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Big Sausage Pizza, by Diego López Bueno

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Vegetalien, by Maximilian Gutmair

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Fingerbiter, by Ness Lee

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Mega-cool sticker designed by @studio-oumi

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We have just released our second issue: #1 Aliens

Buy online at:

https://foodand.eu/

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The student was now the teacher; reluctantly so. Most reluctantly on wednesdays, when it was her turn to supervise hockey. Mary’s latent self-loathing at her inability to make a defining choice post university had led her to grasp desperately at the teaching assistant role at her alma mater. It was most palpable when standing at the edge of the misty hockey pitch, barking orders at the girls in just the tone of voice she used to rankle at, whilst water dripped off her nose like a broken tap in a gothic mansion. She couldn’t believe the parody she had become; English literature graduate reduced to teaching Of Mice and Men to a classroom of faces with varying degrees of ennui. She wondered if she should start wearing high necked blouses and submitting poetry to the local gazette, just to really hit the nail in the coffin of her self-inflicted spinsterdom. Mary wasn’t sure if that was even a word, so little did she use her brain anymore.  Secretly, one could surmise that she almost revelled in the image she projected on to others; the failed novelist seething with rage at the world was usually featured somewhere in her favourite novels. She had even started to continuously suck lemon cough sweets with an air of affected eccentricity. This meant that her face was permanently sneering, her lips pursed even when there was no sour sweet inside to create such an expression of bitterness. Her friends had stopped replying to her messages (which were steeped in bitterness, self-importance and emojis), much like one switches off when a hypochondriac starts to air their latest woe - you know they’re perfectly happy as otherwise they would stop talking altogether.

The terms went by, with Mary resolving to leave at the end of each one. Students came and went, legs grew longer and hems got shorter, and yet Mary’s resolve weakened as her isolation from her life outside the school walls tightened its grip. Curriculums changed; Of Mice and Men progressed to essays on the Gothic Novel and Toni Morrison. Hockey supervision on a Wednesday seemed to be the only relic, other than Mary and her cough sweets, which remained unchanged.

The end of Mary’s tenure at the school was looming however - although at present she was unaware of it. A Wednesday afternoon arrived, along with the usual routine. Now that the majority of the class had started to whimper and turn blue with cold, Mary sounded her whistle and allowed them to flee into the paradise of the central heating. She decided to take advantage of the half hour break in duties to amble nonchalantly into the thicket on the far edge of the field for a cigarette. There really was no need to keep this vice of hers a secret; but she couldn’t quite shrug off the days when she had to.

However, as Mary made her way to ‘the little wilderness’ as she had christened it, unable to silence the Jane Austen fan within her, the light drizzle mutated into horizontal droplets of rain, stinging her eyelids. The nearest shelter was the disused portaloo, supposedly haunted by an old student, but really haunted by the pungent aroma of wet animal. In the present circumstances, there was nothing for it but to dash inside.

She sat down in the nearest cubicle, realising that she would probably be trapped in the dank bathroom for a while as the raindrops pummeled against the tin roof furiously. Having lit a damp cigarette, her eyes settled on the walls of the cubicle. It was hard not to crack a wry smile at the literary attempts scrawled on the surface. Some were to be expected; Daisy is a t**t; some were marginally amusing; Roses are red, violets are blue, I ate some lead, so I’m off to the loo; others were grand attempts to showcase the genius hidden behind acne and spectacles; rough curry does shake the digestive system today// but thy eternal flatulence shall not fade.

After pondering how many people seemed to carry pens in their pockets for such opportune moments (as we all ask ourselves every time one is forced to use public lavatory facilities), her eye was caught by a piece of looping curved handwriting which read: Dear Reader… if bathroom walls be the food of love, write on……

Her hand instinctively felt her pocket for the comforting crackle of a sweet wrapper, and like an addict she hurriedly popped one in her mouth. This adopted foible had recently evolved from eccentric posturing to a reassuring procedure for Mary, like a child needing to suck their thumb. Something in her winced at the audacious reappropriation of The Bard, but simultaneously she found herself fumbling in her other pocket for her chewed up pen. Having found said article, (which, needless to say, had leaked and turned her hand and pocket scarlet with ink, causing her to gasp and fleetingly assume she had been mortally wounded), she wrote under it: Grow up.

