Gaijin Condiment: Camouflage Ranch

Of late, diners have been raving about the delicious deals found at Inaka Express, especially the supposedly delectable condiment known as “Yellow Sauce,” said to enhance the culinary experience to no end.
Food critic Johnny Gutts was finally convinced by associates to brave this eatery and all it had to offer, particularly this renowned “Yellow Sauce.”
Mister Gutts was not impressed.
First of all, the name. Calling it “Yellow Sauce” conjures up images of cafeteria sculleries with 200-litre drums of foodstuffs lorded over by heavy-set, middle-aged women with turf issues wielding stainless steel ladles. You’d think they would’ve come up with a more appealing moniker, like “Essence of Dragon’s Breath,” or “Minamoto Mayo,” or even just “Ninja Sauce” (even the kids would dig that one).
Then, there was the flavour. Weak. Like thinned-out Ranch dressing. That’s been sitting around for two days. With Yellow Dye No.5 added.
Johnny Gutts grimaced as he swirled the sauce around in his mouth. The gears began turning in the back of his brain.
“Come to think of it, why didn’t they just call it ‘Ranch?’ Classic City does lie in the ‘Ranch Belt’ — that region of the country where Ranch dressing is a Mandatory Condiment... [one of the original Ten Condiments manifested on stone tablets brought down from Witch Mountain by Uncle Beignet...] But I digress...”
Gutts does have a point though. He offers sage culinary and marketing advice:
“Mister Inaka-san, do yourself and your patrons a favour. Ditch the yellow dye routine and just call a spade a spade. Put this on your menu...”

THIS IS RANCH DRESSING.
WE OFFER COPIOUS AMOUNTS.
DUMP IT ON EVERYTHING.
DIG IN.

Kudos to Mister Gutts for developing a brand repositioning solution that is deferential to the regional demographic.

Of Dogs and Divas

DATELINE: Classic City, 1963 — It was still just a town, but it may as well have been Metropolis when compared to the one-traffic-light podunk burgs three counties away. The couple came in their Chrysler from the east as the sun was setting from the west. Big night on the town, yeah. After dining, a flick. Walking arm in arm under the lamplights of Clayton Street, Carl and Helen could see the marquee of State Theatre shimmering ahead. Carl froze, gazing up at the blazing sign.
“No.”
“What is it, Carl?” Helen asked.
He pointed up at the synchronized bulbs framing the red plastic letters: Laddadog.
“We didn’t come this far to sit through a damn dog movie.”
“Laddadog?”
“Yes. A movie about a dog. Lad. A dog. Laddadog. We’re leaving.”

– – – – –

Flash-forward: Classic City 1991

Martha leads George by the arm under the lamplights of contemporary Clayton Street.
“C’mon, we gotta get good seats.”
“Alright, alright,” George muttered half-heartedly.
“You’re gonna love it. You’ll like her more after you’ve seen the movie.”
George shrugged and looked up at the marquee: “In Bed With Maria -- The Hit Documentary of Diva Maria Mauvaise”
“Let’s get this over with,” he said as they got their tickets and entered.

One-hundred and fourteen minutes later, George and Martha walked out of State Theatre. Though George wasn’t the slightest bit impressed, he did offer up some lukewarm, neutral commentary vis-à-vis Martha’s cloying praises: “It was interesting.”
The movie itself was indeed a documentary about a self-proclaimed diva. Complete with de rigueur forced outrageousness and artistic proclamations, it had descended unsurprisingly into unintentional self-parody. It was the kind of movie that appealed to people who confuse spectacle for empowerment and mistake controversy for content. Empty calories. Low value.

It made George think of the story about Laddadog.

Standing under the marquee in ‘63, Carl and Helen must have known that that particular film wasn’t going to be their cuppa joe. A probable tale, one could guess, of a canine and his ragamuffin child companion, beset by the challenges of man and nature, told in a typically treacly way. Value there, perhaps, but not of the couple’s choosing.
But George had stood before the same marquee, suspended prejudgment, and came out worse for the wear.

Damn, he wanted a hot shower.

Who would have thought that cornpone cinema of 1963 could morally, if not aesthetically, trump the vapid, narcissistic cinema of 1991?
George shook his head. Ever the optimist, he hoped that some things would change for the better come fifteen or twenty years.

