Love & peace & culinary freedom
Lotje Deelman was editor-in-chief of ELLE Eten, has been working for Allerhande for almost 15 years and worked behind the scenes on television programmes such as MasterChef, de Worsten van Babel On Tour and De Nieuwe Lekkerbek. She ate pig’s trotters with Anthony Bourdain and flirted with Gordon Ramsay in his Aston Martin. Lotje is the (co-)author of more than ten cookbooks and, in her kitchen in the Drenthe countryside, is never too hesitant to set something on fire. On FavorFlav, Lotje shares what occupies her mind every week. This time: culinary fundamentalism.
It’s simply incredibly difficult, when you have an opinion, to keep it to yourself. And it just feels good not to take any detours, but simply to walk straight ahead; not to explore endless shades of grey and nuances, and not to have to lend an ear to someone who thinks differently. Nice and simple. That’s why I can understand them. Fundamentalists. Culinary fundamentalists, that is. I used to be one myself.
Romans and all that
The first time one crossed my path—a culinary fundamentalist, that is—was about twenty years ago. A (still) fairly well-known Amsterdam Italian restaurateur nearly threatened to kill me over the phone because I had published a recipe for chicken saltimbocca in a magazine. Chicken (“Kiep”)! In the saltimbocca!
I was impressed. Those Italians hadn’t spent centuries perfecting the best recipe for parmigiana and saltimbocca for nothing. Not even counting the Romans and all that. Who was I to challenge it?
Arguments
Since then, I’ve lectured generations of waiters on the correct way to remove the lead foil from a bottle of wine. Argued with television chefs about the proper preparation of salpicon and béchamel sauce. I only just managed not to send in letters to the editor about the difference between pepernoten and kruidnoten, which apparently nobody seems to understand.
I have never ordered a pizza with a non-Italian topping on it (shawarma meat? pineapple? brie?) and, when I eat at my poor mother’s house, I lecture her on making mashed potatoes with a mixer instead of a potato ricer. Always. Year in, year out.
Not long ago, I encountered a very frightening teacher with his year-three or year-four class in a Drenthe supermarket. ‘Who knows why you should NEVER take this to school?’ he asked, menacingly holding up a ready-made smoothie, just beyond the reach of those little fingers that, in my eyes, were not at all too chubby. Since I genuinely had no idea, I waited out of sight for the answer. ‘Exactly! This contains a LOT of sugar!’
The next day, I verbally showed a headstrong but talented junior culinary editor every corner of the kitchen because she had put a chicken stock cube in the fish pie. A stock cube! Made of chicken (“Chicken!”)! In the fish pie!
Sorry, Mum
I think that was the turning point. After that, I felt a little ashamed. It actually no longer felt so good to be right. Being right suddenly seemed less interesting. Culinarily speaking, that is.
So I’m trying to tone it down. And cautiously spread the message a little, starting in small circles. Sorry, Mum. Delicious, darling, that finely chopped onion in the guacamole… Taking it one step further each time is my plan. I bite my tongue when faced with a crayfish cappuccino. I turn the other cheek when confronted with a vegan omelette. Cream in the carbonara. Chicken in the Caesar salad. Fuck it, why not? I’ll get there… Right?
