Touch Your Food

The first time I had African food was in the Height/Ashbury district in San Francisco.  It wasn’t trendy; it was just another culinary voice in the cacophony of city sounds and sites I once knew in my college years.  I remember the large plate with the pancake on the bottom; small dabs of colorful food adorned the top.  I recall the distinct lack of cutlery.  The smiling African waitress offered only folded bits of the same pancake base with which to scoop up the messy morsels.  The food was flavorful and spicy.

On my second visit I decided to take a couple of young ladies I knew from my London semester of study abroad.  They happened to be studying at San Francisco State University as well, so we had our post-London reunion over African food.  As anyone who has had East African food (Eritrean, Ethiopian) knows, the size of the plate correlates to the size of the dining party—a bigger plate and a bigger pancake for a party of three.  Everyone shares from the same plate using their hands.  One of the more uptight ladies in our party interrogated the waitress:  “Am I to assume we get no knife and fork with this?”  The waitress merely laughed and walked away shaking her head.  Later the same young lady informed me that she would never return to that—or any—African restaurant again.  Snotty racist cow.

Europeans and certain ‘upper class’ Americans won’t eat with their hands.  I’ve seen Europeans eat pizza and hamburgers with a knife and fork, and we’re getting tired of it (just ask the New Yawkers at The Bird: ‘Please, at least try eating the damn burger with your hands. All you uptight people with forks and knives are driving us crazy.’)  Some food DEMANDS that you touch it.  Why else would they coin the phrase 'finger food?' An Indian acquaintance I met in Cyprus explained to me as he taught me how to eat Indian food with my hands, “We have five senses.  To not touch your food is to deny the full experience.”  Damn, with logic like that, I’m glad he didn’t try to talk me into trying yoga.  Then I’d have to bounce my foot off his Ghandian ass.  And that would be sad.

In the States we pick up our burritos, tacos, pizza slices, burgers and chicken wings.  I have actually gone weeks without touching a knife or fork.  This weekend qualifies as a forkless nosh period.  Yesterday:  fish tacos (made myself), today: African food at Bejte-Ethiopia in a far flung place in Berlin (Nollendorf Platz). We enjoyed the food, although the pancake was a bit sour for our taste.  Once again, we suspected that they are catering to the locals’ love of everything sour (sauerkraut, anyone?).  But the food itself was delicious, though not quite as spicy as the African restaurants I visited in San Francisco or Munich.  The kicker was the finish.  We had read that they offer a special type of coffee in the joint, so we ordered coffee for two.  It came with a bowl of popcorn and I have no idea why.  I guess they’ve never heard of biscuits or wafers.  I drank the rich, strong coffee and just stared at the popcorn.  I couldn’t cotton to it.

Years ago in Prague, an American picked up his slice of pizza with his hands and heard the muffled mutterings of the Czechs.  They sat there like the dorks that they are, pretending to be all 'Yer Row Culture,’ pizza on the plate, knife and fork in sweaty hands.  Step off, bitches.  Pick up that mother humping pizza, hold it under your nose, look at it and smell it.  As the saliva starts, slide that tasty morsel into your mouth and chew:  LISTEN! Your teeth are talking to you now!

Your Dunkin’ Berliner lesson in the culinary arts has just begun.

Next week:  unleash the Third Eye Chakra in the center of your forehead and head butt your chow!

Death of an Artist

I went to visit my old neighborhood of Friedrichshain today. It was one of the few sunny days we’ve had in Berlin for a while and I was thinking it was about time we had some summer.

I stuffed the camera in the backpack and headed out.

Friedrichshain is changing—of course. It became ‘hip’ and therefore it is doomed to gentrification, higher rents, overdevelopment, displaced creative types and worse yet: yoga joints and sushi bars. Well, that shit had already begun when we decided to leave, and thankfully, it’s still gonna be a long time before the punks let the yuppies push them out. Whenever the punks want a can of spray paint to tag an SUV they can contact me here. I’ll buy the fucker.