At this point the bathroom fell silent, as if taken aback by her making her mark in one small corner of the establishment from which she resolutely had maintained complete detachment - this being the last remainder of her early promises to leave. The rain showers had realised there was no one left outside to annoy and had finally halted. Taking advantage of this break in the monsoon, Mary fled the cubicle and sprinted back to the classrooms.

A few days later, Mary found herself back in the bathroom, again due to the english climate’s inability to avoid raining. Settling down in the first cubicle, this time actually to relieve herself, she choked, as there, under her dismissive sentence, was written in the same looping handwriting as before: Cheer up Contrary Mary, unmoved by poetry, and yet teaching it because she has nothing better to do; or do you?

Her face turned puce, as human bodies usually tend to do when physically rejecting criticism. Down to her pocket went her hand, producing the reassuring rustle as she fumbled around and then back into her mouth with her sugary tablet in one swift movement. Mentally, she ran through a list of candidates who would be ripe for wanting to humiliate her, it soon morphed into a wave of names, crashing around the walls of her head. As soon as one contender popped up, another five would emerge in its wake. Such was Mary’s opinion of herself. Her self-enforced isolation made her think laughter was always at someone; she had forgotten how to laugh with.

A little while later, Mary had brushed off the anonymous judgement. It was evidently (and necessarily) a student jape. that said (to herself that is), she went to the main school bathroom after hockey the next day. No little excursions to the portaloo for Mary, although she did find herself glancing from time to time at the low tin roof whilst feverishly rifling in her pocket for the familiar sound and taste. The roof glared back, as if daring her to sidle over. She did not dare.

Into the main bathroom then she went. She washed her hands vigorously, a little too vigorously, to the point that only lady Macbeth would deem it appropriate scrubbing. As she was turning to leave, she stumbled, like bambi learning to walk, and had to grip the sink. This was because her eye had rested on some looping handwriting on the wall, nestled by the corner of the sink. Oh Mary, nonchalant you may try to be; but your boredom is driving you mad, clearly.

She had taken herself to the school sanatorium after that; or rather, had been led there by an abrasive Latin teacher by the name of Ms Pitman (no one ever discovered her forename). Ms Pitman had discovered Mary shivering in the staff room; this resulted in a bossy pronouncement that ‘it must be the flu, old girl’. That night,  Mary got out of bed and went to the bathroom. This time she was full of dread and excitement. Searching for what now seemed inevitable to her. She turned on the bathroom light and scanned the walls, feverish and fixated on discovering whatever message had been left for her. Or by her.

Mary left her prison, her fortress, her home the next day. At last, but not of her own volition. Unfortunately, institutions of one nature can lead to institutionalising of another. The staff room was alive with murmurs of her name, and accounts of how she was found that morning. All agreed it was in the sanatorium bathroom. Some disagreed about the repeated muttering of rhymes under her breath; again, all agreed about the ink stained walls and blank stare, void of any recognition of who or  where she was. They cleared out her room, musty and pungent with a synthetic lemon odour, most surfaces littered with sticky wrappers, reminders of her unshakeable need for reassurance. What few personal items she had were sent to the ward. One of which was her diary; filled with entries from the last few years. Some were accounts of the day; others were poems; many were unsent letters. All were in the same looping handwriting.

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Estrogonofe - Ein Rezept zum Mitkochen by Jakob Klaffs.

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Food& Toilets

By Andi Concha

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Hace unos años vi en las noticias que un ministro japonés se había suicidado después de aparecer borracho en una rueda de prensa. Por lo visto, estas medidas extremas son frecuentes en el país nipón, donde la  importancia que se le atribuye al honor y a la responsabilidad es excesiva. Mientras tanto, en España hemos visto a Rita Barberá empinar el codo con orgullo sin importarle mucho lo que pensaran los de su alrededor.

 Resulta que desde hace tiempo se viene dando en Japón un fenómeno conocido como Benjo-Meshi, algo así como un toilet food nipón, una  moda que consiste en zamparse el almuerzo sentado en un retrete,  en fusionar el espacio en el que se abre y se da por cerrado el proceso digestivo.

