c h o w (eponymous)

Alohas - welcome to my food blog. Like the typical, first day of class, occupied by handing out course outlines and other administrative mumbo-jumbo, I suppose I'll start by un-ambitiously explaining the title of my blog, "c h o w." According to Websters:

chow (chou), Informal -n. 1. food, esp. hearty dishes or a meal . . .

Until October 3, 2004, I had never used the word "chow." But since that day, when I arrived at Quantico, Virginia, and stepped onto the parade deck at Officer Candidate School, food has been referred to as chow.

Chow. Say it to yourself. Now ask yourself this: Is this a word that gives you the same reaction as, say ... cordon bleu. Or saucier, or, I dunno, escargot? Now try it compared to these other words:

Chow.  Patisserie. 

Chow.  Petit four.

Chow.  Ratatouille.

Chow.  Fois gras.

Chow.  Aperitif.

Chow.  Table d'hote 

Chow . . . not a particularly inspiring word, right?

Chow. Fiorentina.

Chow. Soffritto.

Chow. Prosciutto.

Chow. Just doesn't quite ooze succulence, does it.

Okay, okay. Maybe I am cheating a little here. I mean, maybe its not fair to say "Mary Jane" and then "Anna Kournikova" or "Elena Dementieva" and expect you to say, "Oooh, they all sound equally sexy." You just don't throw foreign names around and not fall prey to seduction by the exotic-ness of it all. But what about:

Chow. ... Esculent.

We talk English here. 

And, by definition, "esculent" suggests barely passable fare: "1. suitable for use as food; edible. -n. 2. something edible, esp. a vegetable." And here again we have chow: "food, esp. hearty dishes ..."

Oh well.

But I guess that's the point, or my point. This is a blog for me to post random thoughts about food. I am not a chef, I am not a "foodie," and my opinions won't be driving Michelin 3-star chefs to suicide.

The adoption by the military of the word "chow" may be a reflection of the mentality that food is, simply, "sustenance." No frills, no thrills. Such were days in the field where instructors admonished officer candidates with "chow is continuous" - indeed, I tried to eat from my packs of Meals-Ready-to-Eat (MREs) and random snacks stuffed in my spare magazine pouches, and constantly - though not because I was hungry, but because I was always cold during the Northern Virginia winter, and recognized that I needed calories to burn to stay warm(er). (Having said that, it seems that an increasing emphasis on providing, not just nutritious food, but tasteful food, to American soldiers, sailors, airmen, Marines -- just witness the private food service 3d-country-national contractors in bow-ties serving icecream at DFACs in Iraq -- a story for another time.) 

So, alohas again. No frills, no thrills. 

Chow. 3. culinary excursions of a non-foodie.

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SATURDAY, JULY 16, 2005

Loud and Vicious

It's almost 0530. It's still dark out, but you can almost feel the crack of light. OCS candidates have already woken up ("count, off!"), dressed ("put your left boot on now! 20, 19, 18, 14, 8, 5, 3, 2, 1!"), cleaned the squad bays ("scuzzbrush the bulkhead!"), scampered (moonbeams clanking against their warbelts) onto the parade deck for formation ("Report!"), marched ("Road guards! Post!") across the damn bridge to Bobo Hall ("1, 2, 3 attack the chow hall!"), and are now standing in line holding their trays with elbows tight and to their sides, side-stepping through the chow line ("Eggs please, ma'am!").

They will be eating with feet flat on the floor, at a 45-degree angle, backs straight and off the seat rests, bringing their food to their mouths, and not their mouths to their food. There will be no talking unless spoken to first. And then they will reply loud and vicious. Sergeant instructors are yelling. Some candidates will be assigned 300-word "remedial" essays for transgressions such as walking with food in their mouths ("daggon heinous!"). This will probably fall under the subject heading "failure to follow simple instructions." The platoons that finish first will go sit outside in front of Bobo Hall, facing the Potomac. Some candidates make a "head call" (which evolves into social time at OCS). The rest will unfold and sit down on their campstools and bury their faces in their candidate regulations. But really, each is staring at the Potomac as the sun soon breaks the horizon. A precious moment of peace, perhaps the only moment of peace, in a day in candidate land. It's about 0545, and all they can think of is "what the fuck am I doing here?!"

"Aye aye candidates! Aye aye gunnery sergeant! Carry on candidates! Kill!"

Something similar is probably happening at MCRDs San Diego and Parris Island.

While most of our society sleeps, the Corps is making Marines.