The venerable Rick Rubin was an inveterate traveler and a collector of vivid memories. Here’s a piece which appeared in Wild Dog #5: NO WHINING. (1993) – JDW
Recent mention of sex tours to the Far East brought to mind an even more exotic flesh much enjoyed by the natives of several lands on the far side of the Pacific, and perhaps even closer to home. We’re talking (gasp) about man’s (shudder) best friend (belch), and I don’t mean woman.
The first foreshadowings of the gustatory delights to follow were rumors on Maui, in Hawaii, that the local Filipino cane cutters enjoyed an occasional feast of dog. Pet owners warned each other to keep close track of Spot or Rover, particularly if Rover happened to be black. The idea one specific color of dog should be more sought after than another seemed the height of mirth among the Sybarites of Lahaina and Kaanapali.
Since I left black dog Maxi on my own front porch when I set out upon my travels, I wondered how many Filipino cane cutters there might be in Northwest Portland. I concluded plump, midnight-black Maxi was probably safe, and gave it no further thought.
That dog as food would play a role in my adventures I had no inkling until, a dozen countries and more than a year later, I chanced upon an article in one of the Manila newspapers about a place named Gadia’s Restaurant, in the thronging Santa Cruz district of the city, where dog was served as pulatan – a taste treat served with drinks – cooked in any of three indigenous styles: kilawin, dinuguan or adobo. Dog was said to be the specialty of the house, much enjoyed by the porters of the nearby Philippine Rabbit bus depot, tricycle drivers and central-market hangers-on.
The world traveler becomes accustomed to diversity of every sort, and as I recalled Maxi on that far front porch, it seemed a good idea to have an anecdote to waggle like an admonitory finger at her frequent barking orgies and kamikaze attacks on innocent passers-by. I thought I’d warn her if she were bad, she might become dinner. That very evening I set out for Gadia’s Restaurant.
It was a difficult search, for the intersection of Oroquieta and Lope de Vega streets is dark and narrow, there are no streetlights and not every building is numbered. Yet, extrapolating from the numbers I could find, it seemed likely the dingy, signless eating place must be Gadia’s. When I inquired within, however, the waitress, and after her the cook, denied all knowledge of any such pulatan, and furthermore insisted they were just closing and I ought to go away. Perhaps the road-weary American, so curiously attired – as backpack travelers in Asian lands tend to become after many months of the road – was simply too much for them. Perhaps, too, the newspaper article had brought them unwanted notoriety. My dinner that night was something else, somewhere else.
That would have probably been the end of the quest had I not happened to mention eating dog to one of the hired hands at San Miguel House, where I always put up in Manila. He told me if it was pulatan aso I wanted I need only ask around in Baguio, the delightful northern Luzon town where I was headed next, for dog eating was a regular custom there.
Baguio, a long, hot ride on one of the Philippine Rabbit buses, was cool and refreshing, even in May, which is the height of summer there. Situated high in the mountains, the city was originally an American spa, and is much loved by the Filipinos.
It was not unnatural, therefore, I should mention a desire to chow down on a pup to a young man I was talking to in a small side-street bar near the center of town. Benjamin Zarate was a jeepney owner-driver and a very pleasant fellow. Hardly had I made my interest known that he turned to the barman and spoke a few words, two of which were pulatan aso. The barman fiddled around under the counter for half a minute and placed a dish of ten or a dozen cubes of stewed meat in front of us.
Dog meat at last!
I recalled a New Yorker cartoon published during World War II. It showed a Time magazine writer laboring over his typewriter, doing a piece on how the Germans were starving. “Cut off by the Allied blockade,” he types. “the German nation has once again been reduced to eating dog, which tastes…” He sits there, puzzled, for a panel. then is seen purchasing a dog, carrying it into a restaurant, eating dinner, and at his typewriter again, typing “… coarse, dry and sour-flavored.”
The humor intended, no doubt, was how astonishingly meticulous Time writers were. Alas, the cartoonist was not so thorough a researcher as the butt of his humor, for dog is none of those. With hardly a quiver of repugnance, being by then a seasoned traveler shocked at nothing, I took up a bit of dog flesh and found it rather ordinary in texture, with a mild but not unpleasant flavor. I’d like to give you a more precise description of how Fido would taste, but the flavor seemed so unremarkable I can’t even remember it.
Like lean beef. Certainly less unusual than either venison or horse. Perhaps my snack was not black dog but only brown, which color my new friend Benjamin assured me was less tasty than black dog, though better than white dog.
Furthermore, dog was eaten in all seasons, but was, as he explained, much esteemed in winter, when it made you strong.
I’ve always favored letting one exotic experience symbolize many. For example, I took only one bribe when I was a welfare caseworker, allowed myself to be mugged only once, let the ladies of Bangkok waylay and rob me only once, etc., etc.