The old squats on Rigaer strasse were still holding out; new posters plastered everywhere suggested that the battle was being lost. It’s as if the squats were a slowly sinking ship with corporate raiders on the stern and fenced-in youth hanging on the bow, swinging bottles and laughing and living in spite of the hull breach.

I was shooting some pics of the street when our Russian artist friend suddenly took us on a detour off the street through a passage to the back of some flats. I was preoccupied with shooting various kiddie rides in a playground overgrown with tall grass. My girlfriend said that our friend was taking us to meet her American artist friend. She said she was very impressed with his paintings. He was also from California, so naturally she thought I should meet him. I said why not. Nadja pushed the buzzer and I continued shooting. I’ve never been a fan of dropping in on people unannounced. And I don’t like it when they do the same to me. I like pre-arranged fun. But I was following the leader, so gate crash we did.

 

I heard Nadja shout “WHAT?!!? I CAN’T BELIEVE!!!” A middle aged woman stood on her second floor balcony with a red-headed girl of around 7. The woman said the artist had died of a heart attack last week. It was unexpected and the man was only 42. I heard the girl say “mein papa ist tot.” Nadja was emotional. She said that she couldn’t understand it. The girl, upon hearing Nadja speaking English, simply clarified: “my papa is dead.”  I felt like I had swallowed a brick.

These are the kind of moments when perspective smacks you square in the face and all of the little things you bitched about all week—late trains, bad lunches, flat beer—seem like a complete waste of breath.  I suddenly felt self-conscious of the fact that I had a camera around my neck. I put my camera back in the bag. I said I was sorry. I’ve never liked the failure of English language to express any real emotion. All I could say was “I’m sorry.” Why? I didn’t kill the guy. But all you can say when someone has lost somebody close is “I’m sorry.” That’s what you say when a mourning woman and her young child are looking down on you from a 2nd floor balcony of the flat of a dead artist. And then you walk away.

Gentrification = Yuppiescumification

The following is a letter sent to Exberliner Magazine after reading that they want us to 'Save Berlin.' I am all for it. Hence the letter I sent them:

Open Letter to a Foreign Media Publication
on the Impending Gentrification of Berlin

By Craig Robinson

I want to save Berlin. I want to give that big ole bear a human hug and throw innovative ideas into the whirlpool of creativity. I want to stop the Atomic Bomb of Mall Culture from being dropped onto the last ‘island of affordable civilization for outcasts and dreamers’. I shouldn’t have any right to care about Berlin as I’ve been living here for less than 6 months. But I do. Over the last 15 years I have witnessed the gentrification of every place on earth I’ve ever lived in for any significant length of time.

Sacramento, San Francisco, London, Dublin, Prague. I came. I saw. Yuppies conquered. The cost of living in each of these places has gone up tenfold in as many years. But the average wages stayed way below the new high water mark.

Submitted for your perusal: Notes on the Global Gentrification Wars
as witnessed by concerned citizens, friends and comrades.

I am not submitting any ideas to your ‘Save Berlin’ action, as obviously I am too late. But please consider the following, especially in light of the fact that your current issue is about ‘the yoga craze.’ Even though I do not have adequate authority as a gentrification expert—only as a witness—I still feel obligated to point out the glaring hypocrisy in declaring your intent to ‘Save Berlin’ from gentrification, mallification, etc., when you clearly are serving up heaping portions of brine to the yuppie larvae in the form of a ‘yoga issue.’ Yoga is New Age Bollox. It was invented by well-meaning Indian gurus 1000s of years ago and appropriated by ex-hippies-turned-new-age-yuppies in California in the 90s. It spread like a disease from there. The only people who follow the yoga craze are certain neo-hippies and yuppies. The neo-hippies don’t have the money for these highly priced yoga courses and such, but their rich parents do. Please consider who you accept your advertising income from and who your target audience is. I fully intend to buy your yoga issue and read it. Perhaps I am wrong and it is a parody on yuppie life, in which case I will be extremely pleased and offer my sincere apologies. In the meantime, the following is a list of warning signs that will signify the beginning of the end of any neighborhood, to whit; gentrification is coming fast and furious.

