PULP is published on the sovereign land of the Gadigal People of the Eora Nation. We pay our respects to Elders past and present, as well as Indigenous members of our creative community. We respect the knowledge and customs that traditional Elders and Aboriginal people have passed down from generation to generation. We acknowledge the historical and continued violence and dispossession against First Nations peoples. Australia’s many institutions, including the University itself, are founded on this very same violence and dispossession. As editors, we will always stand in solidarity with First Nations efforts towards decolonisation and that solidarity will be reflected in the substance and practice of this magazine.
Sovereignty was never ceded. Always was and always will be Aboriginal land.
Senior Editor
Hugo Anthony Hay
Editors
Kelly Caviedi
Bipasha Chakraborty
Joan de la Kagsawa
Ashray Kumar
China Meldrum
Estelle Vigouroux
Design
Kelly Caviedi
Bipasha Chakraborty
Ashray Kumar
The views in this publication are not necessarily the views of USU. The information contained within this edition of PULP was correct at the time of printing. This publication is brought to you by the University of Sydney Union.
President’s Foreword
Dear PULP reader,
Welcome to PULP 16, and a warm hello from me, your USU President for 2024-25. The USU is the peak student organisation on campus focused on the student experience and making your life between gruelling classes exciting. Part of what we do is supporting excellent publications such as PULP, but also supporting our festivals, clubs and societies, cost-of-living relief, outlets, debating, conferences, and so much more.
I am a third year Law/Economics student living at St Paul’s College with a passion for R.E.M, hiking, and the margherita at Courtyard Café. I also love drama and music of all kinds, which is why I am keen to see what our Revues are cooking up in the back half of this year, something I’m sure this publication will have some considered reviews of!
Over the next 16 months, the Board is committed to improving the governance and financial framework of the organisation, as well as our long-term strategy, so that we can continue to offer the premiere student experience on campus. That means better outcomes for your clubs, more diverse opportunities to engage with, and improved access for all. My door is always open at the Holme Building, and I look forward to meeting as many of you as I can over the next 12 months to ensure we remain committed to our members.
Bryson Constable
Sometimes life can catch up to us. I’ll forget to reply to my friends, to my family, my Hinge matches. The weight of all of my tasks, of all of my sorrows, and all of my joys, sit atop me comforting and distracting. I’ll forget to do the washing, to send that email, or to empty my uni bag fully. But recently I’ve made more of an effort to not forget to eat. When I eat alone I feel fed. When I eat with others, I feel nourished. Eating with my beloved, I feel closer to them. The clang or the click of cutlery, holding my hand before my mouth to hide my food while I speak. Pasta before walking around Canada Bay, missing rent for arancini at Cafe Freda’s, and hungover runny eggs forgetting we ran out of bread.
Perhaps the way to my heart is through my stomach?
We’ve built this issue heavy and rich like the flavours inside — get it wet, get it messy. Take it out to eat, take it drinking, forget about it in the slow cooker, spill pasta sauce on it. Keep it to yourself, share it with others. Use it as a coaster, as a plate, as a cheeseboard. Have it fresh, have it reheated, burn it a little. Have it performatively hanging from the back pocket of your jeans. Have it open in one hand and an oyster you’ll regret buying in the other. This PULP is made for reading, and I hope that’s what you’ll do.
Take a bite, but don’t fill up. We’ll be coming out with more soon…
Mandarin Negroni
This is a drink my housemate Hunter and I have shared as a pregame before a night out or brought in a wine bottle to a party with the label ripped off to look very sophisticated. It’s zesty, which is how our house has been described, but still heavy and comfortable. It’s nice at the end of the night and at the start. It’s his recipe but I’ve enjoyed it enough times. I feel like it’s worth sharing. I share more meals with him than anyone else, living with him. So it’s nice to have a drink too.
Ingredients
• 60mls mandarin-infused dry gin.
• 60mls of campari.
• 60mls of sweet red vermouth.
• A bag of medium sized mandarins, peeled.
Method
Senior Editor’s Note
1. To make mandarin-infused gin, peel a mandarin, slice its skin into thin strips, and soak in 150mls of gin in the fridge for at least 72 hours (you can make a larger batch with a 700ml bottle of gin, an empty one litre bottle and 5 mandarin skins). After 72 hours, remove the skins.
2. Peel another mandarin, making sure to create long and wide pieces of skin. Place the peel pith side down and cut the skin into a parallelogram. Set aside.
3. In a very large glass or mixing cylinder, pour all three liquids and cover with a handful of ice.
4. Using a mixing spoon or chopstick, stir in the same direction roughly 50 times or to taste.
5. Split into two short glasses each with a large ice cube, express one of your mandarin-parallelograms over each glass, and rub the rim, then place skins atop an ice cube.
6. Enjoy responsibly and deliberately, sit with your housemate, talk shit and wonder what it would’ve been like telling yourselves the previous year that you’d be living together.
Dearest
reader,
By the time this issue of PULP is in your hands, many months and many meals would have passed from the night we had one of our first team dinners. Over a bowl (and seconds) of Chesto – China’s patented pesto pasta recipe – we sat, rested, laughed, drank, bickered, shared roses and thorns, and ate together. We sit in the office reminiscing about that beautiful night full of laughter and Chesto, and the many meals, coffees, snacks, and pots of tea that have followed it.
Food is the common thread throughout all of the memories we share, and having a heart-to-heart with your loved ones is made all the more fulfilling if you have some pasta to go along with it. So we give you Issue 16: our love letter to all things food and drink. Whether it be food you make, buy, or glean, high-tech coffee, flavourless soup, or spam on rice, the contributors of this issue have presented many different ways to look at food and we thank them for their words, their art, and for trusting us with their ideas.
We also extend our gratitude to the outgoing PULP editorial team, whose guidance, advice, and support are invaluable to us. What both past editorial teams have built with PULP is truly amazing and we are so excited to have the opportunity to continue this publication.
Lots of love, and stay hydrated.
Chesto (China’s Pesto)
Ingredients
• 4 - 5 bunches of basil.
• 200(ish) grams of pine nuts.
• 4 cloves of garlic.
• ½ cup of olive oil.
• Salt and Pepper to taste.
• 200(ish) grams of parmesan cheese.
Method
1. In a frying pan, toast your pine nuts until they are golden brown and set aside to cool.
2. Enlist a gullible friend to help you pick basil leaves. Pick off the basil leaves from the stem in every bunch until you begin to question your sanity a little or pick every leaf (whichever comes first).
3. Chop your garlic into manageable chunks, and finely grate all your cheese.
4. In a food processor add in your chopped garlic and toasted pine nuts. Blend until everything is a mix of tiny chunks but not a complete paste.
5. Add in the basil leaves and olive oil incrementally, taste to check.
6. Add to a large bowl and mix in all the cheese.
7. Make sure to set aside an extra bit of Chesto to put in a jar (with some olive oil on the top to preserve it) and give to your gullible friend to thank them for their basil- picking services.
8. Ser ve with Minion Pasta, or eggs, or toast, or anything really. Enjoyed best with the company of people you like being around.
Table of Contents
WEEKEND AT GORAN'S: Europe Grill and the Yugoslavia
Luke Mesterovic
Grill Newtown the echoes of Yugoslavia
I never lived to see Yugoslavia. That great Balkan powerhouse, the nation that unified the southern Slavs, that stood up to Stalin, and installed its own decentralised mode of communism. The country that was meant to be a multicultural haven, home to Muslims, Catholics, and Orthodox Christians is dead. Murdered by American imperialists who destroyed its economy, lighting the match that resulted in the resurgence of the region’s racism and nationalism, sparking a decade of disintegration that looms over the Balkans to this very day.
I never lived to see Yugoslavia. But I have experienced echoes of it — through the stories from my family, the books in my father’s library, and most viscerally, through food. Through the dishes made by my baba, through all the pork and cabbage and cabbage and pork, I could taste the land that I never lived to see, that the Yankee bastards said we don’t deserve. So I am consigned to a life of scouring Sydney, searching for the remnants of the country my grandparents once called home.
Not far from campus, there rings an echo of Yugoslavia. If you wander down King Street, past the station and the Greek Orthodox Church, but before Gould’s books and the Union Hotel, you can hear it. What is it? The ultimate fine dining experience. Its name? Europe Grill.
