Atala erótico
20/11/13 13:39Só não comprei o livro do Alex Atala na Amazon porque achei ridículo, afinal o cara é nosso, tudo nele é nosso, queria ir na livraria daqui, ler aqui, pagar com reais, sair com ele embrulhado na mão. (E teria feito uma grande bobagem se comprasse fora, pois achei que a edição era bilíngue, no mesmo livro, e não é; o que está aqui na minha mão é em português, inteiro. E a editora Melhoramentos me mandou de presente o “D.O.M. – Redescobrindo Ingredientes Brasileiros”.)
Me deu uma vontade de rir ao pensar num estrangeiro pegando o livro, sem acesso aos nossos ingredientes. Porque nós pegamos livros assim o tempo todo. Comidas coreanas, de Burma, de Trás-os-Montes, e ficamos lá quebrando a cabeça. Aquele primeiro livro do Noma, valha-me Deus, nem uma couvinha tronchuda.
E todos vão ter interesse em comprar por ser do Atala. Nós mesmos, até outro dia, não conhecíamos priprioca, nem maçã do coco, nem formigas, nem batatas-árias. Agora, já conhecemos só de cumprimentar batendo o chapéu, barretadas, por influência desses abnegados catadores de matinhos e matões, desses pesquisadores sérios que querem trazer à mesa o que se come aqui, dos nossos rios, dos nossos grotões. O povo que cresce perto dos ingredientes desconhecidos para a maioria nem leva em conta. Come e pronto. É novidade para nós, os “voyeurs” das mesas alheias, os que chamam de gourmets. Bem feito. Estamos dando o troco com o livro do Alex.
Os estrangeiros nos mandam aves estranhas, rebatemos com uma formiga. Ah, tem filé no sul dos Estados Unidos? Temos bacuri e pequi. Dá lá, toma cá. Ele escreveu o que quis, sem intenção de exaurir o assunto. Despretensioso, até. Lindas fotos de apresentação da “cosa nostra”.
Acho erótico esse livro dele e todos os outros de cozinheiros excepcionais dessa geração. As fotos e os textos não querem nos mandar para o fogão, ter função útil. Estão em torno do prazer em si mesmo, exigem delicadeza, um certo conhecimento, uma invenção, um ritual e, especialmente, a beleza, a imaginação, o desejo. Alguém se alimenta do palmito desfiado com pó de pipoca? Não. São diferenças pensadas por alguém, descobertas que transformam o cotidiano em beleza e variedade e gostosura, podem mesmo ser até chamadas de eróticas, que tal? Mais um adjetivo para usarmos quando formos a um bom restaurante. “Esse risoto de caramujo marinho com tangerina foi bom para você também?”
Uma erotização da linguagem culinária? A essas alturas não estou falando mais do livro, mas da cozinha do Atala. Pois se não for uma aproximação do sagrado, uma busca de essência, a comida desses novos cozinheiros não quer dizer nada. Ela não flui como um rio de águas claras, não se faz entender à primeira vista, não tem elos que a explicam, não é fácil: ora é gel, ora é balão, desfaz-se em lago, levanta-se em torre, vira espuma. É poesia. Poética, fico com “poética”.
O livro deu umas paradas por mercados, prédios, cenas de pesca, o profano, diríamos. Ou melhor, ao mundo dos livros de presente de fim de ano de banco. Mas a vida é assim, tem erotismo, poesia e tem horas prosaicas demais. Na mesma vida, no mesmo livro.
Thank you ever so for you blog article.Really looking forward to read more.
“Is Azorka dead, too?”
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“No, Vanya, no. You don’t know him. You’ve not been much with him. You must know him better before you judge of him. There isn’t a truer and purer heart than his in the world. Why, would it be better if he were to he? And as for his being attracted by her, why, if he didn’t see me for a week he’d fall in love with some one else and forget me, and then when he saw me he’d be at my feet again. No! It’s a good thing I know it, that it’s not concealed from me, or else I should be dying of suspicion. Yes, Vanya! I have come to the conclusion; if I’m not always with him continually, every minute, he will cease to love me, forget me, and give me up. He’s like that; any other woman can attract him. And then what should I do? I should die . . . die indeed I I should be glad to die now. But what will it be for me to live without him? That would be worse than death itself, worse than any agony! Oh, Vanya, Vanya! It does mean something that I’ve abandoned my father and mother for him! Don’t try and persuade me, everything’s decided! He must be near me every hour, every minute. I can’t go back. I know that I am ruined and that I’m ruining others. . . . Ach, Vanya!” she cried suddenly and began trembling all over “what if he doesn’t love me even now! What if it’s true what you said of him just now” (I had never said it), “that he’s only deceiving me, that he only seems to be so truthful and sincere, and is really wicked and vain! I’m defending him to you now, and perhaps this very minute he’s laughing at me with another woman . . . and I, I’m so abject that I’ve thrown up everything and am walking about the streets looking for him. . . . Ach, Vanya!”