SUSHI JOINTS – few foods suggest yuppie scum like sushi. Unless you are born in Japan, if you eat sushi on a regular basis, you may as well have a gold card and a Beamer parked up your ass.

YOGA – yuppies without soul shop for religion. They already jog, but that’s free (except for the $500 jogging gear). What better way to satisfy the exercise instinct AND the craving for something ‘meaningful’ to fill their empty, materialist lives?

GALLERY / ARTIST LOFT DISTRICTS – this one needs no explanation. First comes the cheap gallery / artist loft spaces, next comes the barrage of Beamers (God, I hate Beamers, but you may substitute whatever trendy piece of crap the yuppies are driving these days: Lexus, Hummer, etc.). Here’s an actual authority: http://einstellung.so36.net/en/ps/524. And a concerned post by myself (dunkin’ berliner) on the gallery/artist space rental situation in Berlin: http://www.toytowngermany.com/forum/index.php?showtopic=91587&st=0

UBER BRAND CAFES – Starbuck’s, etc. Overpriced ‘half-caff-triple-latte-lemon-bullshit’ is for yuppies. Nobody else drinks that shit. Ever.

Following is a historical timeline of some grass roots struggle for our turf. Call it Crips vs. Bloods with slightly fewer bullets.


Thwarting Gentrification Strategy I: Grass Roots Class Warfare

San Francisco, CA, mid 1990s:

Threatened District: The Mission District, predominantly Hispanic families, students and artists.

The Threat: Encroachment from neighboring hip districts, rising rents displacing generations of original residents.

The Response: Whatever vehicle the yuppies were parking in the Mission District too long would receive a welcome basket in the form of a bumper sticker applied to many a BMW, Lexus, etc: ‘Die Yuppie Scum.’ The Mission does not fuck around. They managed to thwart gentrification much longer than most other S.F. districts. In the end, the dot com craze swept almost everyone under the income level of 80k per year (who didn’t already own their property) out of the City. Permanently.

Sacramento, CA, late 1990s:

Threatened District: Midtown Sacramento and surroundings, a mix of every race, income level and lifestyle.

The Threat: Suburban yuppies stuck in gridlock on the way to their downtown offices are drawn to the newly-renovated Victorian architecture in the old Midtown neighborhoods, which happened to be much closer to their offices. In addition, a large influx of Bay Area urban refugees hit Sacramento, driving up the rents.

The Response: Sadly, almost none. Residents sat around for years with their thumbs up their collective asses and watched their rents go from $400 per month up to $1200. Then they left. One response of note: a punk rock couple who ran an independent video store in a prime district in Midtown Sac fought back. Their store bulletin board was designed for other musicians, artists and film people to post notes to each other. A preponderance of irrelevant New Age fliers started to appear, aromatherapy workshops, yoga lessons, etc. The staff responded by placing a large notice on the board: NO FUCKING YOGA FLIERS!!!!

Thwarting Gentrification Strategy II: I Wish I Had One

But in lieu of a competent strategy, I would suggest that all foreign language media publications (i.e. anything not published in German language) start a disinformation campaign or at least a misinformation campaign. Everybody who has read anything about Berlin knows that it’s ‘poor, but sexy.’ That unemployment is high. This doesn’t discourage anyone from coming here. Especially yuppie scum. They are desperate to be hip. They can buy almost anything with their salaries and their credit. But they can’t buy cool.  I am not cool.  Nor are most of my friends.  We are mostly poor.  But we care about our neighborhood, our city and our lives. Dear Editor of a Foreign Language Publication in Berlin, pretty please, with sugar on top: tell the yuppies to fuck off. How you do it is up to you. A little hint: don’t advertise ‘penthouse flats with a view of Berlin for only 1200 euros per month!’ That’s a start.


Sincere thanks,

Craig Robinson
Veteran of the Gentrification Wars