Everybody I speak to has seen Europe Grill. Who could forget that great gallery of photography that lines its exterior? Almost every dish on the menu is pictured, with the camera held an average of 4 centimetres away from the plate and the flash left on. In a suburb that becomes more modern and
gentrified by the day, the kitschy, homely aesthetic of Europe Grill stands against the current like an island in the river Drina: tall, proud, and facing competing claims by various Balkan ethnic groups.
There’s an old rule of thumb that the more simple an ethnic restaurant’s name is, the more authentic it is. If that’s the case, Europe Grill, whose full name appears to be “Europe Grill Restaurant: Balkan Grill: The Original European BBQ: Macedonian Cuisine,” is as
CHEF GORAN “craftsman: butcher, chef, and sausage maker”
Long Yugoslavia
Live Yugoslavia
ELENA “the laughter of the restaurant”
authentic as they come (even if they accept payment by card). With its red-chequered tablecloths and beautiful murals depicting the beautiful countryside of the Republic of North Macedonia, eating there feels like you’re eating in Skopje in 1976, where the streets are still named after Tito and your country isn’t at the centre of a naming dispute. Simpler times.
Europe Grill is run almost entirely by two people — Chef Goran, described on their website as the “craftsman: butcher, chef and sausage maker,” and Elena, “the laughter of the restaurant” — both of whom exude the best of Balkan hospitality. Chef Goran has never spoken in all my time at Europe Grill. Does he choose not to speak? Or can he not speak at all? It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need to. He speaks to us through his sausages — the best damn ćevapi you can find in the inner west. Beautiful salted pork, mixed in with finely grated onion and minced garlic, grilled to perfection, one bite and you feel like you’re back in the old country. As for Elena, when a friend of mine spilled his beer, she went up to him and said “beer meant for mouth, not for table,” and kindly offered us some extra rakija (the highly alcoholic fruit brandy that holds up the Balkans) on the house. In that moment I realised why Elena was known as the laughter of the restaurant, and knew that Europe Grill was a place I could call home.
As delicious as Chef Goran’s sausages are, the rest of the food at Europe Grill is to die for. Whether it’s podvarak (pork with shredded cabbage), sarma (pork wrapped in cabbage) or uvijâce (pork, wrapped in prosciutto, stuffed with bacon and cheese (and served with cabbage)), every dish is made with a love that burns with the fire of the Balkans. I am of the sincere belief that if you got the presidents of all the former republics in Europe Grill, they could commit to reunifying Yugoslavia. Aleksandar Vučić might be a fascist strongman, but what’s he going to do when Chef Goran stares into his soul from behind the grill? I rest my case.
All of this — the aesthetic, the people, the food — converge to create an experience so visceral, so unique, that is second only to time travelling back to the glory days of Yugoslavia. Europe Grill is like
Yugoslavia in a way, a place on the periphery, known by many, but understood by few. A time capsule of a world that was, and in my heart, still can be.
I like to frequent Europe Grill with a dear Croatian friend of mine. As a Serb, I view our friendship as a testament to the fact that the Yugoslav project was not in vain. We sit together and drink rakija, watching on as burly Balkan men with names like Bogdan, Branko, and Borislav waddle in and share the space with us. Of course, I don’t ask them for their thoughts on Yugoslavia — I’m too brittle to survive a king hit — but I like to imagine that they would agree with me.
I never lived to see Yugoslavia. It’s unlikely that I ever will. As it stands, the structural hurdles to reunification are too high. But my nights at Europe Grill give me hope that the dream of Yugoslavia will never die. Go to Europe Grill. Support them. Let’s let Yugoslavia live on, if not in the Balkans, at least in our bellies.
Beef Cevapi
Ingredients
• 1kg beef mince
• 3 cloves of garlic, finely diced
• 50g of diced onion
• Thyme to taste
• Salt to taste
• Olive Oil
• Spring Onions
Method
• Add beef mince, salt, garlic cloves, and onion into a large bowl. Mix well, until everything is combined into a malleable, smooth mixture, and leave to stand in the fridge for one to two hours.
• Then, shape into small sausages and in a skillet grill on high heat, brown on each side. As you flip the sausages, brush each side with oil using a basting brush or a sprig of rosemary.
• Once all sides of the ćevapi are browned turn the heat down to medium low until they are cooked through. When cooked, garnish with spring onions and serve with ajvar (a roast pepper sauce).
One of the most popular dishes in the countries of the former Yugoslavia is ćevapi, or ćevapčići - small sausages that arose as a variant of the Turkish kebab in the 1500s.
Despite their small size, they pack a big punch of flavour, and a love of ćevapi is one of the few things that unites the ever-divided Balkans.
Luke Mešterović
Aggressively brewing across the streets of Chennai, the capital city of Tamil Nadu, India, is Filter Kaapi. The long-running tradition of brewing Filter Kaapi in the morning, before the sun fully meets the sky, was introduced to me by my mother - quite the caffeine addict herself - and taking after her, my coffee intake began at the concerning age of ten. It was not concerning, however, to the citizens of Chennai, as they were often found sipping on Filter Kaapi at every hour of the day.
It was flabbergasting to realise that Chennai’s fantasies and glorification of Filter Kaapi never really left the borders of Tamil Nadu, with modest spillover in neighbouring states like Karnataka and Andhra Pradesh. This, I was made aware of, when I left for Hyderabad, the capital of Telangana, for my master’s. There, the lack of Filter Kaapi culture, not only surprised me but their disappointing substitution with instant coffee undeniably angered me.
necessarily complain about this epiphany as it further advanced my position as a Filter Kaapi enthusiast.
Filter Kaapi holds a starkly unique flavour. The use of milk and a full-bodied brew makes the sips heavy in the mouth, with its rich aroma sharply sensed in the nose. One can feel its aroma and strong taste lingering in the mouth for several minutes, and sometimes even hours. Its unique brewing methodology is sickeningly scarce outside Tamil Nadu.
Upsettingly, this also made me realise that when the words “India” and “beverage” come together, Chai takes the top spot. Coffee, on the other hand, especially Filter Kaapi, despite its notoriety in South India, is minimally recognised. However, I wouldn’t
The process of brewing Filter Kaapi begins with hand-ground, medium-roast, Indian coffee beans sold in almost any lane in the cities of Tamil Nadu. Here, they are finely ground and mixed with chicory (witlof), the dried and roasted roots of a plant that belongs to the dandelion family. When mixed with coffee, it enhances the aroma, gives the brew a heavier body, and adds depth to its colour. Flavour-wise, it leaves behind a staining bitter aftertaste.
While it bears quite an impressive list of skill sets, its initial introduction to brewing a classic South Indian cup of coffee is a casteist one. The practice of mixing chicory with coffee grounds isn’t necessarily alien and
is a centuries-long practice in Egypt. However, its widespread usage was a result of the declining economy during the 1700s.
Europe initially adopted the practice when Fredrick the Great of Prussia and Napoleon banned imported food products. This slimmed the availability of the beverage and motivated a search for alternatives. Chicory reared its leafy white head. It then reached The United States during their Civil War, and since coffee knitted itself into the daily lives of its citizens during the British colonisation of India, coffee was heavily sourced and exported through the Western Ghats. This led to coffee becoming a staple beverage in India, especially since British soldiers, deployed in India, often brewed ‘Camp Coffee’, a combination of coffee, chicory, sugar, and water, originating from Scotland.
As the Indian population grew, Tamil Brahmins picked up the practice from the French to create a solution for the increased demand for coffee through Puducherry, a French Provincial Capital in Tamil Nadu, India. Since the French, even after the lift of their import ban, continued to favour chicory’s presence in their coffee, and the practice seeped into Filter Kaapi.
Currently, in South India, the ratio of chicory in coffee blends ranges from 10-30%. Only a rare population opt for no chicory in their coffee grounds, due to the aforementioned additions to the brew, and its reduction of caffeine content. The degree of chicory’s presence depends on the sipper’s standards. 10-20% reflects the choice of someone preferring coffee’s natural qualities but slightly enhanced and anything leading to 30% showcases the person’s interest in a strong, bitter, and heavy beverage. People either buy chicory and coffee powder separately and mix it to their preferred ratios or have cafés do it for them.
Once this blend is stacked at home, the brew is filtered through the traditional manual coffee maker. It is cylindrical in shape and consists of four essential
metal parts, namely, the lid, bottom cup, basket, and press. My knowledge of how to handle the coffee maker was obtained and still stays enclosed in the walls of my mum’s methodology.
