The Teleological Suspension of the Edible

In Fear and Trembling, Kierkegaard argues that amidst a life defining commitment, a particular person may, in accordance with the demands of this liberally lavished loyalty, be called upon to rise above the universal ethics of his or her culture. His mascot, of multiple mentions, whom he posits plainly pioneered this phenomenon, is Abraham the patriarch. His case is loosely as follows: a man of faith, in allegiance to a higher calling, brought his son Isaac to Mount Moriah for a purpose too peculiar to be esteemed as ethical. It’s a controversial claim to be sure, with philosophical implications way beyond the breadth and nature of this blog. However, this notion has been heavy on my mind as of late, due to a recent eating excursion I embarked upon, leaving me far outside the camp of edible American ethics.

In effect, at least according to this deep thinking and arguably great Dane, I was dragging many of my beloved childhood heroes up those sacrificial slopes. Lassie, who had time and time again saved that accident prone Timmy from the deadly depths of the village well, was to meet her own ideological end on these craggy heights. Chance and Shadow, who crossed vast and dangerous distances to reunite with their subsequently overjoyed owners, were to find that perhaps, in the end, they were safer in that foe-filled forest. Spuds Mackenzie, “the original party dog”, was about to realize that liver disease wasn’t the only fatal factor to fear.

When the summit was reached, that is, when the dish was placed on the top of the table, warm and speckled with ginger, there was no replacement ram. No beef. No chicken. No pork. Not even tofu. In fact, to add to the trepidation of the trial, this serving was coupled with a crustacean flavored condiment made of shrimp. This strange sauce was purple in color and amazingly potent in aroma. I wrapped my right hand around a pair of chopsticks, pinched a small portion of meat, dabbed it in a shallow well of violet, and brought the contents slowly to my reluctant lips. And with that, I ate my first bit of dog.

In Vietnam, it’s a popular pastime for men to go out together with the purpose of consuming this canine cuisine over a couple of beers. My best guess would be that the alcohol functions as some type of chaser. Such dining only takes place during the first half of any lunar month though, as it’s unlucky to partake of this amply processed Purina once the latter half hits.

In my case, my good friend L. brought an order of this mutty meat, purchased from a local street side shop, to the guesthouse as a compliment to the dinner a few of us American teachers were preparing. The main course was to be a batch of sloppy joes, courtesy of Scott’s kitchen expertise, which would easily rival that of any Rachel Ray recipe broadcasted on the back of some “Mesquite Style Lucky Charms” box, alliterative namesake and all.

This doggy bag brought with it much to ponder. For the sake of cross cultural friendships, you’re sometimes faced with such situations, where you must either cling to the familiar normality of your native notions, or suspend them for a time while you take part in some relatively trying tradition that stretches your previous conceptions of what constitutes food, dress, conversational exchange, and so on. So, with a relationally fueled resolve, I ate what was before me, as described above, and honestly, once the mental hurtles had been jumped, thanks to the bulging thighs of my spandex laden neurons, the taste was that of any grilled meat. However, it did take a while to dissolve in your mouth. I suppose this left it somewhere between a Big Mac and a Jawbreaker.

With all that said, I’m not making any Swift style proposal to deal with all of the strays running loose in the land from where I come. That place has it’s own culinary conscious, rendering such a meal as something less than edibly legitimate, even with the culturally consoling thought that all of these perspective entrees would go to heaven. Besides, man’s best friend could never become his Wednesday lunch special, at least not without some form of demonizing done to the eaten party. For instance, merely consider the tarnished reputation that Ronald dealt the Hamburglar to justify each and every quarter-pound piece of flesh sold and devoured.

If America slandered these precious pets in any sort of similar way, we’d lose a lot. Not least of which would be police comedies featuring high strung detectives paired with large, unruly dogs and, of course, an important artistic heritage of portraits portraying these animals gambling socially. Quite frankly, that’s not an America in which I would want to live.

However, for the time being, I’m in a different place with a different palate. As such, I will continue to counter my conception that dining on dogs is a wrong practice. I’m not going to rush out and sample a side of shepherd any time soon, but, if a friend buys a round of Rover, then I’ll courteously partake.

So tonight, like every Sunday night, I’ll watch the recent remake of the Shaggy Dog. If I find that the animal actor looks abnormally appetizing, I’ll let it slide, at least for the remainder of my stay in Hanoi. I figure it’s not until Tim Allen begins to look delicious that I should start to worry.