• Listening to perfume
• Interview:
  Klaus Doldinger
• Raiders of lost flavors
• The palate has ears
• The scent of an evening
• From closing doors and fizzing bottles
• Tasting sound

Raiders of lost flavors

Mark Brownstein is a culinary treasure hunter. A food hunter, he scours the markets of Asia in search of long-forgotten ingredients and – sometimes – their subtle sounds as well.

As I listen to the sounds of the city waking up, the sun has just begun its slow climb over the most romantic city in the Indian state of Rajasthan. Udaipur. Situated on a lake with two islands dotted with palaces, Udaipur is embraced by the mountains that surround it. And directly across from Udaipur, the Maharaja's storybook castle sits on its throne. But that's not what interests me this morning. My name is Bernd Girrbach, and I am on a treasure hunt with Mark Brownstein. We've known each other for years and, in fact, I am the only one permitted to accompany him on his adventures. Well – actually – me and my film crew. It's Brownstein's rather unusual occupation that has us tagging along today. The 52-year-old American is in pursuit of totally unknown, ancient or long-forgotten ingredients (mostly from Asia) to bring back to the world's most inspired chefs. Brownstein is the Indiana Jones of Asian cuisine, and I am his scribe. I call him the food hunter.

Every flavor has its own perfect sound

His explorations bring us to a remote crossroads. Though it's early in the morning, the market is in full swing and – above all – loud! The food wallahs (wallah meaning man or worker) cry out their wares. The wallah selling lassi (an almond yogurt drink) calls out "tandaaai." Oil hisses as the sweets-wallah fries masaloa vadai in oil. The chutney-wallah raises his roller shutter: "Acarwallah!" Brownstein is wide awake. "Just listening makes me hungry," he exclaims. "As soon as my brain registers these sounds, it invites the matrix of Indian aromas in. It's fabulous! Everything is made fresh here. You can even watch as it's being prepared." He sounds like the soundtrack for the TV series Foodhunter. For Brownstein, the five senses are kith and kin. It's common knowledge that sight and taste are closely related, which is why restaurants are so attentive to the way food is arranged. But what many don't know is that the sense of touch, in this case the "feel in the mouth," is just as important. "Consistency" and "texture" are important entries in a chef's vocabulary. Brownstein believes that every flavor has its own prefect sound. Salad is crisp; a roast, crusty; waffles, crunchy. The hunter of flavor is convinced: "Many dishes imply a certain type of sound." Not hard to prove in Rajasthan. Between sacred cows and cars, street vendors cart around their hot dumplings. "Taja maal, taja maal" (really fresh) bark women carrying fruit baskets. Meanwhile, the traffic cop is sitting with the chai-wallah, sipping foamy spiced masala tea. Brownstein's radar zooms in on pale-green, fist-sized cannon balls being sold by an elderly woman. That must be it! Elephant-fruit, which was once used to make a delicious chutney. The fruit derives its name from its extremely hard shell that supposedly only an elephant can open. In an emergency, a hammer will do. Being impractical, however, the fruit has fallen from favor. That and the fact that it releases a malicious, albeit quickly dissipating, odor when opened. Deciding on whether or not the fruit is ripe can be difficult because it's not possible to judge by sight or smell. The secret is in the listening. Brownstein drops the fruit from about half a meter high. If it's not ripe, it will bounce back like a tennis ball: pow! If it is ripe, it will land where it falls: plop.

An acoustical journey through the culinary world

Back at home, editing the film material, I breathe in the acoustical atmosphere of Udaipur. And as I do, I am immediately filled with a craving for cumin, mustard seed, turmeric, cinnamon and saffron. The sounds we recorded are working their magic, immediately stimulating my brainstem. What amazes me is that the effect is even stronger when I close my eyes. Then it's off to Laos and a whole other world. Vientiane, its capital, looks like an oversized village, which is irritating having just arrived from India. No auto-rickshaws; no honking. It's a quiet country. Flying north, we arrive in the mountainous area home to Luang Prabang, the ancient imperial city situated on the Mekong River. Background music. The soft gurgling of the great river. Upstream, a chugging cargo boat. The food hunter is searching for kai pen, thin sheets of river algae – Laotian edible paper – native to the waters of the Mekong and its tributaries. Using a stock made from tamarind and sour jungle plum, the grass-green river algae is laid out in strands and then gently slapped. In season, you can hear the patting everywhere. Sesame seeds, garlic and tomato slices are strewn over the sheets of algae. Brownstein is taking the Mekong's kai back with him to Hong Kong's finest hotels. Wafer-thin, delicate, it is prepared in Laos. As it is gently dipped into the hot, but not too hot, oil of a wok, you can hear its finely tuned music. Sesame seeds bursting open, moisture hissing as the kai crackles and sings its epicurean song. Brownstein has started to record these nano-sounds. The popping of Arborio rice near Risotto; ant eggs bursting. By studying his sound clips, Brownstein is better able to describe an ingredient's individual character and texture to his select chefs. Brownstein and his film crew board a plane back to Vietnam and back to the noise. We're shooting a documentary series for European television stations SWR and Arte. Hué is located in the center of the country. Wherever you go, the smell of coriander wafts from freshly prepared food. Our soundtrack this time? Mopeds making their deliveries. Like flocks of geese, the masses of mopeds weave in and out of each other, regroup and then, in an explosion of fumes, zoom on. But there is more to Hué. It's also the imperial city of Vietnam where its emperors ruled until Ho Chi Minh arrived in 1945. Brownstein has been reading about ruou thom, a marinade of fragrances used for chicken and painstakingly devised by the "sad" emperor Tu Duc himself. We are in pursuit of its ingredients.

From the jungle to the tables of the world's finest restaurants

The crowd is thick. Hard going for Alok, the cameraman. Only soundman Mathews grins beneath his Sennheiser headphones. A Vietnamese market is a delight for aficionados of the full stereo spectrum. It's no wonder – the market offers up an endless cacophony of sounds, and the Sennheiser MKH 416 takes it all in. That is, except for fish. Rice noodles as they are being rolled. Dragon fruit being mixed. CDs on sale bellowing their cheesy pop songs. And on the lead track, the Sennheiser MKH 416 records the market women as they gossip, laugh, argue, paint their fingernails or get a perm. Sweating men as they carry their loads of merchandise, drink rice wine and play cards. The noisy crowd is constantly being ploughed through by mopeds as they make their deliveries of ducks or women with red-hot grills hanging from their shoulder yokes. The grills are used to make bahn xeo (hissing pancake). The soundman is preoccupied with the bountiful sounds. Not the food hunter. His treasure is rare. The people have all heard about the emperor's marinade, but it is no longer sold. The recipe seems to have been lost. Brownstein continues his search for Madame Huy, whose great aunt was a palace cook. Finding her at last, Brownstein courts, flirts, coos. Madame Huy doesn't stand a chance. "I will share the recipe with you and with the whole world," she finally surrenders. When the food hunter presents his imperial treasure trove a few weeks later, his discerning chefs are enchanted: "It's a dream!"

Back