I’ve seen her assemble the filter, adding the coffee blend to the basket and pouring dangerously boiling water into the basket, unafraid of the hissing, spitting, and sizzling sounds it would make against the walls of the filter. As she’d lift the vessel of hot water from the stove with nothing but a rug separating her hand from it, a shiver of worry and concern would run down my spine. She, however, was steely. Then she’d seal it with its lid and let it sit for around 20-30 minutes, covering the violent plumes of hot vapour the coffee grounds would make on contact with the water. While it alarmed me at first, watching her do this everyday made it an almost soothing visual for me.
The brewing time varies depending on the kind of coffee blend. A coarse blend takes less time while a finely ground coffee blend could take up to 3040 minutes to be fully filtered. The coffee maker completely revolves around the workings of gravity and nothing more. The filtered brew that gets Dabbara is a two-piece tumbler set, made of brass, specifically for serving Filter Kaapi. Filters are usually made of brass or steel, with a veneration for brass. The particular preference for brass comes from the metal’s significance in Indian cultural history.
Brass is considered a holy metal that’s believed to radiate positive energy into one’s life, an ideology propagated through Hindu texts. Since Filter Kaapi was popularised and shared by Tamil Brahmins, an upper-caste Hindu community, brass became the ideal choice of metal. However, with inflation and the beverage reaching the working classes of South India, steel filters have become more popular.
When serving Filter Kaapi, its components of milk, sugar, and the brew aren’t well mixed with one another. Therefore, a dabbara helps the blend of these three ingredients when one pours the Filter Kaapi
back and forth between the cup and its saucer. The beverage to cool down. However, the dabbara holds a casteist origin.
The manufacture of chicory coffee blends in India was majorly for export purposes but naturally seeped into the Indian culture through the uppercaste community, especially Tamil Brahmins. When the beverage’s popularity and its stance as a staple beverage began to spread, a fear of ‘pollution’ emerged in the minds of the upper castes. Filter Kaapi was and is still maintained as a welcoming drink for visiting guests, and R. K. Narayan, in My Dateless Diary (1960), explained its stance as the touchstone of hospitality in a South Indian household:
“He may beg or run into debt for the sake of coffee, but he cannot feel that he has acquitted himself in his worldly existence properly unless he is able to provide his dependents with two doses of coffee a day and also ask any visitor who may drop in, “Will you have coffee?” without fear at heart.” — about a middleclass South Indian’s relationship with Filter Kaapi.
The fact that caste isn’t superficially recognisable was a disturbing factor for upper-caste hosts. This draw is motivated by the prejudiced concept of ‘untouchability’, a prominent casteist belief that anything a lower-caste person touches is ‘polluted’ or its value significantly depleted. For upper-caste people to avoid this ‘pollution’ the dabbara was introduced. Filter Kaapi, when served this way, a light curve in the cup and saucer allows people to drink the beverage without bringing their lips in contact with the utensils, touched by others in its preparation.
However, the casteism in the practice dwindled when Filter Kaapi began to be served in restaurants and breakfast hubs that swarmed with people belonging to all castes and classes. Though Filter Kaapi was still served in a dabbara, the casteist style of drinking was prescribed by staff to customers. This welcomed individuals to sip from the dabbara, free of casteism. Upsettingly, some households still hold onto the dabbara’s casteist function.
In my city of Chennai, Mylapore is a neighbourhood that’s considered to be a hub of Filter Kaapi, a place where one can hardly find a moment of stillness or silence. It’s flooded with small to large Filter Kaapi outlets and coffee roasters, with its aroma constantly lingering around street corners. The locals pour in and out of their go-to coffee shops, sharing small talk with each other as they wait by the large and loud grinder to push out their brew.
My mum and I, who live a tenminute walk from Mylapore, were naturally lured into Filter Kaapi culture and became big fanatics. Every day, as the sun rises, we sip our Kaapis next to each other. Our living room blasts the same Hindu devotional songs that have been playing in our house for years. Unbothered we talk (shout) over the songs’ deafening volume. While I’ve always believed that my mother and I are nothing like each other, the Kaapi we hold in our hands during this hour of our barely conscious but non-negotiable morning ritual proves otherwise.
Kaapi strings us together. This ritual has helped me flourish and grow my relationship with my mother. We not only solve conflicts by making for each other but “Filter Kaapi Hour” is a time we share our affection and recall heartwarming memories as the slow sips make our otherwise busy lives feel a little less busy.
Press
Basket
Bottom Cup
Place coffee grounds in the basket and using the press gently pack the grounds into the basket in a single, long press gradually increasing pressure. The coffee should be porous with water flowing through easily but not easily running.
Step 1.1
Attach the bottom cup to the basket.
Step 1
Ingredients
• 120ml (r oughly ½ a cup) of milk.
• 120ml (r oughly ½ a cup) of water.
• whi te or raw sugar to taste.
• 15g (2-3tbps) fin ely ground coffee or beans/finely ground coffee/chicory blend.
Finally, pour the brew into the cup of the dabbara , splash the last of the brew from the filter on top, and enjoy hot.
Step 4.1
Close the coffee maker with its lid and brew for 20-30 minutes, when the bed is drained and beginning to dry, your coffee will be ready.
Place your sugar into a dabbara , then pour the brew from the bottom cup. Make sure to leave a splash in the filter for later.
Step 3.1
Step 2.1
Step 2 Slowly pour boiling water in circular motions until you reach 120 ml or fill the basket.
While your Kaapi is brewing, place your milk in a saucepan and bring to a rolling boil. Make sure to cut the heat immediately after it reaches a boil.
Step 3
Add your hot milk to the dabbara , then using the saucer and cup, ‘stretch’ the concoction by pouring it back and forth between the saucer and cup, starting close to the vessel and then bringing the pouring vessel up and away from the receiving vessel producing a tall stream each time. Repeat until fully incorporated and slightly cooled.
Step 4
Seven years ago, my Mother was diagnosed with bowel cancer.
Two weeks prior, my Father’s Mother died of the same disease.
WordTheCWordTheC Word
I didn’t comprehend the long term effects it would have on my family, my mental state, and the permanent stench that lingers from my family microwave. I have been tormented by the C word for some time now, forever tainted by what I can only deem as the chum bucket curse.
Chris O’Brien and his lifehouse treated my Mother and family extraordinarily well. I am forever indebted to the nurses, doctors, and the leftovers of my Mother’s chemotherapy induced medical
marjiuana prescription. After a year long treatment and a tearful farewell to free cups of tea, she volunteered to a three year clinical research trial —CHALLENGE: Diet and Exercise Trial for Prevention of Bowel Cancer Recurrence, An Exercise Study for People who Completed Chemotherapy for Stage II or Stage III Colon Cancer.
Her solution? Soup.
So, something greige was born. In what resembles an entity entirely inedible and only explainable as something of a chum – a monster was blended, outliving both her trial and taste buds. It fed questionable trial results for hopeful bowel cancer patients and fearful honours students to grovel at. It also fed the family. Soup is too generous a word to explicate the amalgamation that is my Mother’s trademark chum. Not a grain of salt or a splash of stock dare taint the chum and bring the ever fearful idea of flavour. Concrete in its presence and malodorous in its scent. Vegetables, water, and whimsy were tastelessly ingested every night for the promise of clear bowels and yet, the guarantee of a bowl licked clean. If cancer is genetic, I wondered if my culinary skills were terminal too.
Raised in Campbelltown with powdered milk, devon sandwiches and four hungry siblings, my Mother knew cooking only as an
inconvenience. When not studying at clown school (yes, clown school) or sneaking into the city, Mary, Ruth, Beth, Paul and herself shared grace before sharing frozen stew.
Raised in Malta by his widowed Mother, my Father and his five brothers lived off Ħobż biż-Żejt, tinned tuna, and a shared understanding that food was fuel. His parents owned a café in the sandstone streets of Sliema, and my Father would end up attending culinary school himself.
Raised in Balmain with my brother, pesto pasta and Paddle Pop desserts. I was raised to indulge in food, but succumbed to the trends of adolescence and grew to avoid it entirely. Our family thrived on leftovers and takeout. Every evening after school, we would reheat our respective bowls and retreat to our rooms and eat alone. I liked it this way. I had never known otherwise.
