotations that fit into what I’m trying to say. One of these days, I might actually offer up some of my nuggets of life wisdom. Control yourselves, and be patient, dear readers. That’s for another time.

But for now, a brief preview. My first instalment is related to cooking:

1. Don’t follow recipes: process over product.

I thoroughly enjoy the process of cooking. When you’re not in a rush, I find it relaxing, therapeutic and stress-relieving. When I’m faced with deadlines and a recipe, panic and stress creep in. Sometimes following recipes is like trying to decipher a foreign language. I find following recipes takes much of the joy and relaxation out of cooking, and it becomes a chore. As I often like to say when writing a profile for whatever language school I’m working at – when we have to come up with a brief bio – ‘…In my free time I enjoy reading, writing and cooking (I’m ambitious, not necessarily good)…’

There you are: experiment, be ambitious, throw things together, sip a nice glass of plonk as you chop up garlic, and see what happens. And under no circumstances are you to ever, ever measure something precisely. I hope to get through life without ever buying – let alone using – any measuring devices. None of this 200 grams of this, 2 tablespoons of that. Estimate, take a chance and have fun with it. Follow a recipe when you absolutely must – and I do from time to time – but for the most part, find an interesting dish, check out the ingredients, have a brief look at the directions, and then go from memory or inspiration. Does this always work? Hell no, I’ve made some utter crap on more than one occasion. But the process of getting there was enjoyable and rewarding. Who cares about the end product? It may look like shit, but it rarely tastes so.

Onto the knockout round

Day 1: Saturday, 28 June: Brazil v Chile & Uruguay v Colombia

The promised South American meat feast came up short. Chile were eliminated and my bottle of Chilean wine remains unopened. I hope it will still be good in four years’ time.

I actually can’t even remember what we ate.

Game over, on the first day of the knockout round. I can’t even think of a single thing that might have kept us in the competition.

Day 2: Sunday, 29 June: Mexico v Holland & Costa Rica v Greece

This was great fun! We got really stoned on some fine Dutch hashish (via Morocco), then smoked some of the finest and potent Mexican weed known to mankind and then…

Okay, I’m kidding.

Instead, it was an afternoon of Mexican sangrias, which were awful by the way (and I actually loosely followed a recipe). No Heineken, no herring, and nothing even remotely Costa Rican or Greek. We had burgers actually – so there’s the ‘South American meat feast’ I was after.  

Day 3: Monday, 30 June: France v Nigeria & Germany v Algeria

I’m not thinking about Anschluss or anything here, but as I mentioned in my last piece, I have fond memories of living in Germany as a child and eating pork schnitzel. So we went with German – with sauerkraut on the side, washed down with a French Cotes de Gascogne.

Day 4: Tuesday, 1 July: Argentina v Switzerland & USA v Belgium

We needed a meat break – I normally don’t eat that much of it and was feeling a bit, uh… So we went with American style vegetarian fare: buffalo tofu, green beans and corn on the cob. I wish I could say we washed it down with Belgian ale, but the three 750ml bottles remain in the fridge, untouched, right next to the Chilean wine. I had a bit of Swiss cheese as well.

And afford me a minute to comment on USA v Belgium: one of the most breathtaking, exhilarating matches I’ve ever seen. I had to watch it again the next day just to take it all in. I can’t recall the last time I saw a match at such a breakneck pace where there wasn’t even time for replays.

The quarterfinals

Day 1: Friday, 4 July: Germany v France & Brazil v Colombia

I could have done the patriotic thing and eaten burgers and hot dogs and Bud, but the South American meat feast was overdue, and so it was off to Grill do Brasil for a late lunch. I’d only recently discovered this place, and a fine place it is, well worth revisiting – all you can eat meat and salad bar, and a tremendous variety on offer. We only went for the limited lunch menu, but the amount of choice they have in the evening is staggering. At some point, I think I’ll starve myself for a couple of days and then pig out.

The evening featured Basil martinis/mojitos, gin daiquiris and caipirinhas. Those are all Brazilian, right?

Day 2: Saturday, 5 July: Argentina v Belgium & Holland v Costa Rica

At long last, we finally really ate something Dutch: Eggs Benedict with smoked salmon and Hollandaise sauce. Unsure of the origins of Hollandaise sauce, I looked it up and sure enough, there is a clear Dutch connection. The origins are murky and disputed (see previous post on shakshuka, for example), but it’s believed that it was first made in the Netherlands and then taken to France by the Huguenots. Anyway, who cares – it’s got ‘Holland’ in the name and the smoked fish added to the authenticity.

Sadly the American dream had already come to an end at the hands of the Belgians, who put in an anemic performance against Argentina. I, on the other hand, put in a good performance with a couple Stella Artois, while the nice Belgian ales sit unmolested in the fridge.

The semifinals and final

Thus ends the 2014 edition of the World Cup Culinary Challenge. In a few hours we’re off for just over two weeks in Georgia. I’m somewhat nervous about being able to watch the last few matches. Though the time difference isn’t onerous – kickoff will be midnight local time – it will be a matter of finding places open late enough, in a country that isn’t exactly the most football-mad. I have rather painful memories of Euro 2008: I had just left Riga via Vilnius, spent a few days in Crimea for the start of the competition, and then was on a Black Sea ferry for three days, without any television or news from the outside world. I arrived in Georgia eager to finally watch some footie, only to have very little luck. No one even seemed to know it was happening. I was lucky to catch one or two matches, but in unpleasant circumstances which aren’t worth going into here. I finally got to Armenia to see my pal Magnus, where we watched all the quarterfinals and semifinals in a terrific atmosphere amidst football-mad Armenians. I’m no expert on the Caucasians, but I wondered at the time why Armenia was so much more into football than Georgia. I certainly hope times have changed. Having watched so much of the World Cup already – I’ve barely missed a match – I’d hate to miss the end. Then again, it might not even be too difficult to avoid the results and then watch it when I return.  