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Nikolay Sergeyitch came of a good family, which had long sunk into decay. But he was left at his parents’ death with a fair estate with a hundred and fifty serfs on it. At twenty he went into the Hussars. All went well; but after six years in the army he happened one unlucky evening to lose all his property at cards. He did not sleep all night. The next evening he appeared at the card-table and staked his horse – his last possession. His card was a winning one, and it was followed by a second and a third, and within half an hour he had won back one of his villages, the hamlet Ichmenyevka, which had numbered fifty souls at the last census. He sent in his papers and retired from the service next day. He had lost a hundred serfs for ever. Two months later he received his discharge with the rank of lieutenant, and went home to his village. He never in his life spoke of his loss at cards, and in spite of his well-known good nature he would certainly have quarrelled with anyone who alluded to it. In the country he applied himself industriously to looking after his land, and at thirty-five he married a poor girl of good family, Anna Andreyevna Shumilov, who was absolutely without dowry, though she had received an education in a high-class school kept by a French emigree, called Mon-Reveche, a privilege upon which Anna Andreyevna prided herself all her life, although no one was ever able to discover exactly of what that education had consisted. Nikolay Sergeyitch was an excellent farmer. The neighbouring landowners learned to manage their estates from him. A few years had passed when suddenly a landowner, Prince Pyotr Alexandrovitch Valkovsky, came from Petersburg to the neighbouring estate, Vassilyevskoe, the village of which had a population of nine hundred serfs, His arrival made a great stir in the whole neighbourhood. The prince was still young, though not in his first youth. He was of good rank in the service, had important connexions and a fortune; was a handsome man and a widower, a fact of particular interest to all the girls and ladies in the neighbourhood. People talked of the brilliant reception given him by the governor, to whom he was in some way related; of how he had turned the heads of all the ladies by his gallantries, and so on, and so on. In short, he was one of those brilliant representatives of aristocratic Petersburg society who rarely make their appearance in the provinces, but produce an extraordinary sensation when they do. The prince, however, was by no means of the politest, especially to people who could be of no use to him, and whom he considered ever so little his inferiors. He did not think fit to make the acquaintance of his neighbours in the country, and at once made many enemies by neglecting to do so. And so everyone was extremely surprised when the fancy suddenly took him to call on Nikolay Sergeyitch. It is true that the latter was one of his nearest neighbours. The prince made a great impression on the Ichmenyev household. He fascinated them both at once; Anna Andreyevna was particularly enthusiastic about him. In a short time he was on intimate terms with them, went there every day and invited them to his house. He used to tell them stories, make jokes, play on their wretched piano and sing. The Ichmenyevs were never tired of wondering how so good and charming a man could be called a proud, stuck-up, cold egoist, as all the neighbours with one voice declared him to be. One must suppose that the prince really liked Nikolay Sergeyitch, who was a simple-hearted, straightforward, disinterested and generous man. But all was soon explained. The prince had come to Vassilyevskoe especially, to get rid of his steward, a prodigal German, who was a conceited man and an expert agriculturist, endowed with venerable grey hair, spectacles, and a hooked nose; yet in spite of these advantages, he robbed the prince without shame or measure, and, what was worse, tormented several peasants to death. At last Ivan Karlovitch was caught in his misdeeds and exposed, was deeply offended, talked a great deal about German honesty, but, in spite of all this, was dismissed and even with some ignominy. The prince needed a steward and his choice fell on Nikolay Sergeyitch, who was an excellent manager and a man of whose honesty there could be no possible doubt. The prince seemed particularly anxious that Nikolay Sergeyitch should of his own accord propose to take the post, But this did not come off, and one fine morning the prince made the proposition himself, in the form of a very friendly and humble request. Nikolay Sergeyitch at first refused; but the liberal salary attracted Anna Andreyevna, and the redoubled cordiality of the prince overcame any hesitation he still felt. The prince attained his aim. One may presume that he was skilful in judging character. During his brief acquaintance with Ichmenyev he soon perceived the kind of man he had to deal with, and realized that he must be won in a warm and friendly way, that his heart must be conquered, and that, without that, money would do little with him. Valkovsky needed a steward whom he could trust blindly for ever, that he might never need to visit Vassilyevskoe again, and this was just what he was reckoning on. The fascination he exercised over Nikolay Sergeyitch was so strong that the latter genuinely believed in his friendship. Nikolay Sergeyitch was one of those very simple-hearted and naively romantic men who are, whatever people may say against them, so charming among us in Russia, and who are devoted with their whole soul to anyone to whom (God knows why) they take a fancy, and at times carry their devotion to a comical pitch.
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Atala erótico | Nina Horta – Folha de S.Paulo – Blogs
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Anna Andreyevna kept a sharp eye on me and Natasha, but she didn’t see everything. One little word had been uttered between us already, and I heard at last Natasha, with her little head drooping, and her lips half parted, whisper “Yes.” But the parents knew of it later on. They had their thoughts, their conjectures. Anna Andreyevna shook her head for a long time. It seemed strange and dreadful to her. She had no faith in me.
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But what she had told me of her husband’s going over his family records was interesting. He had never boasted of his pedigree before.
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