I am the product of this unusual pairing. An ingredient in the family recipe of everyone that came before me. I express grace for it all, whether it be a labour of love, or a mere microwave meal. Though, I remain astonished as to how we landed with a monotonous future of chum. Equally, I remain astonished by how my parents allow themselves this flavourless future.
I realised I had never asked my parents their perceptions of the
ordTheCWordTheC Word
purée, so I did.
“It reminded me of surviving, but it really is just soup.”
“It’s good for you, but I would make it with more herbs and spices, but Mum wouldn’t like that, and that’s fair, she’s the one making it.”
But do you enjoy it?
“It reminds me of home.”
I have spent the last seven years detesting this soup. Mocking its colour, texture, and relentlessly teasing my poor parents for their acceptance of an abyss of flavour. I have always refused to indulge. The disgust I have is not in the greige complexion of the bowl in front of me, but rather the rancid reminder I am refusing my own fate.
In truth, I just can’t digest the reminder of what was. It’s simply too hard to swallow. Cancer is a part of my paternal history, and forecasted for my future. It takes strength to be reminded of that every day, even if it’s just soup. In fact, I am greige myself. Chunky, at times tasteless, and a mere melting pot of things I love and hate. I am the product of the unusual Campbelltown clown and Maltese Mafia pairing; I see their past in everything I indulge in.
Maureen’s Vegetable Soup Recipe
Enjoy your 7 serving nutritious soup and a life limited to slightly less colonoscopies!
Ingredients:
- 1 head of cauliflower, pre-chopped
- 1 small pumpkin, pre-peeled and pre-chopped
- 1 head of broccoli, pre-chopped
- Water
Method:
1. Remove the cauliflower, pumpkin, and broccoli from their packaging and rinse them under a tap.
2. Place the chopped vegetables in a large pot, fully submerging them in water, until the water line is just above the vegetables.
3. Heat the pot over medium-high heat until the water comes to a boil. Once boiling, reduce the heat to a simmer. Let the vegetables simmer until they are soft and fork-tender, which should take about 15-20 minutes.
4. Use a hand blender to purée the vegetables until questionably smooth.
5. (Don’t) Season to Taste —Do not add salt, pepper, or other seasonings to taste.
6. Pour the purée into one large plastic container and store in the fridge for the week ahead. Serve as is, lukewarm from the microwave.
Miles Hiroshi Huynh
The machine demands that typefaces be utilitarian; precise in their sharpness and uniformity. It demands the same of the food we eat: perfect and primed, glossy and crunchy. Consume.otf rejects these notions.
A font made of food I ate in Vietnam at various stages of consumption. Pre-prepared, being served, whilst being eaten, and the scraps left over.
Inspired by the works of graphic designer Yannik Schmitt.
1kg of pork belly
5 whole eggs
3 tsp (12g) of white or raw sugar
3 tsp (6g) of fine salt
1 tsp (2g) of ground black pepper
Chili flakes to taste
(or thai chilli, if you can find them –chopped)
Vietnamese fish sauce to taste
2 biiiig shallots
4 garlic cloves
1 litre of coconut water
1. Cut the pork into big chunks around 4cm wide, marinate in 2 the minced shallots, garlic salt, sugar, fish sauce, pepper, pepper flakes for at least 30 mins (ideally, as long as possible).
2. Hard boil eggs and peel the shells.
3. In a large, heavy-based pot, fry the pork chunks until browned on each side. Once browned, take out of the pot and leave to the side.
4. In the same pot, caramelise the sugar in a bit of oil, and a bit of water. Once the sugar turns dark yellow/brown, put the pork and eggs in and stir until both are nicely browned and covered in sugar.
5. Pour coconut water into the pot, as well as the remaining shallots and garlic — go crazy. Bring the pot to a boil. Boil for 10-20 minutes, then take it down to low heat.
6. Once the meat is braised and tender, skim the scum from the top of the water with a small sieve or spoon.
7. Keep on low heat for 2 hours, occasionally skim more scum and taste test.
8. Season to taste and enjoy over fresh, short-grain white rice.
Christopher Kane Mihir Sardana
Hinduism has long existed as a spiritual haven for selfproclaimed progressive thinkers of the West. Echoing early Said, white people seeking spiritual refuge have long idolised India as an oasis where Shanti (peace), Ahimsa (nonviolence), and vegetarianism converge. However, since the induction of the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) in 2014, the underbelly of a violent upper caste, justified by an ancient dogma, has come to surface. The Hindu
Caste system is a social stratification separated into 4 distinct areas. Brahmins are at the apex of this and are ‘pure’ by birth, and maintain this purity by eating Sattvik (pure) foods. Kshatriyas are the warrior and ruling caste, positioned to maintain the caste interests of the Brahmins. Vaishyas and Shudras, exist below them with the duty to support the economy through labour, business and the arts. Together, they
form the four castes, or the savarna, where the Dalits, derogatively known as the untouchables, exist outside of the caste system. Avarna, literally outcasts, are condemned to the dirty work that no one else wants to face; the handling of deceased animals, janitorial roles, and all the tasks that support the bustling Indian economy. These politics of oppression culminate in
the general ideological direction of Indian politics right now. Hindutva is a populist ideology adopted by the incumbent BJP, seeking to reduce Indianness to Hinduism; a dangerous, nationalist framework. Herein, the thali (plate) has become a nexus for Dalit oppression, as the Hindutva movement weaponises vegetarianism in an attempt to construct a monolithic Indian Identity.
The Assumed ‘Vegetarian’ National Identity
Vegetarianism shares a complex relationship with ‘Indian’ identity. Through colonisation, the popular notion emerged that the pan-Indian diet is vegetarian, in contrast to the flesh-heavy diets of the coloniser, despite meat consumption being integral to the myriad of cuisines within the subcontinent. In the 1860s, the first systematic documentation of food consumption was carried out by the British. Colonial-era India saw the construction of a normative Indian diet as mostly consisting of cereal. It was deemed inferior to the metropole’s meat-based diet. Hence, within the crucible of the Indian Independence Movement, embracing vegetarianism as the swadeshi diet became an act of protest. Gandhi, drawing from the Upanishads (ancient Hindu scripture), linked his vegetarianism with ahimsa, declaring that the “only basis for having a vegetarian society and proclaiming a vegetarian principle ... must be a moral one.” Cementing the idea, in the minds of both those on the subcontinent and in the West, that vegetarianism in Hinduism is inextricably tied to non-violence. However, Gandhi’s claims, as informed by his Hindu savarna status, were shortsighted. They form another link in a long chain of culinary apartheid and food-fascism enacted upon the Dalits and other minorities. By rooting the Indian identity in the vegetarian diet, the rich tapestry of Dalit cuisine is erased by its alleged impurity. Moreover, the impression that India is a vegetarian state also arises from overinflated figures surrounding the incidence of vegetarianism. In a report for the BBC, writer Soutik Biswas notes that “people under-report eating meat — particularly beef — and over-report eating vegetarian food”, whether out of stigma or a sense of conformity, with only around 20% of Indians
Christopher Kane
Bhimrao Ramji Ambedkar, the father of the Indian constitution, theorised that Hindu food taboos manifest on two specific lines of division. The first is the divide between meat-eaters and vegetarians and the second, those who eat the cow’s flesh, and those who do not. The second dividing line is the most important, separating the savarna
carcasses, making them polluted in the eyes of the
Not only does this have sweeping consequences on nutrition rates within the community, but also their quality of life and mortality. A study by the United Nations found that Dalit women die, on women. It can be attributed, in part, to Dalit women having a high prevalence of chronic energy deficiency, at rates higher than the national average. Inadequate energy intake is particularly dangerous for pregnant women, as this leads to insufficient weight gain during pregnancy and impacts foetus development. This follows Dalit children into infancy and beyond, positioning them to face the brunt of food-based discrimination. A joint study between the University of Heidelberg and Ashoka
University found that despite India having a high incidence of stunting, children being too short for their age range, it was Dalit children that were disproportionately affected. While the prevalence of stunting in Indian children is attributed to chronic undernutrition, repeated infection and inadequate psychosocial stimulation, height and Dalit children seem to increase in Bihar, Madhya Pradesh, Rajasthan and Uttar Pradesh, where the practice of untouchability is higher. While roughly 26% of savarna children were stunted, this frequency nearly doubled in Dalit children, at around 40%. It is hard to ignore the elephant in the room; the nutritional status of Dalit women and children could be improved if they had greater, unrestricted access to the traditional Dalit food system, as opposed to being morality.
