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Fifty Mici at One Sitting
 
 
 
 
 
 

Back in the bad old days, before Romania was part of the “great European family” known as the EU, I used to have to leave the country once every 90 days. All I needed was a new stamp in my passport. However, because the legality of this cunning trick was rather dubious, I’d always have to spend about half an hour with the border guards, cracking jokes in Romanian, telling them how much I love Romania / Romanian women / Romanian history / everything that every Romanian person has ever done in the world, ever. Flattery, I’ve learned, is infinitely more effective than spaga in such situations. As a result of these trips, I used to spend a long time standing around with customs officers, as they ate seeds and chatted among themselves.

Anyway. It was during one of these many trips over the border that I was privy to one of the funniest conversations I’ve ever overheard. One of the security guards, who indeed had a burta of magnificent proportions, was boasting to his colleagues about what he did last weekend. “I’m not even joking, frate! Nu ma crezi, mai? Last weekend, I ate thirty mici!” Thirty mici! A look a pride spread across his face as he told us. What a shining example of manhood! What bravery! That’s what being a real man is all about – eating thirty mici at one sitting!

His colleague, who’s burta was no less impressive, at this point turned to his colleague with a look of contempt. “Trezechi de mici, ba? Trezechi? Am mancat eu cincizechi odata, all at once. Cincizechi!” You could see the look of jealousy in his college’s face. All the men within earshot, myself included, looked on, open-mouthed and stunned into a respectful silence – we knew we were in the presence of a veritable demi-god. Fifty mici! Enough mici to stun a horse! A feat worthy of Hercules! There is a point to this rambling tale. That is, when it comes to Romanian men and food, one view seems to prevail: better means more.
I don’t mean to make fun of Romanian cuisine. I am, after all, from Britain, a country reputed to have the worst food in Europe. Though I do feel a powerful urge to stand up for British food (what about our great traditional cheeses, as good as any French cheese? Our mouth-watering pies? Our traditional desserts?), I will concede that British food gets worse as you heard northwards. It gets worse and worse, until you hit Scotland, which is a kind of culinary ‘Ground Zero’. This, after all, is a country whose culinary gift to the world is the ‘deep fried Mars bar’ and the ‘deep fried pizza’ (I’m not joking). 
However, despite the fact that British cuisine is openly ridiculed all over Europe, a new mentality has taken hold. I like to call it “the Jamie Oliver syndrome”. The symptoms are obvious: men are suddenly taking enormous interest in what they eat. Gone are the days of bragging about being about to scoff scores of sausages at one sitting. Instead, men in Britain now talk about pan-seared Sea Bass; about chocolate pudding soufflés; about brazed pheasant served with ginger coulis. Not only do they know how to pronounce such treats without making waiters snigger into their notepads, but they also know how to cook it too.
In England, this craze for men cooking has reached absurd proportions. Last year, one of the best-selling gadgets for men was a “kitchen blowtorch”. That’s right – not a blowtorch for doing manly things like repairing broken cylinder heads or melting tar on roofs. No. This is a blowtorch for making poncy recipes like ‘oatmeal brûlée’. Men who ten years ago couldn’t use a tin-opener are now learning how to flambé roasted quails. I realised just how much things have changed when I last went back to I go back to London, and met an old friend for coffee. Not in a coffee shop, but in an organic vegetable store, where the said friend proceeded to spent a staggering twenty euros on (wait for it) a small bottle of olive oil.
You’re laughing now. Think it’s funny, don’t you. “Stupid Englishmen”, you’re thinking. Well let me tell you, my friend – the days of being able to brag about eating fifty mici at one sitting are numbered. I predict a veritable epidemic of “Jamie Oliver Syndrome” in Romania. This time next year, when you overhear a Romanian customs officer talking the problems he’s having making a good asparagus coulis, you’ll know I was right.