The Sideways of Sashimi

During this week's sojourn in central California's wine country for a destiny-determining culinary showdown between three inspired chefs and three adventurous ladies, a stretch-Hummer limo, initially seen disembarking from the Firestone Winery parking lot, was later spotted lying in wait just outside the Hitching Post restaurant. Presumably, this comically massive vessel was providing transportation between the iconic locales of the 2004 film Sideways. Strange, the juxtaposition between a movie whose focus settles on the subtlety and beauty of wine appreciation, and a vehicle which could have been an extra in a Big Mac of a movie like Transformers or its supersized sequel. Sideways surely found an audience in many folks who might have otherwise considered such a passion for wine as our protagonist possesses to be mere snobbery; people who would find the exegesis of a well-crafted Pinot too rarified a subject were it not neatly nestled in a compelling narrative, like a veterinarian's prescription concealed in a slice of lunch meat.
    But as heartening as it was to see Sideways' winespeak-laden script succeed, try to imagine a world in which the film spawned a long-running television series, with each successive season set in a new growing region, and with each episode dedicated to detailing the finer points of a particular varietal. There would be a niche market for it, certainly. But it's tough to imagine any degree of mainstream success. However, if you substitute the art of Japanese cuisine for that of wine, and comic panels for moving pictures, you'd have something pretty close to the hugely popular (in Japan, at least) manga Oishinbo. Despite its elevated subject matter, the series has sold over 100 million copies of its 102 volumes since its inception in 1983. I'm not sure which is more delightfully shocking; that someone managed to successfully publish one hundred and two volumes of a comic detailing the intricacies of Japanese cuisine, from sake to vegetables to rice to gyoza, or that these seemingly esoteric tales sell like a Michael Bay film.

    Just as a mere glass of fermented grape juice might contain a whole universe of subtleties, the superficial simplicity of Japanese cuisine lends itself to an increased focus on the nuances. Take sashimi. Little more than simple hunks of raw fish, it is a dish capable of tremendous complexity, a fact which Tetsu Kariya, Oishinbo's author, goes to great length to convince you. If you're not sufficiently food-nerdy to be intrigued by the mere prospect of an in-depth exploration of preparing the perfect pot of rice, then have faith in the mighty power of story. By the time our protaganist Yamaoka Shiro, a culinary journalist who splits his time between developing the "Ultimate Menu" and working through some father issues, has emerged from his third or fourth cliffhanger cookoff or culinary showdown in which both honor and pleasure are on the line, you'll be calling in reservations to your nearest sushi restaurant to experience the food of Japan with a newfound appreciation and understanding.

It's safe to say that the presence of the internet has seriously cut down on the amount of actual day-to-day, paper and ink, reading that goes down. Which is a shame, certainly. But among the silver linings to this proverbial cloud is the vastly increased exposure we now have to such little nuggets of wonderment as this short clip, a painstakingly detailed work that would have gone largely unseen in the days before broadband. We watch as the novel Going West, by New Zealand author Maurice Gee, is almost literally brought to life as the pages themselves spring into the third dimension and give form to the actions described therein. This particular silver lining happens to be especially lustrous, as the video is in fact among the New Zealand Book Council's admirable efforts to inspire people to read, and specifically to promote the stories and storytellers of New Zealand. Which, incidentally, makes for our second New Zealand themed post this week.

Featured Book: Everything that Rises

In biology, convergence refers to the phenomenon of unrelated plants and animals developing superficially similar features in comparable environmental conditions. For instance, echolocation in animals of both sky and sea, or the similarly streamlined bodies of aquatic birds, fish, and mammals. These traits don't suggest a particular commonality between the creatures themselves, but rather reflect the forces, seen and unseen, of their environment upon them.

When Lawrence Weschler, in his book "Everything that Rises: A Book of Convergences," points out the echo of Rembrant's "The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicholaes Tulp" in Freddy Alborta's famous photograph of Che Guavera's death, he's not implying that Alborta knowingly referenced the Dutch Master any more than he'd suggest that a duck, inspired by a dolphin's elegance, could suddenly become a penguin. However, an artistic coincidence such as this surely merits further examination, which is precisely the cause taken up by Weschler's book. Just as the meme is the cultural analog of biology's gene, these cultural convergences parallel the natural commonalities between the branches of dendrites, rivers, and trees, or the waves of the sea, sound, and our brains. Weschler steadies his aim on the intricate aggregate of unseen forces that gently shape human culture. After reading an article by John Berger which initially drew attention to the Alborta/Rembrandt likeness, Weschler developed an increasing awareness of such convergences, especially in the visual art world, and began collecting them like stamps. "Everything that Rises" is his display case. He shows off a stunning series of essays that focus on these strange little moments when bits of culture overlap, reverberate, and feedback upon themselves. His personal narratives often unfold like murder mysteries, with excerpts from The Iliad and ancient clay tablets popping up as clues while we wait on edge to discover how it'll all tie together in the end.


As with most seemingly bizarre coincidences of daily life, these convergences do benefit from the deliberate focus on the pieces of the puzzle that fit snugly, and the disregard of those that don't. Fortunately, much of the beauty in what Weschler does lies curiously in the fact that there is no central thesis. He sets out to prove nothing. The aim is merely to revel in the wonderment of it all. And what emerges is absolutely brilliant. These convergences strike at something deeply satisfying. Comforting. A strange kind of faith in the underlying order of artistry and perception. A thread that ties human culture and experience together. It's a very specific and profound version of beauty.

And ultimately, even if there is nothing more to be gleaned from these seemingly stochastic observations than a simple amused smile, this should by no means be undervalued. Delighting in such marvels is nothing short of training ourselves to find the beauty in the quotidian, to absorb life as fully as possible rather than letting it quietly pass us by. This is a sentiment which can surely be appreciated by anyone who's ever paused to cherish the cherry aroma of a nice glass of pinot. And then, rather than wonder what it all means that we might transform the humble grape into this endlessly complex repository of art and culture, we simply touch the glass to our lips, and drink it in.