Parting thoughts on Americans and Ukrainians

That takes me to the final segment, and something highly amusing I witnessed during Belgium v Argentina last night at Beer Point. I was sat at the bar, on my own, watching.    

The Ukrainian secret to a successful restaurant

But first, a brief rant on yet another of my pet hates or bug bears. I’m not a fan of reserving a table, unless it’s for a big crowd or a special occasion. I generally hate the idea. I never know when exactly I might be hungry or what I’ll be in the mood for. I like being more spontaneous and planning nights out as little as possible. But in Kyiv, people book tables all the time, almost like paranoia (see my previous post about the metro, for example) that they won’t have a place to sit. I could be wrong here and maybe I’m the crazy one, but it drives me up the wall to walk into a place around 7pm and see most of the tables empty but reserved.

But my real issue is this: although last night I was happy at the bar, there were four or five reserved tables that remained empty the whole time I was there, and this is a typical occurrence. While sitting there, at least 10-11 groups of people came in, inquired about a table, and then left because there were no free spots. Surely businesses have cottoned on to this and would stop taking reservations. I know some places, during peak times or big sporting events, ask for a non-refundable deposit, which is fine from a business perspective I suppose, but it’s a bit harsh on potential customers.

Whilst living in Lviv in 2005-6, there was one – exactly one – place where I could watch live football. Those who know Lviv well will know that times have certainly changed, but eight years ago, watching live football was a massive challenge. Not having any other choice, I often went to this place, only to find almost every table reserved. Sometimes there would be a paper, with name and time of the reservers. And this is what got me – I’d go in around 3pm. There would be tables booked for 6, 7 or 8pm. And yet they still wouldn’t let me sit at them before that, as if I’d spoil or sully their precious table. I’d be crammed into a corner or offered a lousy seat with a bad view. I was watching World Cup qualifiers one day, when Ukraine were due to play Moldova or Turkey in the evening. There I sat, almost alone for much of the day, watching God knows who playing for hours and hours, surrounded by empty tables. And then for the Ukraine match, only half the people who’d booked tables actually turned up. All the while, the waitstaff and I glared at each other. Every time I asked if I could move, I was sternly rebuked and told to shut up and stay where I was.    

This place is now out of business. No wonder.

It’s also no wonder that places in Kyiv open and close willy-nilly. Just when you think you’ve found a cool new place, it’s gone for good a few months later. Perhaps they ought to re-think their reservations policy.

Football/soccer progress in America?

I’d have to say there’s been a lot of progress in terms of the development of American soccer. Eight to twelve years ago, the conversation revolved around how to make the game more exciting:

‘Dude, there’s not enough scoring, let’s make the goals bigger!’

‘Dude, what’s with this offsides (sic) rule, let’s just get rid of it!’

‘Dude, why don’t we take our best basketball players and make them play soccer, they’ll kick all these Europeans’ sorry asses!’

‘Dude, these weak-ass mother-f***** Europeans are better than us at soccer, what the f***?’

‘Dude, these Europeans and South Americans are a bunch of pansies, whining and crying and rolling around on the floor!’

Alright, so that last point hasn’t changed. But still, things have come a long way. There’s less of the nonsense and more serious analytical talk these days, and that’s a good sign. The sport is definitely being taken more seriously.

But, while watching Belgium huff and puff their way around against Argentina, wondering whether this was the same team that peppered the US with some 39 shots just a few days before, I noticed a table of three Americans. Now, I’m a very open-minded, progressive thinker, and those who know me can vouch for this. I’m not passing any judgement on anyone whatsoever, I am merely observing and commenting on the bare-boned facts, and the way I see things. Just to get that out of the way.

There was a man and two women. The women both had extremely short hair and dark-rimmed glasses. The man’s fashion was fairly extravagant and his hair was a sight to behold, a mini-afro thing going on. They were fairly loud, but I was too far away to hear the conversation.

In walked a couple: another extravagantly dressed man in pastel blue three-quarter length trousers and a tight, patterned shirt, along with another woman who could have been a clone of the other two, short hair, dark-rimmed glasses. Upon seeing them enter and approach the table, one of the sitting women got up excitedly to embrace the new woman, gave her a big hug and exclaimed, ‘oh my God, you lezzo, I love you!’ before giving each other some nice juicy smackeroos right on the lips. They made a pretty big production out of it and there were hugs all around, a fair bit of smooching amongst them all, before they settled down to drink and clink glasses every two to three minutes. At one point, they all put their legs into the air, above the table, to compare their Birkenstocks – it was either that, or the hair on their legs, I’m not sure.

They weren’t paying attention to the match. But at one point, one of the women looked up at the big screen – it’s impossible to miss – and said to the others:

‘Oh look, it’s soccer, is this the World Cup?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Dude, when does the US play?’

‘I don’t know, but we should watch them.’

‘Yeah, totally, find out.’

Progress indeed.

‘U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!’