Cow Vigilantism
he pervasive nature of savarna morality and its stipulations on what can and cannot be consumed is particularly insidious due to its codification in the law. Hindu scripture outlines the spiritual significance of the cow, which was systemised by Congress in 1955, through a ban on cow slaughter. After the rise of Narendra Modi, this policy has seen significant intensification in recent years. The ban was expanded in 2015 to include bulls and buffaloes. Intensifying in 2017, Uttar Pradesh amended its cow protection laws to increase punishment; speaking in support, Vikram Saini, local BJP lawmaker, stated, “I had promised that I will break the hands and legs of those who do not consider cows their mother and kill them.” This is all despite beef eating being prevalent amongst most religions in India, and forming an integral part of different regional cuisines.
The actions of these lawmakers have led to the increased stigmatisation of the culinary practices of already marginalised communities. This has created an environment that has bolstered the extralegal activities of Gau Rakshaks, literally ‘Protectors of the Cow’. Their actions have been Mihir Sardana
near-legitimised by a government that either looks away, drags their feet when it comes to taking action against those perpetrating crimes in the name of cow protection, or actively supports the attention was drawn to the targeting of the Dalit community after a viral video showed cow vigilantes publicly stripping and flogging four Dalit men for skinning a dead cow in Una, Gujarat, on July 11, 2016. The incident sparked an unprecedented wave of protests by Dalit organisations, across Gujarat, resulting in the death of a policeman, while several Dalits attempted suicide in protest of upper-caste violence. Dalit organisations urged their followers to defy traditional caste roles by refusing to dispose of cow carcasses, even going so far as to deposit dead
identity that has weathered centuries of aversion and humiliation at the hands of the Brahmanical order, forming the basis of key political mobilisation against hegemonic vegetarianism. In Maharashtra, during the 1970s, when Dalit literature was a burgeoning movement, festivals would be organised where beef was served as snacks. It was a way of protesting against savarna literary festivals, dominated by Brahmins, that did not acknowledge or accommodate space for Dalit writers and poets. More recently, beef-eating festivals have been brought back by students in Tamil Nadu, a state that is chiefly perceived as vegetarian because of the outsized influence of Brahmins on its popular culture. Even though the state is the birthplace of the famous
Christopher Kane
preparations of chicken, mutton, and beef, the dietary preferences of the Tamil Brahmins dictate perceptions of Tamilian cuisine. Thus, this state has become a battleground for anti-caste movements, like the one led by activist Periyar in the twentieth century, who would utilise ‘non-vegetarian’ food as a primary argument against the Brahmin discourse of ‘purity’. More recently, the Indian Institute of Technology (IIT) Madras briefly derecognised the Ambedkar Periyar Study Circle, an independent student body, due to their distribution of circulars opposing the shutting down of the non-vegetarian cafeteria on campus. Originally, IIT Madras served only vegetarian food at its main cafeteria, but this rule was changed in 2013, only to be reinstated in 2015, despite the institute being home to students from all parts of India, many of whom consume non-vegetarian food.
domination that have made vegetarianism the dominant norm.
To quote social scientist M.S.S. Pandian, “to talk about caste would incarcerate one into a premodern realm.” The omnipresence of caste has made the savarna believe that the avarna are mired within the futile and divisive politics of identity, rather than actively fighting for their marginalised palettes. Therefore, when the West flattens India as a shining example of vegetarianism, it undercuts the sociocultural and political nuances of the diet. There is value in viewing
This is but a manifestation of hurdles that food activists face when discussing caste. As food preferences and practices are hidden from view, confined to the domestic sphere and delineated as cultural practices, it is markedly difficult to have a conversation about caste without critics reframing the debate as one of cultural differences — the culturalisation of caste. The discriminatory politics of casteism have embedded themselves so thoroughly within the practices of the upper-castes that it has enshrined Dalit suffering into savarna culture. The formation of caste into cultural groups naturalises and justifies their morality as practises in ‘diversity’ and ‘difference’ rather than the buttressing of the caste hierarchy. This ‘diversity’ has manifested itself into classic segregational policy, whether that be separate vegetarian and nonvegetarian areas, or the usage of language like ‘impurity’, all to maintain the illusion that the deconstruction of caste is no longer a necessary condition for democracy in India. In turn, reinforcing savarna structures of power and
alternative to consumption, and there is much to be gained through sharing recipes and exploring what the myriad of Indian cuisines have to offer. But, to understand Indian vegetarianism as non-violent is unequivocally false, betraying centuries of the Dalit thali being systemically and culinarily maligned. Food forms an intrinsic part of how one not only engages with and performs culture, but how one understands themselves. When these foodways are deemed impure, one loses their connection to their community, and with that, both voids their connection to their personhood, and alters how their being is fundamentally constructed. Protein forms the muscles in one’s body, fortifies one’s bones, and runs in one’s blood. Quite literally, you are what you meat.
If you ask my Lola about her childhood in 1940’s Pampanga – a province just north of Manila – she may tell you about the PX. The PX or Post Exchange was an outlet grocery store established to supply American goods to US military personnel and expats on Filipino soil. Cornflakes, Baby Ruth, Butterfingers and other packaged foreign goods end on end. My great-grandfather had a job as a teacher at a US air force base that allowed him to access the PX and purchase goods to the delight of my Lola. She recalls afternoons when her dad would come home with chocolate treats and cans of Spam. To this day, my Lola will never turn down a Baby Ruth or a slice of Spam on rice.
Spam first appeared on Filipino soil during World War II, when it was imported as an inexpensive source of meat used to feed US soldiers. In the years that followed the conclusion of the war, Spam became a product exclusive to the PX and other special outlets where only wealthy Filipinos could afford to purchase it. The humble can was transformed into a measure of wealth and a marker of class through this exclusivity and marked-up, expensive price-tag. It was not uncommon for cans of Spam to be given as gifts from relatives or friends who had travelled abroad to the US, a sign of cosmopolitanism and worldliness.
The Philippines remained under US control until 1946. Megan Elias, in The Palate of Power (2014), mentions that Spam became a ‘prop’ in the bid for independence, ostensibly proof of ‘civilisation’ and, by extension, readiness for sovereignty. Subversion of American power meant, in part, asserting a new Filipino cultural power to the renegotiation of power dynamics. Yet, this is not solely a Filipino story. Indeed, both the historical and continued presence of the US across the Pacific is evident by the enduring presence of Spam — in the Philippines, Hawaii, Guam, Puerto Rico, South Korea, and Japan (to name a few)! Spam is indeed a ubiquitous part of the Filipino diet; across the homeland and the diaspora, though it also remains a potent reminder of violent US power and colonialism. For many across the globe Spam consumption has a dark history, though its reappropriation for new cultural markets has rendered the product into something unique and important.
Let us take a moment to dissect the can in front of you. Smooth, supple, and unassumingly wrapped in blue paper. Spam scrawled in pale yellow letters across its label in a retro, classic style. The can is a shape of its own— a shape that has become synonymous with its pink, rectangular contents.
Perhaps you first became acquainted when you picked up the can at your local Ezymart. Perhaps it was a gimmick at first, or perhaps it piqued your curiosity after sitting dusty on your pantry shelf for time immemorial (it was first a wartime food designed to last, after all). Or perhaps it has been a staple of your home, and you were raised on neatly fried or seared slices of Spam on rice.
The product itself is a mixture of pork with ham, sugar, salt, potato starch, sodium nitrate, and water. Though you may eat Spam straight from the can, it is best served hot and over a soft bed of rice. Frying the meat will give it a nice goldenbrown sear, perhaps a more appealing aesthetic alongside its new rich, crisp, warmness. You may like to add a drizzle of tomato sauce along your slices. Filipinos very commonly eat Spam with garlic-rice and a fried egg at breakfast, sometimes with other meats such as bacon or tocino. I won’t tell you how to cook your spam— there’s no one correct way—but a quick glance at spam.com will provide you with more recipes than your heart can possibly desire.
If you pry back the pull-tab, you will first be hit with an odour that is unique to Spam. Stewy, meaty, and a little metallic. First-time eaters may not be accustomed to the smell, though for those regular spam fanatics the odour is familiar and warm. The moment I get a whiff, I am transported back to Grandpa and Lola’s house, afterschool circa 2009 where I am sitting around the table with all my cousins with a plate topped with fried Spam in front of us all.