In any case later that night I discovered they make great potato salad in Baguio. That may not sound like much to you, but I hadn’t had a potato in eight months, and had grown somewhat tired of rice. I wanted nothing better than to eat potato salad three or four times a day for as long as there were potatoes.
Therefore I was a trifle put off the next evening when Benjamin, having steered me into yet another dingy but joyous bar, ordered up another plateful of mongrel. I protested that I’d eaten dog, I didn’t want to make it a regular part of my diet.
He assured me he intended no such thing, but, as he thought I’d formed an unfavorable impression of doggie the night before, he wanted me to eat some pulatan aso of better quality.
He was right, of course. This dog meat was moist and delicious, cooked up in a nicely spiced stew. It was tender perfection, though I still couldn’t discern any particular flavor.
Probably the failure of my taste buds, like all-purpose mammal to my palate, so recently thrilled and jaded by the foods of Thailand, Indonesia and the Polynesian islands.
Lewis and Clark expressed another viewpoint, as I was well aware. The great explorers bought an astonishing number of dogs as they floated down the Columbia River through the country of the Chinook speakers, which is to say from the present location of The Dalles to the sea. Why they particularly chose to buy dog among the Chinook I can’t say, for the Chinook never ate dog, not even ceremonially.
The dog-eating soldiers generally butchered their purchase on the beach in front of the village. They never mentioned how the children took the roasting of the village curs. Lewis, however, did record in his journal: “The dog now constitutes a considerable part of our sustenance and with most of the party has become a favorite food…. I prefer it to lean venison or elk, and it is far superior to horse in any state.”
Having now eaten dog twice, I felt I had done my duty and more, and gave myself over to potato salad for the rest of my stay in Baguio. I felt I had sufficient stock of stories with which to frighten Maxi when I got home. Indeed, in Taiwan, where I could presumably have scouted up dog Chinese-style if I wanted to, I turned my attention to snake instead, and made a rather nice dinner in the famous Snake Market in Taipei.
Yet, if done with dog, dog was not done with me. Two months later and many miles to the north, wandering the streets of Daegu, South Korea, with my new friend Lee Dong Soo, I heard him ask, “Have you ever eaten dog?”
“Yes, I have,” I told him. “But it isn’t a particular favorite of mine.”
“I’d really like to eat some dog,” he told me. “In Korea we eat dog particularly in the summer, when it makes you strong.”
Now, the traveler who goes far and eats cheap beside the road, as I was doing, is prey to many a curious stomach complaint. I’d lost about fifteen percent of my body weight by then, and, having been a skinny little fellow to begin with, I was now somewhat emaciated. My arms and legs were like sticks, and I looked about fifteen years older than usual.
That might have bothered me, but it delighted Lee Dong Soo no end, for in Korea old is good, and for a young man to be hanging around with an old one reflected creditably upon him.
Perhaps he wanted to startle the worldly traveler, but more likely he thought I needed dog to build up my strength.
I tried to talk him out of it, but Koreans are a stubborn, if exceedingly friendly, people, and in the end, I followed Lee Dong Soo through a maze of market alleys to a restaurant that specialized in cooked canine. We were soon seated cross-legged before a cooling electric fan, eagerly awaiting our doggone dinner.
The Korean attitude concerning which season is propitious for eating dog may be the opposite of the Filipino one, but as to which color pup is best they agree perfectly. One wonders how Lewis and Clark could have missed the distinction between black, brown and white dogs. Perhaps all Chinook dogs were gray and yellow. However, the dog we were served must have been black, for it was a savory, highly spiced stew we ate that night.
Korean food is the only cuisine I’ve encountered that defeated my stomach, so a few weeks later I was still slinking around in search of European or Chinese restaurants, but that dog stew, though peppery, was not unpalatable, and the meat was perfect in texture, moistness and flavor. Later that evening, my friend treated me to several cups of Ginseng tea as well, which is highly reputed for its health-giving qualities in the Land of the Morning Calm. I must confess the next morning I arose feeling very fit indeed.
I can assure you, if you do not let your politics or your tender sensibilities interfere with your taste buds, black dog is a very good dish and gives you strength summer or winter. But as for the black dog that used to grace my front porch, perhaps she detected my disloyalty from afar, for Maxi was no longer waiting there when I returned. She’d run off with a mailman, who let her walk his route with him. She has lived to a fat, black, old doggieness on his front porch, not mine, though the Filipino restaurant of the neighborhood lists pulatan on its menu, only fourteen blocks from that very porch.
The irascible John Callahan was another friend of the Wild Dog. He contributed the cartoon below to accompany Mr. Rubin’s tale.