Haiku C-130

Twenty-five-seven
hours: daily, two or three
Hercules pass by

Over, through the sky
the bearing is ESE
A slow, steady hum

Behind them arise
dull ember al-Dabarān,
glint of al-Mirrikh

Brew of the Day: Caffè de Gallina di Cacao

Before the advent of microprocessor modules and programmable machine parameters, Hot Beverage Dispensers were at first smiled upon as yet another example of Automated Convenience. It wasn’t soon after that the public collectively rolled its eyes when actually savoring the cardboard “coffee,” the feeble, tepid “cocoa” and the saliferous “chicken soup” the machines had to offer.

The problem, as they say in the industry, was flavour-buddies (a term that is nowhere near as pejorative as it should be). That is, the contamination and commingling of adjacent flavours. Though each commodity was housed in separate containers, they all made their way to the customer’s cup via the same Dispensing Duct. The inefficiency of Brewer Flush sequences only added to the taint of a disheartening Vend Cycle.

But today, with America’s Coffee Renaissance in full swing, vendors have reason to hope. The failures of yesterday can be the successes of tomorrow. All with the power of Marketing.

Just take advantage of the old machine’s default Beverage Configuration -- the flavour-buddy-ridden amalgamate fluid of coffee, chocolate and chicken soup -- and simply change the nomenclature to reflect the demands of today’s self-conscious coffee cognoscenti.

The Orville Corporation’s Marketing Division hosted an array of focus groups in order to distill a brand image for this product that would appeal to the broadest demographic. In this product line, brand names that rated high were:

• Capponeccino
• Dulce de Pollo Blend
• Suisse Hünchen Chocolat (”The Hunch”)
• Chiko-Choco-Chai (or the “Triple-C”) — for the Teen/Collegiate market

But the highest-scoring identity is one that appeals to the upscale niche markets, yet is also versatile enough in styling options (lo-fat, decaf, plus popular additives) that it is attractive to a wider market share.

So, vendors and coffee connoisseurs alike, raise your cups and take in the distinctive, pungent aroma of the bold, new, full-bodied flavour of...

Caffè de Gallina di Cacao

"Don't taze me, bro"

La Paz en Cuñamadera: El pedazo que falta

Corre un viento cálido y fuerte.
Una guitarra soñolienta: Bolero lento.
El nombre del niño es Pipo.

The boy wandered along the dusty arroyos and across the llanuras of Cuñamadera, a leather sack weighing upon his shoulder, along with the heavy August sky.

Every few minutes he would stop and gaze at the landscape around him.
Saguaros, high plains, scrub. A lone burro in the distance.
Pipo took in a long breath of the warm air, and from his sack drew a flat piece of slate, etched with the image of a shrouded woman.

Who was she?

Lupita, o Tonantzin? O Madre?


He could not say. All he could remember was a face in the corner shadows of an adobe bohío. Tears of one who had clutched to the storybook endings and knightly sunsets as promised by her abuela. Bitterness rising in the throat, the self-pity of fruitless perfection. He saw a sadness, but not without hope or promise.

That hope pushed Pipo and his mysterious devotion across the high llanos with the stony talisman securely in his satchel.

He roamed onward past a thicket of mesquite, a Gila woodpecker darting past him. Lost in thought with the image of the woman, Pipo startled when he noticed a burro standing but a few paces away. It was the same burro he had seen earlier from afar.

“Stubborn thing,” Pipo sniffed dismissively as he approached the animal. The silent burro watched him in the sun, heavy lashes blinking lazily with the odd swish of the tail.
“Beasts such as yourself can be much trouble, can’t you?” The boy stood watching, as if awaiting an answer. But the weathered burro simply blinked with a slight sway of its head.
“You are not one to complain, mi amigo,” Pipo exhaled, softly petting its mane.
Stubborn, perhaps, he thought... But still, these beasts did bear the thankless brunt of everyday toil. And did they not ask for very little in return?

Pipo looked off to the horizon, squinting through the arid breeze.

The etching of the woman in his satchel, and the gaze of the burro, both heavy upon his back. One soul, with the burden of expectations; the other, with the expectation of burdens.
Each life was missing a piece, and in Pipo’s eyes, this itself was a piece missing from his own life.

The boy wandered along the dusty arroyos and across the llanuras of Cuñamadera, two souls weighing upon his shoulder, along with the heavy August sky.

Corre un viento cálido y fuerte...

Inspirado por la admiración de Mateo hacia Panchita.

Niebla en el regazo del desierto de sudoeste