From Hawaii to South Korea to the Philippines, variations of Spam and Spaminclusive dishes can be found in multitudes. McDonald’s in Hawaii serves Spam, eggs and rice for breakfast. According to Erin DeJesus (2014) American restrictions on Hawaiian deep-sea fishing industries eliminated an important source of protein while creating a new market for Spam. In South Korea, Spam is a popular ingredient in Budae Jjigae, which loosely translates to ‘Army Stew,’ alongside a slew of more traditional hotpot ingredients. So too do JapaneseAmericans have a history of Spam consumption after the product was sent to Japanese-American Internment camps during WWII. III.
Spam, for many, is a colonial symbol; a reminder of violence and pervasive American ideology. Though it too has morphed and transformed over time to reflect different cultures. Today, Spam is sold in plentiful quantities and numerous flavours: bacon, turkey, teriyaki, maple-flavoured, and hot and spicy; symbolising the multitude of cultural markets that consume spam daily. While this may be nothing more than a cultural cash-grab for the brand, the co-optation of Spam by communities across the Pacific has turned the product into something other — something unique and to be celebrated (there are some festivals and restaurants dedicated to Spam!) Spam-fervour is generational, transnational, and shared by many. A reappropriation of the original product for different cultures, tastes, and purposes. So, before you denounce Spam as nothing more than culinary-kitsch; sit down, boil some rice, and crack open a fresh can of Spam.
Emilie Garcia-Dolnik
Recipe
Ingredients
• 340g of SPAM classic (one can), cut into slices.
• 150g of leftover, short grain rice.
• 1 large egg.
• 3 cloves of fresh garlic, minced.
• Oil or fat to fry (canola is ideal).
Method
CrispySpamOver Rice
• Heat a fry-pan to medium high, add a splash of fat or oil and place slices of Spam gently into the pan.
• Fry Spam on one side until golden crisp, repeat once for even cooked spam. Set aside.
• Using the same pan and the remaining fats, fry garlic until fragrant, then add rice.
• Mix rice in a pan to reheat, evenly distribute garlic and coat rice in fats. Place rice in a bowl.
• In the same pan, fry an egg to your preference, then place atop rice and spam.
Spam and egg is a classic and easy-to-make Filipino dish made from slices of Spam and cooked egg traditionally enjoyed at breakfast. Crisp at first bite and soft at the next, Spam possesses a meaty and tender taste, and for those who grew up eating the dish, Spam and egg is a source of nostalgia. The dish is also accompanied with a serving of rice.
Gleaning
Ondine Karpinellison
In a harvested field, the gleaner inspects the remnants. The prize lies in what the machine has left behind, neglected or unreachable, now between the gleaner’s hands and the gleaner’s feet. Rising out of their stooped posture they stack and bundle their findings for the winter or the summer. The gleaner, whether holding a sheaf of wheat, or liberating a freshly baked loaf of bread from supermarket garbage bins, is the symbol of resourcefulness.
Agnes Varda’s 2000 documentary, The Gleaners and I, begins with a definition.
“To glean is to gather after harvest. A gleaner is one who gleans.”
Des
Glaneuses (1857), Jean-François Millet
Varda considers both the metaphorical and the literal act of gleaning, to present a case for its enduring relevance, and political distinctiveness. Across France, she finds many who are continuing this ancient tradition, both out of desire and necessity. Reflecting on this film, 24 years later, gleaning once again confirms its relevance, particularly when considered against the context of Australia’s food wastage crisis.
Australia currently produces enough food waste to feed 60 million people, yet so many are plagued by poverty and starvation. This wastage occurs on farms, during processing and transport, in supermarkets, restaurants and households. According to Foodbank, 36% of households in Australia experienced moderate to severe food insecurity in 2023. Additionally, food waste is responsible for 3% of Australia’s Greenhouse
Gas emissions. Gleaning this waste, could then represent a crucial solution to a few impenetrable problems.
The origins of gleaning can be traced back to the Old Testament. Leviticus 19:9:10 states:
“When you reap the harvest of your land, do not reap to the very edges of your field or gather the gleanings of your harvest. Do not go over your vineyard a second time or pick up the grapes that have fallen. Leave them for the poor and the foreigner.”
Gleaning once existed as an embedded element of the harvesting season. Farmers would allocate their own workers to collect any unused produce and either use
it to feed the animals or dispose of it. However, in 1260, Louis IX, King of France decreed that the harvest fields should be left for three days postharvest without animal intervention, to allow for the poor to glean. Throughout history, gleaning remained an integral source of subsistence for the rural poor population, although not without tension between the farmers and the gleaners. In an agrarian profitoriented economy, gleaning was protected by local customs and communal regulations in France, as an act of social welfare. Farmers, against gleaning, or those who wanted to glean their own farms were positioned as “robbing the poor.” However, pre-revolutionary France saw an increase in favour for the farmer’s right to dispose of their own waste.¹
Though depicted in Breton’s 1877 painting La Glaneuse, as a solitary act, Varda advocates gleaning as a practice that forges community. Jean Francois Millet’s Des Glaneuses, arguably one of the most famous artistic commentaries on the practice, depicts gleaning as an act conducted in a group. Three women in the foreground assume the gleaning posture, stooped over a barren field of wheat. In the background, an abundant mound of hay looms large to highlight the disparity between the sparsity of the gleaner’s pickings and the wealth the true harvest will bring to the farmers.
This tension between abundance and sparsity is at the centre of gleaning, and is explored further by Varda. Across potato, tomato, oyster and apple farms, we meet gleaners with different motivations and farmers with different responses. Some glean because they have been left no other choice, others have sought out the gleaning lifestyle to participate ethically in society. The farmers are sometimes indifferent to gleaning and other times they encourage it because it is a sustainable way to clear their fields for the next season’s harvest. One winemaker explains that in order to achieve Vintage status, his production is limited, and therefore allows gleaners to come and
collect his wasted grapes. One happy gleaner, among the grapes, quotes French poet Joachim Du Bellay: “Like the gleaner who, walking step by step, gathers the remains of what falls behind the harvester!”
So how has gleaning manifested in Australia today? A large portion of Australia’s food waste can be boiled down to the strict cosmetic standards set by the duopoly of grocery stores chains; Coles and Woolworths. For example, Craig Reucassel’s documentary series War on Waste found that on one banana farm that produces over 80 million bananas a year, 40% of bananas were disposed of because they did not fit within the guidelines. In The Gleaners and I, Varda is also troubled by the way appearance dictates the viability of food. Many of the fruit and vegetables gleaned are ultimately deemed to be of zero commercial value because of their look.
Referring to an apple, one farmer is recorded saying, this one “has nothing going for it, like an ugly and stupid person.”
Food charities such as Oz-Harvest represent a nonprofit corporatised version of gleaning, that attempts to tackle this problem. Oz-Harvest collects fruit and vegetables discarded for their irregularities, or in surplus, as well as picking up any leftover or unused food items from households.
Individual efforts to glean have, however, manifested in a different way. Dumpster diving proves an effective strategy to combat waste and eat cheaply. In looking at this method, Varda braids together a story that once again hinges on the tension between abundance and sparsity. A group of homeless teens who often raid a supermarket’s bin, are angered to see the manager has doused the food waste in bleach, rendering it in-edible. The teens react, kicking over and vandalising the bins, and are charged for it. But the question hangs over the audience. Why ruin food, going to waste, for those who need it? And why approach those seeking sustenance punitively?
The legal murkiness of dumpster diving in Australia was confirmed by Professor of Law Penny Crofts. Theft and trespassing are the two offences to consider, however, possession of the property is an important consideration. If the property has been abandoned, it can’t be taken, but to be deemed abandoned, the owner must have given up all interest in it.
Whilst some act out of necessity, there are those for whom dumpster diving is part of a larger protest. “Freeganism” is a subculture dedicated to anti-capitalist protest of over-consumption and environmental destruction. By engaging in strategies such as dumpster diving, a freegan recognises the amount of food waste produced, and tries to limit their contribution.
But this sentiment does not have to be limited to food. The high-turnover of used items on Facebook marketplace could also represent a modern manifestation of gleaning, as users seek to extend the life of an object, for a much cheaper price. Many of us already participate in gleaning, unknowingly.
