The NYT has a story about an underground food rage available to the persistent, the stealthy and the affluent: raw milk. I think I have more reservations about the widespread availability of it than Bean does (especially given current levels of inspections), but I do fall in the camp of "mmmm, tasty."
My one time drinking raw milk was while staying at a small pousada (and I mean small, like four rooms) on the island of Ilha de Mare in the Baia de Todos os Santos (top center-left on the map). At the time, on the island there were two tiny inns, only one phone, and no lights after dark. To get there, you had to wade out from a boat, and if you missed the four o-clock, well, you were spending another night on the island. I spent a couple of nights there about fifteen years ago, and they remain etched in my brain as the most perfect beach days ever.
Mare (the accent on the "e" won't work in the version of MT we use here at the blog) means tide, and true to form, the shallows waters recede dramatically when the tide turns, leaving boats stranded on the white sand. With little development, the stars were brilliant in the night sky. Lest the picture become too romantic, the mosquitoes could carry you off for a snack (and I remember huddling in the center of the bed under a net, watching the mosquitoes line up in the shapes of our bodies on the outside, sticking their proboscii through the net trying to grab a taste). There is a picturesque sixteenth century church, three main beaches, and not much else.
Ordering a meal on Ilha de Mare pretty much consisted of signalling that you were ready to eat whatever the folks running the establishment had happened to catch that day (or buy from the guys who just dragged their canoes up on shore), either fried or cooked as a moqueca baiana. Everything fresh, on rough wood table and chairs within spitting distance from the bay. The exception was breakfast, of course, which consisted of piles of fresh fruit and fresh bread, with coffee.
This the the raw milk part, by the way.
The first morning as we were eating breakfast, looking at the ocean and feeling gobsmacked at being in a tiny slice of paradise, the folks bringing the food asked if I wanted milk with my coffee. Sim, claro, 'brigada! I said. And then I noticed that the guy, instead of walking back towards the kitchen area, went the other way, towards the cow tied up to a palm tree. He bent down, grabbed an udder and shot out about half a cup of fresh raw milk, which he brought to me for my coffee. Granted I was influenced by the surroundings (and in case it's not obvious from the tale, being so stupidly in love that even the tale of the mosquitoes is worth remembering) but I swear that was the best cup of cafe com leite I've ever had in my life, and the rest of the raw milk that I sipped virtually right out of the cow was like none other.
Posted by binky at August 8, 2007 04:30 PM | TrackBack | Posted to Food
