The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
the b-side
Thursday, April 7, 2016 — 3B
By ANAY KATYAL
Daily Arts Writer
Sunday mornings at the Katyal
household meant a welcome
routine. At the strike of 11 o’clock,
my father began preparations for
either chocolate chip pancakes
or waffles (at my brother’s
discretion), and I’d fire up Netflix
and stream an old episode of
“Top Gear” we had yet to watch.
As a family, we had our eyes
collectively glued to the screen
for the next two hours, laughing
at wry English automotive jokes
and enjoying the breakfast my
dad poured his heart into making
that morning. With our mouths
full of chocolate and dough, if
there was one time of the week
we were truly a “family,” it was
those Sunday mornings. When
our stomachs had enough, we
began our five hour affair of
traveling two or three towns
over to buy our family’s groceries
for the week. Costco, Trader
Joe’s, Whole Foods, Caputo’s and
whatever Indian grocers we felt
like visiting were usually on the
list. It was innate for us. It was a
Sunday constant.
Food was (and still largely
is) the focal point of my family.
Growing up, my father used
to toil at the stove, making us
dinner from scratch night after
night. His food was sustenance
for my brother and me, a means
to keep us healthy and satiated. It
was something I came to expect,
something I never really thought
about. It took some time to wrap
my head around the significance
of it all, but learning how
uncommon his dedication was
made me realize something.
Those nightly dinners of palak
paneer, daal roti or whatever else
my father felt like whipping up
meant a lot more than what I gave
them credit for. Beyond their
caloric value, the meals he made
contained a sense of love and
familial attachment, expressed
through his labor and culinary
ingenuity.
Even
beyond
our
kitchen, my family’s relationship
with food was much of the same.
Sometimes, the only way our
family could leave the house was
if we had a new restaurant to try
in a part of town we’d never been
to. We expressed wonder, awe
and fascination over the meals we
shared. At those times, we were
unified both in our emotions and
our thoughts.
In Plainfield, Ill., where I
called home growing up, our
options for food were banal and
few. Fried chicken from the
local Jewel-Osco grocery, bland
vegetable lo mein from a strip
mall Chinese restaurant, over-
salted and undercooked breakfast
mush from Larry’s Diner. I guess
the lack of a cohesive culinary
landscape didn’t really come
as a surprise for my father. The
town is a bastion of everything
we know and love about Middle
America;
there
were
farms
within two or three miles from
my house, and a cornfield in
my high school’s backyard. It
compelled my father enough to
lug his kids around from town to
town just to find produce, snacks,
meals and whatever else he felt
like feeding us that was up to his
standard. Our form of a vacation
was driving into Chicago and
trying a new restaurant we read
about, and our form of therapy
was strolling through the aisles
of Trader Joe’s and picking
whatever eclectic snacks we
could get our hands on. It was
what we did. Hours away from
home, it’s something I find myself
still doing when I’m in need of a
pick-me-up.
I remember strolling through
the aisles of Caputo’s with my
father on the weekends. He tried
teaching me how to find the
right mango once. Color, feel and
consistency were all paramount
factors in the search, he said. He
insisted there was a character to
each mango, and as a shopper it
was my personal duty to separate
the bad seeds from the good. I
honestly used to think he was
full of shit, but tasting the fresh,
full flavor of those mangos he
brought home taught me the
artistry and emotion my father
had for food. I remember the face
he used to make when he found
the right fruit. Sometimes I find
myself making the same face. It’s
funny.
None of it really struck me
as being bizarre growing up.
My father’s mania over what
he cooked and what he fed
us became second nature in
our household. I didn’t really
understand at the time that food
was an escape for my father.
But even as a child I knew if
something was up, making his
kids a muffaletta sandwich was
his way of saying “Everything
is all right.” It became a canvas
for him to express his creativity,
a means to channel his soul.
The strains of a 12-hour-a-day
corporate job might have left my
father in a feral, crazed stupor
after all these years (I can only
imagine that would be the
case if I was in his shoes), but
I guess cooking was an outlet
to protect his sanity. At the
end of day, the plates of food he
arranged probably brought him
satisfaction through a means
other hobbies might not have
been able to. Plopping plates of
meals he arranged on the kitchen
table with a face of unabated
triumph, watching his family
eat his food with expressions of
primitive joy and satisfaction
— those were the moments he
valued most when he came home,
I think. And watching my father
paint portraits of love and soul
through the meals he made led
me down a path that embraced
food along a similar vein.
There were (many) days where
my father had a habit of making
something he had never cooked
before — usually while we were
watching “Chopped” or “Iron
Chef.” Watching television chefs
animatedly
try
to
shoehorn
durian or jackfruit or stinky
tofu (or whatever other obscure
fruits and vegetables you could
imagine)
into
their
various
dishes must have lit a bulb in
his head. The shift from “bored
man watching TV with kids” to
“fervent man whose synapses
won’t stop firing” was funnily
abrupt and blatant.