A widespread appreciation of gleaning could hold the answers to our wastage problems. But more than that, the presence of community in every incarnation of gleaning is striking. Gleaners find each other and forge communities. They often glean more than they need and commit to sharing. It is this approach that could dramatically transform Australia’s food wastage disaster.
Still life with cheese, artichoke and cherries (1625), Carla Peeters
Still life with fruit a nest and a lizard (1710), Rachel Ruysch
Method Ingredients
Gloves
Buckets or baskets
Water and snacks (for sustenance during gleaning)
Reusable bags or containers
A group of enthusiastic gleaners
Protective clothing: Long pants
Wide brimmed hat
Sunscreen (50+ SPF ideally)
Head torch (if gleaning is taking place at night)
Site ripe for gleaning eg: Harvested field
Dumpster bins
Knowledge of legal restrictions in the area intended for gleaning
Step 1: Choose a gleaning site and seek out legal advice about gleaning in the area of intention. Consider if there is a possibility you are in breach of the law by gleaning in this area.
Step 2: Assemble gleaning comrades. Gleaning is about building community, and much more enjoyable if done in a group, so choose carefully. Consider contacting local food charities, community members or friends, and asking if they would like to participate. Gleaning often reaps more reward than needed for an individual, so think about where surplus could be directed.
Step 3: Gather supplies needed for gleaning. What type of utensils you glean with will be specific to the site. For a field, gardening gloves may suffice, whereas for dumpster diving, heavy duty-rubber or leather gloves are advised to protect from sharp items or contaminants. Sun protection is vital for long gleaning days, and head torches are necessary for night-time diving. Then, travel to your gleaning site.
Step 4: Glean your items. Inspect what has been left behind, and whether it can be of use to you or others you know. Place items in the containers you brought, carefully ensuring nothing becomes damaged when transporting back home.
Step 5: Return home, and if applicable share items amongst your community, helping those in need.
Even if I am not on the fields of my ninunu (ancestors), my kaladuâ (soul) is still there, waiting for me to come home. On those fields, the land gives me the knowledge, the intuition to farm, cultivate, and enjoy the bounties that it produces.
O Ápû, O ninunu ku, ibiye ku ngan keko.
Biko is a traditional Filipino rice cake dish made from glutinous rice and rich coconut milk simmered with other aromatics like Pandan, Kalamansi, Ginger and many more. It is topped with Latik, toasted coconut curds and is served atop banana leaves to lend the banana’s herbaceous aroma. Biko is part of a collection of rice sweets known as kakanin, each having different textures and sweetness but ultimately made from kanin (rice). It is traditionally served during special occasions both joyous and grim, as the process for making biko takes time and care.
Ingredients
For the biko:
2 cups of glutinous/sticky rice
2 cups of water
2-3 pieces of pandan leaves (optional)
2 400ml cans of coconut milk
1 cup of brown sugar
Coconut or vegetable oil (to grease the pan)
2 - 3 Banana leaves
For the latik:
1 400ml can of Coconut cream
1. Prepare a square baking pan by greasing it with coconut or vegetable oil. Gently heat banana leaves on a stove until they become malleable. Line the baking pan with the banana leaves and add extra coconut oil to the banana leaves to prevent sticking. Set aside.
Rice fields stretched across the landscape, lined with coconut and banana trees. The seats of the ancestors (ninunu) soar high in the horizon, bunduk samat and bunduk natib. My ápû (grandmother) used to call them the leftover mountains of the almighty, left for the lesser anitu, the ancestral spirits that roam the earth.
2. Prepare the latik by decanting 1 can of coconut cream in a wok on a high flame. As colour starts to develop, reduce the heat and stir consistently to evaporate the liquid, scraping the sides of the wok where clumps of latik form. Once only latik and coconut oil remain, stir consistently to fry the latik until it appears golden brown. Let the latik cool and separate it from the coconut oil using a sieve and set aside for later. Roughly 50 mins.
My ápû would make tinctures with the coconut oil that we’d get from making latik. She’d cook it up with medicinal herbs that grew around the house and used it for hilot, spiritual massaging, and pagtatawas, a form of divination. She’d soak the bunót (coconut husks) with the kákanggatâ (coconut oil) and burn it for cleansing. I still remember the smell of the coconut-soaked incense burning as I walked up to her casket and laid a biko for her.
3. Add 2 cups of glutinous rice to a medium-sized pot and prepare to cook the rice by washing it till the water runs semi-translucent. Drain the liquid, place on the stove, and add 2 cups of water or about half the distance between your fingertip and first knuckle. Bring to a boil then simmer for 15 minutes or about three-quarters of the way cooked. Remove from the heat and set aside.
To the people north of us, it is thought that Dumangan gave us grains so we could have food and have our feet soaked in the water of the fields. We’d plant the palay and we’d harvest the bigas. After we saing (cook rice), kanin (cooked rice) is left atop a bed of tutong (toasted rice). Ápû and tatay would make fun of me for mixing the words up, but there’s too many to keep up with.
4. In a wok, simmer 2 cans of coconut milk with 1 cup of brown sugar and 2 pandan leaves. If unable to source pandan leaves, vanilla bean pods or whole Kalamansi rinds can be substituted for a different flavour. Stir to combine and boil the mixture. Once boiled, reduce the heat and add the par-cooked glutinous rice.
Having different herbs with so many flavours was truly the gift ápû got for her patronage. Together with Dumangan, his wife Idianali was known for good deeds and good labour. I’d pray to her before my exams and she provided for me even when I’m so far away. The biko that ápû liked to make had luya (ginger) in it. She said it was to keep me healthy even when I’m stuffing my face with bundles of kakanin sweets.
5. Stir the rice into the mixture until they have fully combined, and continue to cook on heat while stirring regularly. Within 15 to 20 minutes the mixture will thicken significantly. Continue until the biko is difficult to stir and then turn off the heat.
Even with my other grandparents, they showed me passion and care through bayanihan. Lola would care for all the kids in the baranggáy, giving them money for food, school and other things they needed. Lolo would sometimes help them with their homework or he’d take me to the forests and show me the chemistry that existed around us. Ápû showed me how to care for others through hilot and albulahiya, our traditional herbology.
6. Remove pieces of the pandan leaves or other flavouring ingredients and transfer the warm biko to the banana leaf-lined square pan. Use a spatula to even out the layer and allow the biko to cool.
“The food is there to heal you,” she would say. Maybe it’s true in a way. When making kakanins, the different herbs and plants she used to flavour the rice were also used in her healing ointments. Maybe the ninunu needed these herbs and plants because taking a bottle of multivitamins isn’t really plausible in the afterlife. Ápû’s healing plants heal more of the soul than the body, so I truly felt better after having a bite of her kakanin.
7. Once cooled completely, grab the ends of the banana leaves and decant the biko onto a plate or pan. Slice into diamond-shaped pieces, top each piece with latik and enjoy
As you pass from this world to the next, tátay tells me to prepare the table for the alay (offering). Candles are lit, coconut husks and incense sticks are burnt. The room is filled with cries and songs, some of sadness, others of joy. Your altar is adorned with flowers and herbs that you used to heal those in the community and I. The smell of atis (custard apple) leaves arranged with tanglad (lemongrass) ward off all malicious energy. In the middle of it all, on the dark yet shiny banana leaf, kakanins of different flavours and colours are offered to you for your safe passage on the river to the beyond.
FBR Café Computing the Coffee Industry with Sebastian Cincotta
Hugo Anthony Hay & China Meldrum
Wisps of Winnie Blue smoke from Pitt Street dance by us, Chinese opera in rehearsal grates against our ears as a door brush drags over a sunken door mat not washed in years. We are in the windowless, liminal, fluorescently lit but somehow still dark space of 370 Pitt Street: the tomb of old Sydney arcade capitalism — home to an acupuncture spot, copious amounts of real estate agencies, a few law firms, and our destination: FBR Café. We approach the ominous, green, and officious double frosted glass doors. We reach out to the acrylic door handles - they have a smooth refined facade with their waferred, 3-D print texture on its side. While FBR’s design stands in stark contrast to the warm and cosy setting we would usually expect of a café, the space still feels welcoming and insulated, everything aligned but not machined. We perhaps stepped into a perfect dream of Sebastian (Seb) Cincotta’s world, digital and homely. He greets
us with a warm smile, and a vivacious, excited pattern of speech and body language. He shakes our hands firmly, but not in a corpo way. He apologises for being tired and tells us that he has come directly from Gosford on the train after attending a private DJ set. Hugo apologises for that happening (he spent several years of his childhood there) and China asks if the train ride down was nice (they have spent several years on that train line).