 ¿Por qué ocurre esto? Por el tema del honor. Por una cuestión de orgullo que deriva en estos fenómenos extraños, en manifestaciones que evidencian el lado enfermo de una sociedad:  muchos japoneses prefieren comer en el baño a hacerlo sentados solitariamente en una mesa exponiendo su falta de amistades. Esto se da especialmente entre los estudiantes, ⅕ de las personas en la veintena ha reconocido haber comido en los cubículos de los baños y considera que las horas de tiempo libre entre clases pueden ser peor que las propias clases.  No se trata de la típica fase de adolescente reprimido enamorado en secreto de la chica popular que no sabe ni su nombre, sino que tiene mayor alcance y en edades más adultas llega a afectar sobre todo a las mujeres.

 En cadenas de restaurantes como Yoshinoya es poco probable encontrar a chicas comiendo solas. Por lo menos sentadas en una mesa. Compran takeaways y se los llevan al baño. Una mujer comiendo sola levanta más prejuicios que los que ya tiene un hombre comiendo solo. Feministas del mundo, sentaos solas en la mesa de algún restaurante en Japón.

Pero más allá de este triste fenómeno los japoneses sienten una atracción general hacia los baños. Diferentes encuestas  muestran que acuden al retrete para pensar o leer con más frecuencia que para cagar. También lo utilizan para escuchar música, dormir y jugar a videojuegos (no podía faltar esto último). Cada año, el gobierno de Japón lanza un concurso que premia el mejor retrete y la marca japonesa Toto acaba de construir un museo, valorado en 60 millones de dólares, en el que expone diversas piezas y accesorios de un baño. Algunos váteres incluyen extras como calefacción en el asiento. También son muy populares las aplicaciones que te ayudan a encontrar el baño público más cercano, como Check a toilet, que incluye comentarios de los usuarios acerca de los mismos.

Los japoneses mantienen los baños impolutos debido a la creencia de que el dios del baño les observa mientras cagan y mean. El mito de este dios afirma que Kawaya-no-kami nació de las escreciones de Ianami. Hay templos dedicados a esta deidad del cuarto de baño y lo interesante de este mito es que da paso a lo siguiente: en Aichi existe una tradición conocida como Benjo-biraki, durante la cual las personas se sientan en los lavabos a comer un aperitivo y a tomar un té. Esto ya no viene motivado por complejos ni por el qué dirán. ¡Qué se mantenga la tradición!

Recientemente un grupo de estudiantes colocó un cojín en la tapa del retrete de un baño de la nueva Nagoya Bunri University y, uno por uno, se sentaron encima y tomaron pastel de arroz y té verde. No se trataba de una broma, el director de la universidad también participó en el rito. Aquellos que hemos nacido en occidente consideramos marcianas algunas prácticas y costumbres de los japoneses pero también es evidente que la mitología nipona mola mucho más que la latina o griega, que para muchos han sido las únicas de las que hemos bebido.

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Suddenly, stiff fingers bite into my bun. I fall, disintegrate and cool fast on the cold tiles. The King has capitulated with nary a hound dog, and the only sound is the acrid hum of the air-con unit. In life he shook his hips, crooned, laughed, drank and drank and drank. He’s ashen white now. The sparse draughts slithering under the bathroom door are rustling his thinning hair. Long minutes pass whilst I reflect. This is time beyond my natural lot; I am in the afterlife. The floor reeks of bleach and yesteryear’s piss, and I am turning into poison. Who is this, lying beside me in the bathroom? A clapped-out man on the brink of middle age. Not an enigma. An accident. Luckier than most. Decades doomed. But there was no burger in Elvis Presley’s hands when his heart stopped beating. Don’t think of me as cow’s meat and cow’s milk and lettuce and wheat; something benign. I am not that. I am thin air; a bad vibration on spiteful tongues. You vicious creatures falsified me into that most persistent history that lives not in books, but in gleeful mouths and ignorant minds. I am a cock scrawled on a tombstone, a kick in the back, a worm in the apple. I am the burger that Elvis was eating that night he died in the bathroom. What part of you created me?

 petewisewords (at) gmail.com

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Viaje Turco, by Jess Garcia

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