Sometimes those days excited
me, but sometime I also sat in
my living room with a mix of
fear and awe at what was to
come out of the kitchen in a few
hours. Whether or not those
experiments panned out (though
they did more often than not),
watching his process was what
caught my attention more than
the meals he cooked. He was
an impassioned man in those
moments, a man who couldn’t be
pulled from his stove or oven no
matter how much one tried.
There were times when he’d
ask me to come sit with him
when he was preparing that
night’s dinner. Sometimes, I
indulged him. But looking back,
I wish I had accompanied him
more often. Watching him cook
those nights felt like watching an
artisan ply his craft, or watching
a strained man expunge his
stresses and worries through
a labor of passion. No matter if
he was at the grill, nursing the
stove or chopping vegetable after
vegetable on the countertop, the
different lens through which he
saw life from the graces of the
food he was making was always
evident. The effort he put in
requited my fascination. The
personal triumphs he expressed
were met with my embrace.
Nowadays, I waste my friends’
time by talking about some new
condiment I found at Babo, the
meat my father, brother and I
smoked during the holidays, or
my love for a dish at a restaurant
I discovered a weekend or two
ago. My friends sometimes like to
parrot jokes about my pretentious
obsessions, but when it comes to
food I’ve always felt there to be a
fine line between pretension and
passion. I’m not sure if my love for
food was a product of an innate
predisposition my father and I
happened to share, or a product
of being caught in the middle of
my dad’s illustrious form of an
escape (or even just a result of
pretentious inclinations). But the
countless weekends I spent with
him watching him cook, or binge
watching Anthony Bourdain’s
“No Reservations” while my
mother was at work, created a
relationship rooted deeply in the
virtues of food. Food is a passion
for my father, and it’s a passion he
couldn’t help but share with me.
As a family, we’ve had our trials
and we’ve had our tribulations,
but food has been the constant
that has bound us together. It’s
how I learned to feel love and
passion. That’s something I can
only thank my father for.
When people ask me what I
miss most about home, I don’t
really have a singular answer.
I honestly couldn’t care less
about any specific place or thing
left back in Plainfield. Truly, if
I could just see my father in the
kitchen more often, that’d be
enough for me.
By EMMA KINERY
Daily Arts Writer
Chocolate chip cookies
aren’t the only steamy things
drawing undergrads into Mojo
Dining: The new Instagram
account @hotdudes_
mojodining also pays homage
to the dining hall — a hotspot
for hot guys.
It’s so simple! Even hot guys
have to eat!
The feed is full of mildly
attractive boys mid-bite
accompanied by suggestive
captions like: “I bet this hot
dude is happy about mac &
cheese week and would be
happy to show you a ‘gouda’
time (winkyface emoji, cheese
emoji)” and “Could it be his
Valentine that he’s eyeing? Or
the fresh plate of cookies what
was just brought out? (two
diagonal pink hearts emoji).”
The gram which garnered
the most likes is of “Mojo
Flicka da Wrist” card swiper
Darren.
The account was created
during finals week of fall
semester, out of boredom and
inspiration from the Instagram
account @hotdudesreading.
The creator, who asked not
to be named, said she had
late exams at the end of fall
semester and spent a lot of time
in Mojo Dining Hall because
she lives on the Hill.
“There was nothing left to
do besides study, so we ended
up doing what we usually do to
procrastinate — sitting in the
dining hall for hours on end,”
she said.
That was when the account
was born.
“I follow an Instagram
account: hotdudesreading, so
as we sat there, feeling our
saneness leaving us, one of
my friends, jokingly at first,
was like, ‘We should make a
hotdudesinmojodininghall
account!’ ” she said. But as we
were nearing our third hour of
sitting in the dining hall, the
idea sounded better and better
by the minute. So, as a result of
our impending craziness, the
account was made.”
The account encourages
viewers to submit photos of
attractive Mojo diners by
either sending the pictures
through Instagram messenger
or by using #hotdudesinmojo.
As the account has gained
attention — now yielding
nearly 300 followers — more
submitted phots have been
featured.
“In the beginning, I took
most of the pictures, but as I
gained more followers, a lot
of people started sending in
pictures, so now, it’s about
50/50,” the creator said. “When
I created the account, I didn’t
think it would have gotten as
big as it did. Now, I rely a lot on
the submissions, since it’s not
exactly an easy task to stakeout
the dining hall and capture a
photo of every ‘hot dude’ I see.”
Capturing hot dudes in their
natural habitat isn’t easy: The
curator says there are tricks
to it.
“You gotta be stealthy, like a
jackal.”
The awkward angled, not
always perfectly focused
photos are a testament to that,
but it’s also what’s appealing
about the account. That, and
the dudes. Initially the account
included photos of guys the
curator is attracted to, but
including submissions has
helped to diversify the feed to
include a variety of types.
