I am wondering about traditions today.
Here’s how that all started.
I was watching an episode of No Reservations, Anthony Bourdain’s food driven travel
experience. He was in Hong Kong. As usual he had a local guide to help move him
through the labyrinth of food and culture. I like the show because Bourdain is; willing
to eat anything, snarky and also, quite genuine in his love of culture and his passion
for food. During a morning segment, the local guide takes Bourdain to a small
apartment where one man lives and plies his trade. He hand makes noodles. He is
alone and the last of a generation. He has been doing this since 1964. I won’t even
attempt to explain the process, but it involves simple ingredients and a pressing
process that he does with a large bamboo pole which he bounces on to press the
dough. It is said he makes the finest noodles in Hong Kong and, when he passes away,
no one will be left to create these noodles the way he does.
Bourdain shares the fact that most young people have never even tasted a hand made
noodle.
He learned his craft from his parents and he does it the same way still. Again, simple
ingredients; two types of flour, duck eggs and salt water. That’s all.
It was a lovely moment in the show. A moment when Bourdain drops his caustic, New
Yorker, been there done that, television host facade and he stands in awe of the
craftsman at his work. The noodles look amazing, perfect, this man’s nimble hands
pulling the long strands out, making cascades of noodle goodness. And then, he puts
the bamboo pole away, clears away the flour and waves good-bye to the camera.
When this man dies, no one in the world will know how to make noodles the way he
does. The process of bouncing on the bamboo to press the dough causes physical
problems and, as he says, the young people, young chefs, cooks … They do not want
to be hurt and they do not want to take the time.
They do not want to take the time.
Bourdain mentions some of the technical processes going on, releasing the gluten,
etc., but, even he speaks about the noodles as if they are magic, sacred, beyond what
the normal noodle will ever be. He repeats the notion that, when this small, beautiful
man dies, no one will be left on earth who will make noodles the same way.
Is that sad?
I think so. I have never tasted this man’s noodles and most likely never will. But, the
idea that, in the middle of a jam packed city, 7 million people occupying a space no
bigger than New York, there is a man who continues to do something traditional, the
way he believes it is supposed to be done, is heartbreaking. Inspiring. Beautiful.
I am pulled to think about how many traditions are slipping away, dropping from view.
How many little things, enchantments, processes, delights are flying o” the planet,
into the never again, because we have become … Too fast. Technology is not evil and it
is not the culprit that is turning us into machines or heartless demons. But, it does
have a strong pull. When it is easier to send a text than write a letter. Make a call rather
than walk down the street. When it takes too much time to wait for a meal, a download,
a TV show. What are we forgetting in those little minutes?
My chosen profession is full of traditions. Most, I have no idea where or how they
started. Most, I still don’t know. None as succulent or as nourishing as this delightful
man’s noodles, created in the middle of a pulsing city, in a tiny apartment, alone in the
small hours of the morning. But, tradition nonetheless.
We mourn the extinction of an animal. When all that is left of the once animated flesh,
bone, feather, hoof is simply a picture or a stuffed simulacrum in a museum. It is sad
when a species is no longer. I feel it is just as sad when a tradition is gone.
There are no museums for tradition really. Sure we can learn how the pilgrims made
corn or about the first steel mills in New England. But the small wonders; “Break
legs”,”Merde”, “En Boca Lupo” … Making noodles. What happens when those are
ignored. When people don’t have time to say them, understand them, follow them?
Into the mouth of the wolf. An actor at the Hangar theater in upstate New York taught
me that. He said it as we went to places, opening night of Cyrano. I was playing the
nose and was so very nervous. He said it in my face and I said “what does that mean?”
He told me. He didn’t just tell me what the words meant, he told what it meant in his
country, to his people, to the performers he had trod board with all over this planet.
Into the mouth of the wolf.
“We always say to each other. We look into the eyes of the people we love, trust and
are about to live and die with. We say it. It is a tradition.”
I have carried that and yet, I have rarely used it. Why? Because I am thinking about the
me that is me and the me that is about to walk on stage and frankly, most times, I am
so desperately trying to control my almost paralyzing stage fright, that I can only
mutter break legs, knock wood or some other tradition that I learned that I am
certainly not giving the required, desired respect to. I don’t have time or energy or the
ability to look beyond my fears to explain what it means to step into the mouth of the
wolf. I have been entrusted with a lovely, meaningful tradition and … I have dropped
the ball. And I have no excuse beyond … I am too scared to think outside of myself.
A tradition is a gift. It is also, it seems to me, a bit of a burden. This lovely man, with a
crossword puzzle smile, coated in flour, could easily change, cut corners, do it
differently. Maybe no one would know the difference, taste the difference in the
noodle. Maybe he could have a bigger apartment or spend mornings drinking tea in
the early rays of the day. But, then, the faded pictures of his parents that hang above
his work bench would not be honored and a tradition would be wasted and denied.
I am the sum of every person I have met on this planet.
God is in the details.
What details have we skipped, missed, forgotten, saved for … Oh, another time, when I
have time, not this time? I am criminal in this and I am sorry for it.
So, if you have a tradition; a family tradition, a cultural tradition, a trade secret
tradition, share it with someone. Show them what and how and why. Take the time.
Make it count. Do not let it be forgotten or overlooked. The tradition will live, the detail
will be remembered and you, because you showed someone who will show someone
who will show … You will be immortal.
Or, better yet, start a tradition. Make a detail in your life important enough to share
with another person.
Who is going to walk the floors of the museums if we let all of that makes us human,
unique, special is forgotten?