Feijão Dreams

The first definition of food in Merriam-Webster’s online dictionary is: “a: material consisting essentially of protein, carbohydrate, and fat used in the body of an organism to sustain growth, repair, and vital processes and to furnish energy” Can it be even more than that? I believe that it makes life, which it essentially provides, worthwhile. It is a conduit to bonding with people and understanding their culture. I’m Latina, and in my culture, it is also an expression of love. Sharing a meal with people makes me feel at home wherever I am. Food is one of the essential elements in and a reason for my travels. So, it’s no surprise that I also dream of it, and it is what wakes me one morning with a sudden pang of saudade, a Portuguese word whose definition includes longing, melancholy, and nostalgia.

The origin of the feijoada, Brazil’s national dish, and the comfort food I have been dreaming of is debated. Some believe that it was the slaves that created this stew-like concoction with the leftover, unwanted cuts of meat from their masters, adding what I assume was readily available beans. Others that it originated with the colonizers from Portugal.

The image of steam rising from a bowl of black beans in a clay casserole with bobbing beef ribs, pork belly, pork feet, and linguiça (Brazilian sausage) entwined in a unique dance as the serving ladle digs in, was engraved in my mind as I slept, and it remained there even when my eyes were wide open. When saudade invades, I usually jump on the next plane, destination to anywhere where I can squash the feeling and satisfy my palate as well as nurture my soul. But doing so is not always feasible and my schedule does not presently allow it, so I try to brush the image aside. Yet it becomes more vivid, now infused with a distinct herbal aroma -predominantly of bay leaves, cumin, onions, and garlic.

Feijoada (name coming from feijão -beans in Portuguese) is usually served on Wednesdays or Saturdays in Brazil. Restaurants in the States usually serve it on the weekend. It’s Tuesday in New York but I trust I will find, in this city that has it all, somewhere to satisfy my ever-pressing desire to travel even if in a metaphorical sense and taste the flavors of my youth. The first restaurant that comes up in my search has the name of a beach –Ipanema– the one that I would walk to with a family friend (click here if you want more info on the beach) while my mother stayed at home continuing the making of the feijoada which she started prepping for the day before. The dish would provide us with the energy that the sun and sea would drain us of and would be the reason for the gathering around my parent’s dining table, of any person that did not have family to be with on the weekend. I call the restaurant and ask if they serve feijoada today. They do. That’s all I need to hear and off I go.

Ipanema, the restaurant, has soft, welcoming lighting. Brazilian bossa nova plays soothingly on speakers. It’s cozy but all I truly care about is the feijoada that I dreamt of and came for.

I sit and order a guaraná, what I consider the original energy drink. And the journey back in time starts. At the first sweet sip I remember how my mom allowed me to have a soda only once a week before the Saturday feeding feast. No sodas at any other time. The waitress talks to me in Portuguese which I am fluent in, and it further transports me back to the days that I could count my age on the fingers of my hand.

My order arrives. The main part of it comes in a clay pot just like my mom served it. I place a large spoonful of white rice on my plate to be topped by a spoonful of the black beans. As I submerge my serving spoon in, up come pieces of beef, meat on bone, and pork. Next on my plate go the collard greens and the farofa (made of toasted cassava/yuca flour). And what may seem odd to many, a slice of orange that is meant to be eaten to aid in the digestion of this very heavy meal. I stare at my plate and put a little bit of it all in my mouth. The finale comes in an artful shape and incredible taste.

The place is on the dark side, so I close my eyes to fully identify the individual flavors. I continue being transported to where no plane can take me. I can hear the adults discussing current events which I don’t fully understand yet, the sound of utensils against the plates, music in the background, the sound of crashing waves a bit further off, and my mother’s soft voice offering a second serving as she manages to fill my plate while surrounding me with her arms at the same time.

I open my eyes to serve myself again and I see a man in a white coat, the chef, standing by my table asking if I am enjoying my meal. He’s Brazilian, I think he said from Rio, French-trained. As much as I love French food, I thank him for not altering the original recipe, making the feijoada the way I remember my mom made it (though there are variations depending on the region). I refrain from thanking him for this trip back in time he aided me in taking, though I do tell him my belief that food unites as well as delight. He believes it so as well.

As promised a while back, I am ending this blog with a video/song that either I love or find fits the theme well. This one does both…