Meet Gyro Man. Gyro Man grew up in Budapest but fell in love with a Tibetan girl raised in India. After many years together, they birthed the most delicious gyro I have ever tasted, combining meat-grilling techniques of Hungary with an assortment of Indian spices. However, the set of ingredients only begins to explain why this gyro rises above all similar gyros in the mean streets of Hungary. The secret ingredient is love–love that Gyro Man puts into every painstaking layer of his gyro, which is neatly wrapped in a lightly toasted pita bread. Each bite contains hints of a mixture of flavors which tantalize every organ in your body and soul, leaving you craving a second stomach just so you can consume one more. Friends, I did not have a second stomach, but I ate a second one anyway. And it was delicious. Hat tip to you, Gyro Man. You are my gyro hero.

While walking to my seat at the back of the plane, I’m pretty sure I was personally greeted by all 22 flight attendants. On my seat I found a pillow and a blanket. And an hour into the flight, I found on my tray table a meal fit for a flying king.

Beef with white rice and steamed vegetables, a side of ham salad, a roll with butter, rice pudding, spring water and Coke light. Yum. The last flight I was on I got a Sprite. Only a Sprite. On my last international flight I got a Sprite and a yogurt. Oh, happy day.

But on Singapore Air, I was fed handsomely and treated like a person, not a bacteria culture. It was refreshing to fly with an airline where the crew were taking pride in their work instead of taking shelter in the galley.

I have never been to Singapore. But for eight hours, Singapore came to me.

Answer: they eat boatloads of pork. So that’s what I did as well.

Pictured above is a plate with a pork chop, ham, bacon, and wiener sausage. In case that’s not enough, they added a breadball (breaded, as per rice’s observation about Austrian cuisine), a mountain of sauerkraut, and two small potatoes.

The other white meat? I think not. Here pork is the meat. Period. End of discussion. After countless sausages, much ham, several pork chops, and bacon, I can say confidently that when in Wien, I did as the Wieners do. And it was delicious.

chicken and rice, using basic induction, so declares that Austria can bread anything, thus unambiguously answering the question above with a simple yet thorough ‘yes’. Tune in next time. Not sure why. Just trust me.

Step 1 of our experiment was to carefully slice the eggplant into cylindrical sections and then pan-fry them until brown. Though both eggs and eggplant can be fried in a pan, we still considered this result inconclusive. Step 2 was to layer the eggplant with in between tiers of a mixture of ground beef, tomato, onion, and various spices. This step taught us even less. Step 3 was to top the concoction with gouda cheese and let it bake in the oven for 30 minutes. Though this step again was meaningless, we seemed to have randomly stumbled upon a version of moussaka, which itself is derived from the arabic word musaqqaʿa, meaning chilled. Since moussaka is normally served warm, again the term assigned to it centuries past makes no sense. However, we were able to conclude with a t-stat greater than 5.0 that moussaka is delicious.

Friends, what is in a name? That which we call an eggplant by any other name would be just as nonsensical, but just as delicious. That which we call a moussaka by any other name would be served just as warm. Not just English, but all tongues of this world are meaningless. It is our job, our goal, our sacred responsibility at chicken and rice to see the dear perfection which is owed despite the title. Instead, we shall call you by your true name. We shall call you delicious.

Many foods with Russian names can be frightening and intimidating. For example, “borscht” carries the connotation of all things cold and soviet (with a hint of beets), just as “moose and squirrel” brings back memories of animated Russian spies. We westerners generally shirk away from these foods just at the mention of them.

But for some reason, “pavlova” slipped through our anti-soviet filters. Perhaps this is because the food actually originated in New Zealand, and so has been anglicized from the beginning. Or maybe it’s because it is a national dessert of Australia. Or maybe it’s because the longest string of un-vowelled consonants in the word is only two letters long. But I prefer to believe that its incorporation into American cuisine comes from a shared appreciation for a graceful art form: dancing.

The food is named after Anna Pavlova, a ballet dancer from Russia. And the dessert itself preserves the grace and splendor derived from the art. Atop a meringue dance floor, assorted berries float on a layer of whipped cream, dancing with one another, performing the perfect snapshot of harmony. And as Sam told Harold in Athol Fugard’s Master Harold and the Boys:

There’s no collisions out there, Hally… To be one of those finalists on that dance floor is like… like being in a dream about a world in which accidents don’t happen.

Folks, this may be one of those rare occasions when we can learn a valuable lesson from strawberries, specifically dancing strawberries. The dance is beautiful because it embodies lightness, not harsh and heavy Russian syllables. When we eat pavlova, we remember the subtly viscous whipped cream tying together the sweet fruit and the crisp meringue. In a final performance, the pavlova dances with our senses and seems to pull us into its perfect lightness. Italo Calvino wrote:

It is true that software cannot exercise its powers of lightness except through the weight of hardware. But it is the software that gives the orders… The iron machines still exist, but they obey the orders of weightless bits.

It is in this lightness, paradoxically, that we find true power. Not in obstinate syllabic adventures of native Russian cuisines, not in the heavy flavors of beef and beets or the deliberate enunciation of “moose and skveral”. True power comes from the dance, and that is why we love pavlova.

My personal favorite antennae.

A work in progress.

Alpha and beta. Stubby little marzipan antenna and an attempt at a side-on angle with the line across — I didn’t think it worked.

Prestigious company.

(This concept done before, by someone else, differently.)

I looked back. The individual behind me was distracted. I knew this was my moment. My one chance. My opportunity of a lifetime. I took two steps to the left and grabbed it. “Huzzah!” I screamed aloud. Two quick steps to the right and I was back in line. No one noticed. I was the champion.

I put my tray down and started consuming my food, staring at the brownie, already tasting its chocolaty, cake-like consistency. Whoever said to eat dessert first had no understanding of suspense. I looked at my watch. 12:57. I had lost myself for too long, and was now going to be late for my next meeting.  I hastily threw Brownie into my backpack and hurried away.

The meeting was endless. Finally 3:00 arrived, and I dashed to my desk. I started searching. And searching. And searching. Pocket after pocket, compartment to compartment, the brownie was no where to be found. I started the search from scratch. The result was the same. I considered searching a third time, but the scientist in me prevailed. The brownie was gone, and no matter how many times I searched my backpack, it would not appear. I gazed into the distance. Nothing was there. Then I went to the store and bought a cookie. It was delicious.