My cousin told me of a strange evening they once experienced in Thailand, whilst on their travels there. They had on the advice of a number of fellow backpackers, made their way to one of the islands famous for cheap accommodation and regular festivities. Arriving late in the day they found some reasonably priced lodging, showered in the basic facilities and following reports of a gathering, wandered down to the nearby beach. These rumours were confirmed upon arrival, as they found themselves amongst a throng of revellers, all of whom seemed to be enjoying the warm but noisy atmosphere. They wandered the stretch of beautiful, if now slightly cluttered, shore, taking in the sights and sounds of the travellers in full party mode. It was, they reported later, a happy and welcoming crowd and in every beachfront bar, or disco, they ventured into, they met people who claimed to both love them and swear enduring loyalty to them.
They recalled encountering a particularly happy young couple in one establishment, who enthusiastically recommended that they try some of the specialities currently being served by ‘The Bar at the End of the Beach’, which was both its name and its location. Being a trusting traveller, at the time, and one who survived on word-of-mouth recommendations, my cousin thought this an excellent idea and set off to find it. They enjoyed a sociable walk along the busy beach, until they reached the steep stairway heading up the cliffs that framed the shoreline.
They stopped momentarily, staring up at the steps before them. They had not been told of the climb and had little enthusiasm for exercise on such a balmy evening. A momentary consideration to turn back and return to the beach party was soon overcome by some cajoling by those already sat some way up the cliff face, on the bar’s terrace. When flash backs of this night came to them, many years after the event, it was this moment in particular that they came to reflect upon. They could so easily have rejected the exertion and turned back to one of the sea-level establishments, a short walk from where they were. But much to their later dismay, their inherent traveller’s curiosity got the better of them and they continued on, feeling that the climb would be worth the adventure.
Puffing a little on arrival at the veranda, they were delighted to be greeted by a crowd welcoming them, as they did all newcomers, with a round of applause and some whopping. Wobbling on thighs not used to regular exercise, they took the first spare space they came across, sitting on a floor cushion at a large low table. As soon as they had taken their position, what my cousin took to be a rather dishevelled and tired looking waiter approached them and ask if they would like a mushroom shake. Thinking this a rather unusual recommendation and hoping it was the type of mistranslation that would allow them to end up with a cold drink, my cousin searched fruitlessly for a menu. Unable to locate one and following the recommendations of those already sat at the table, they eventually nodded an agreement.
When their order arrived, they confessed to never having really seen a mushroom dish in this form, rarely having consumed fungi through a straw in a long glass. But unperturbed, and with some encouragement from their tactile new friends, they tentatively tried the soup. Sipping cautiously as they puzzled over the strange cocktail. They said the hour after the first taste was one of the happiest of their life. They were not quite sure why, but they felt a level of serenity and joy seldom experienced before and were quite enchanted by everyone they met. The mushrooms were the best thing they had ever drunk, or eaten, their new friends the nicest people they had ever encountered and the view from the bar the most stunning they had ever had the good fortune to behold. They then fell asleep.
They say that all feelings of joy and wonder had deserted them on awakening the following morning. Their mouth was uncomfortably dry and any shake flavour had been replaced by a light undercurrent of vomit. Their legs and chest ached and they were consumed by an overwhelming feeling that the world was about to end and that this would prove quite a relief. They gingerly sat up far enough to survey the bar and found that almost all patrons had suffered a similar fate. Some appearing to be in an even more depressed state, due to an obvious loss of control over their bodily functions; bladder, bowel and breathing in particular.
Having been checked over by the paramedic team that frequented the establishment the morning after every beach party, they returned to their basic accommodation and slept for the following three days. Even then, having managed to struggle out of bed on day four, they still felt surprisingly weary, admitting to some pretty low moods for some weeks after the party. The whole experience leaving them a great deal more cautious on following the recommendations of strangers, as well as encouraging them to commit to a mushroom free diet.
This may seem like a rare tale from an explorer of exotic lands, but there are many aspects of it to which I can relate. Being a lover of the humble mushroom, I do not question their place in my diet, but I can emphasise with my cousin over the high and lows of my food choices. My kitchen may prove less colourful and exciting than a Thai beach party, but I follow a similar emotional process every time I devour a newly opened packet of biscuits, or a family size chocolate bar. The joy of the treat fleeting, the shame of allowing myself to do such a thing enduring for some time after.
When I am drawn to reflect on such events, I find myself confused. I can understand the pleasure the pack of biscuits brings me, but I struggle to understand the shame that follows. I was never happier as a child than when elbow deep in a giant cake, or ice cream sundae and felt no guilt for indulging my sweet tooth whenever I could. It would appear that at some point, I am guessing around my thirties, I developed a better understanding of my dietary needs and a degree of self-awareness, after which any fleeting happiness of indulgence would soon subside to be replaced by more enduring feelings of disappointment, in myself.
I imagine I am not alone in my emotional connectivity to food. In a fit of unhappiness or unease, many of us will seek therapy in the kitchen cupboard rather than the medical cabinet, self-prescribing a jumbo bag of jelly babies or box of chocolate truffles for a case of the blues or minor boredom. For that brief moment, when the taste and texture of the chosen treatment overrides one’s emotions, there is a sense of celebration and contentment. But for many of us this is short lived. As the senses dull and the flavours recede, whatever discontent we were trying to extinguish returns, with an added sense of disappointment in the indulgence we recently allowed ourselves.
But why should this be so? Who decides we can’t treat ourselves to a little happiness, however it comes? Should we feel shame for enjoying our food? I am all for gaining a little pleasure from what we eat and will continue to prescribe medicinal chocolate and a glass of red wine to combat many of nature’s less cheery moods, whenever I feel the situation suits. After all, as long as I don’t see it as the solution to all of life’s challenges, I can always afford myself a treat.
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