From floor to ceiling we are washed in a calming, nostalgic set of greens — mineralic and digital. The floor is divided into large pyrex tiles, bordered with large LED strips - not in a sweaty gamer way but in a more deliberate semi-cyberpunk way. The primary source of lighting in the café is from these floor tiles, enhancing colours, food, and coffee to all look a bit brighter and warmer.
Behind the POS is a large CRT TV, humming and flickering with the same logo we found on the door handle. Seb shows us how he has programmed a simple game where the player can move a small sprite over the logo and across the screen. He tells us how he gives customers the controller while they wait, playing mouth agape, entranced by the glow, often forgetting that they had ordered a coffee in the first place. Hugo demonstrates this phenomenon. Every design decision at FBR is deliberate, acting as a way to break down the barrier between Seb and the customer, facilitating genuine conversation and connection over coffee, technology, and any tangent you might find yourself going down.
“Every single part about this space was 100% intentional… I wanted to make a space where people could feel comfortable. And then let down a level of guard because they just think it’s sexy. And then it’s much easier to communicate information to them. Because intimacy is important when you’re trying to teach people things. If they don’t feel like they are connected on some level, they usually have a bit of a barrier.”
FBR Café exists to provide an experience — connection and conversation with each individual customer. The kind of conversation that you have at FBR Café is intrinsically linked to coffee, culture, learning, and technology; one where Sebastian is just as eager to learn from and connect with FBR’s customers as they are to get a coffee from him.
We are sitting now, on wooden seating painted with the same considered green as the walls with a speaker set underneath - we can feel in our eardrums and in the seat beneath us a blend of ambient house, and an oddly cohesive jazz-fusion jungle combo. The music is playing at a conscious volume - not too loud to be distracting or require us to shout-speak but not too quiet that we forget it’s there. Seb speaks to us both directly and sincerely, dividing his eye contact evenly between us; we speak about his relationship with customers, in a space so curated how does he manage such a unique perspective? The barista-customer relationship is one that we came in eager to talk about, but throughout our time at FBR we realised that the very nature of the café functions differently to others we frequent. It’s not often that ordering an espresso will involve seeing and smelling the beans, learning about grind sizes, the different soluble compounds in coffee, all before our order is even brewed.
“I think it’s an important relationship, and it’s how I got into coffee, but I don’t think we run the same way as a regular barista. I think it’s a different relationship. You’re in my space, and I’m going to put on a show for you. And I’m gonna show you stuff and I’m gonna teach you stuff, and you’re gonna teach me stuff and then we have that interaction.”
Hugo Anthony Hay & China Meldrum
For Seb, the humanity of coffee is in this performance, one that FBR exists to highlight. It’s a performance that is tailored, and one that will change for everyone. Seb invites us over to the espresso machine, custom plated in green and chrome — LED buttons replaced to match the greens of the floor. He continues to speak to the customer experience lamenting the mundanity of traditional and more industrious ordering systems of ‘order-and-out’ coffee. He prepares an espresso puck. Single origin coffee (ours a Colombian Pink Bourbon from Finco Campo Hermoso, Quindío from Block
Roasters) ground with 53mm flat burrs, humidity measured, and dialledin using a programme he created himself. The basket is weighed twice, distributed with a WDT (Weiss Distribution Technique) tool, and tamped by a PUQ Press, an incredibly calibratable espresso tamping machine.
H: Where do you think the humanness is in coffee?
S:“The entire presentation. I still add my flair to this regardless… The art is puck preparation, then pulling the shot, and potentially the way that I’ve decided to do it like, for example, my baskets are 15 grams, which is really, really unique.”
As the crema flows from the grouphead, honey-like and tiger-skinned — we question him on his motivation toward coffee and the industry, especially as a computer scientist and physicist. FBR and Seb’s end goal extends far beyond coffee. He tells us FBR isn’t really just a café but an environmental systems organisation. A bijou, double-walled glass cup of espresso in our hands, graciously tossed by Seb with a spoon - after Hugo forgets that swishing an espresso only separates the parts of an espresso rather than combining them. He redirects our attention back to the espresso grinder, and the origin of the bean. Despite his extensive calibration and computerification of his grinder, he reminds us that it’s still all about taste.
“Numbers don’t make something taste good — Numbers help you make something taste good again.”
Speaking with his hands, drawing straight lines with four outstretched fingers, he explains his scepticism of the usefulness of semi-scientific terms used to describe the brewing process. How over and underextracted relies on the arbitrarily decided ‘balanced extraction’. “Over and under what?” he questions. “It’s just all fluff.” Holding invisible particles in his palms and fingers, moving them circularly, he explains how the particle size of solubles in coffee is incredibly important to extraction but chasing flavour compounds in coffees with chemical analysis and comparisons of parts-per-million is misguided as attributing ultra-precise measurements to things made by imprecise machines. China (ex-chemistry nerd) visualises the long chains of sugars, fats, acids all breaking down in the coffee as Seb talks. He shows us his syphon brewer, a method that has become FBR’s speciality - something originally chosen by Seb because it is “hectic”. His method of making syphon coffee was created without using any tutorials, crafting his own unique approach through trial and error over a probably very highly caffeinated week.
“I’m just a scientist, I’m actually just a computer nerd who happens to be in coffee.”
The syphon experience is dramatic and personal, Seb takes you through the entire process. The origin of the device, the pressure exchange acting as a filter, and chasing the perfect aggressiveness in a boil for ultimate coffee grounds agitation. Even to the most novice coffee enjoyer (read: China), Seb explains the process in a way that’s interesting, informative, and ends with a unique, fun, well-balanced coffee. Seb then invites Hugo behind the counter to share his pour-over. Seb picks out another bean and grinds it. He provides Hugo with a tall glass carafe and a navyglazed ceramic dripper. Hugo explains his recipe as he brews — Seb watches intently whilst describing how making pour-over mathematical would be “digging yourself a hole”. After brewing, we become lost in conversation for another hour or so. We look at the pour-over through the lights of the floor, talking about things we forgot to record, we have more coffee, nerd out a little more. China finds out that the tactile grout of the counter is custom-made, a paint colour designed to give the whole space four distinct colours, making it feasible to hypothetically model FBR to scale on a Gameboy. We bathe in the sweet green light and feel the music in our sternum.
S:“It looks like blood, I feel like a vampire. It’s a very lovely pour-over.”
H:“Yay!”
FBR is offering a 10% discount for all PULP readers for until the 1st of September with the presentation of Issue 16 when ordering. Hugo recommends the Syphon coffee, it made him feel like a devious alchemist with an extremely refined palette and cerebral nature. China recommends an espresso of any variety that Seb recommends for you, and to sit in the corner bench for optimal light design viewing.
On August 31st, FBR will be hosting a music festival featuring a variety of DJs across several iconic Sydney CBD venues, including Club 77 as well as‘Cuts-and-Cups’ , a cupping (coffee tasting) with sets from DJs at their café at Shop 9, 370 Pitt St every fortnight.
Hugo Anthony Hay & China Meldrum
Hugo’s pour-over recipe; shared with Seb and China at FBR
Ingredients:
16g of medium-finely freshly ground coffee beans 250ml of filtered and freshly boiled water.
Method:
1. Place your dripper (or funnel in a pinch) atop your cup/carafe and a paper coffee filter inside it. Rinse the paper filter with boiling water, allowing it to drain into your cup to warm it. After it is fully drained, discard the water in a sink.
2. Place your dry coffee grounds into the filter while giving the dripper a swirl to distribute them evenly, your grounds should be level and flat.
3. ‘Bloom’ the coffee by pouring in 50 grams of water slowly, in a circular motion going from the centre outwards in a spiral shape, over a 15 second period. After pouring, give the dripper another swirl to ensure that all of the grounds are covered in water and wait 30 seconds or until the grounds begin to drain. Your coffee grounds should release a rich aroma and develop golden bubbles as they bloom.
4. Pour in another 50ml of over 15 seconds, in a circular motion and allow to drain for 15 more seconds.
5. Repeat step 4 until you have poured all your water.
6. Allow the filter to drain completely until all of the water has left the coffee.
7. Allow to cool and enjoy!
China’s note: Served best with a light from below so you can see that coffee is actually red.