“When I take the pictures,
I take shots of and feature
people I find attractive,” she
said. “But for the submissions,
I end up featuring pretty
much every one I get, because
everyone’s idea of attraction
is different. Even if I don’t
find them attractive, it doesn’t
mean that they’re not.”
An Instagram voyeur
talks hot Mojo guys
Love your father,
love your cuisine
MUSIC VIDEO REVIEW
Rihanna’s “Kiss It Better”
music video is just what
it should be, just what the
song lends
itself to. A
slow jam
that feels
immersed in
warm, sexy
fuzziness,
it’s just the
track to
play laying
scantily in bed, rolling over,
flipping your hair, breathing
the soft-spoken vocals. You
know, just general feelin’
yourself vibes.
Shot in black and white,
the video opens with Rihanna
under a white sheet (the
only color of sheets worth
having, might I add), nipple
piercings and face visibly
sheathed under the lacy fabric
as a single dice shuffles to her
belly button before three more
emerge and move across her
stomach to her pelvis, setting
the slow and sultry tone.
Moments before the first lyric
begin, Rih emerges from the
sheets, her dark curls nearly
engulfing her head.
The remainder of the video
is Rihanna in an over-sized,
pinstripe coat or a lace nighty
(never pants, always heels)
singing, vibing, generally
missing her boo. She does
countless hair flips, slides
her jacket on and off, and
gives one wicked smile to
the camera. It’s inarguably
simple, but the dodgy lighting
and expert fan use create a
video that undeniably follows
its song’s lead, expertly
capturing the sexy loneliness
that’s pervasive on “Kiss It
Better.”
- CHRISTIAN KENNEDY
A-
Kiss it
Better
Rihanna
ROC NATION
By JOE WAGNER
Daily Arts Writer
Who would have thought
that there could be an entire
movie based around bathing
culture? Not
me. And who
would have
thought that
its hijinks and
hilarity would
transcend
culture
and time?
Definitely, not
I. “Thermae
Romae,” based on the manga
of the same name by Mari
Yamazaki, released in 2012
and screened as part of the
Cinemanga series presented
by the Center for Japanese
Studies at the State Theatre this
semester, may lack character
development and an actual plot
but the movie is just a whole lot
of fun. It’s quite unlike anything
else out there and so weird that
you can’t seem to look away.
The film starts in ancient
Rome where Lucius, played by
Hiroshi Abe (“Still Walking”),
is an architect struggling
to come up with innovative
ideas for the empire. While
bathing in a thermae (a public
bath in ancient Rome), he sits
underwater to contemplate on
architectural ideas. Suddenly,
he is sucked through a hole in
the bottom of the pool. And
here, the absolute peculiarity of
this film ensues.
Intercutting between a
large male opera singer belting
and Lucius swirling through
water, he travels through space
and time to modern Japan.
He pops up into a Japanese
bathhouse filled with elderly
Japanese men. Having never
seen the Japanese before, the
protagonist mistakes them as a
group from another part of the
Roman Empire. He addresses
them as “slaves” and “flat-
faced.” The fact that Hiroshi
Abe himself appears Japanese
only adds to this comic
time-space transplantation.
Absolutely amazed by the
technology of this people,
Lucius takes mental notes
on their bathing technology.
He drinks a Japanese fruity
milk in a jar and enters into a
state of total awe about how
delicious the substance is.
After shedding tears over the
beauty of this beverage, he is
transported back to ancient
Rome.
The initial sequence is
absorbing, hilarious and
completely absurd. Having
essentially no knowledge of
bathing culture, whether it be
Japanese, Roman or whatever
other culture, does not impede
the enjoyment of this movie.
Lucius is transported into this
foreign world in the same way
the viewer is thrown into the
unknown realm of public baths.
While learning about Japanese
bathing culture, the viewer is
engrossed by Lucius’s struggles
in modern Japan and can’t help
but laugh at the film’s oddities,
whether they be a grown man
crying over fruit-flavored
milk or how an opera singer
accompanies his travel through
the worm hole.
Lucius travels back and forth
between current Japan, where
he gathers bathing ideas, and
the Rome of antiquity, where
he implements them to the
emperor’s approval for the
majority of the film.
However, the movie starts
at about 100 miles per hour
and just can’t keep up the
pace. By midway through, the
bathing culture jokes quickly
lose the firepower they once
had and the loose plot keeps
an ever-waning interest. A
large conflict introduced two
thirds of the way through the
movie only serves to create a
vague climax in which Lucius
architectural prowess is tested.
“Thermae Romae” is worthy
of a watch if only to experience
a rare and totally authentic
weirdness, which it doesn’t try
to be but rather just is.
‘Thermae Romae’ full
of bathouse hijinks
B
Thermae
Romae
Toho
State Theatre
TOHO
It’s getting hot in here, so take a bath house hijink.
HAVE A GREAT DAY TODAY!
FILM REVIEW