To quote the Pythons, I adore ‘spam, spam, wonderful spam’
SPAM Valley. That’s what they called Bishopbriggs when I was a boy. I always assumed the reference alluded to the geometry of the almost universally identical houses, each looking like a tin of Spam. It was only much later in life, half cut in a London pub (reminiscing with a random, fellow weegie I had knocked elbows with at the bar) that I learned the etymology of the phrase had less to do with architecture and much more to do with economics.
“It wis called Spam Valley ‘cos efter buyin yer hoose aw yous could afford tae eat wis Spam …”
How we laughed. Obviously he had never tried my mum’s Spam bhuna.
While some in Scotland sneer at Spam and cast contempt at the canned cooked meat, other nations and peo- ple proclaim the perfection of the pork and celebrate with superlatives that thing they call Spam. Like Hawaii. Yesterday, the laulau was left to one side, the poi put away and kalua kept in the cupboard. Spam was held shoulder high and loved by Hawaiians. I know – difficult to believe, right, but all true. They even have a street festival dedicated to it. The Waikiki “Spam Jam” – as this Spam celebration is genuinely called – is thankfully not a sweet preserve designed for toast spreading. Yet it is no less bizarre. Spam Jam is a street festival that celebrates the people of Hawaii’s love for Spam. I was blissfully unaware that the good people of Hawaii have a love affair with Spam; it’s available in every grocery and convenience store, as well as restaurants, and a staple in most homes in Hawaii. This love
affair dates back decades. It is thought that during the Second World War, when fishing around the islands was banned (probably because of Japanese Spam-hunting subs) the locals fell in love with the Spam that formed part of the US Service personnel’s rations. And when I say love, I mean love. On average, each Hawaiian buys six cans of Spam a year. Shops even have a limit of no more than five cans to be purchased at a single time. This obsession extends beyond the simple Spam fritter. A popular native sushi dish in Hawaii is Spam musubi, where cooked Spam is placed atop rice and wrapped in a band of seaweed.
Hawaii is far from alone. On the tiny Pacific island of Guam, the Hawaiian love of Spam is more than a little eclipsed. The Chamorro (the denizens of Guam) enjoy almost triple the amount of Spam per head of population, a stunning 16 cans per islander. The company manufactures a hot and spicy version exclusively for the island population.
Even the South Koreans regard Spam as a luxury product. To mark the lunar New Year or the harvest festival of Chuseok, tins of Spam are solemnly gifted as part of the festivities (no irony that a harvest festival, a celebration of all that nature provides, is defined by a highly processed food that epitomises modernity). The trend is seeing unprecedented growth, increasing fourfold in the last year and generating a couple of hundred of billion pounds of spending.
Nowt as queer as folk. I have to confess, I have a soft spot for Spam. My mum once made Spam pakoras and they were delicious. But she only made them once. I spend my life eating food that I didn’t even dream of when I was a wean. I eat in restaurants and with chefs who create the most exquisite food imaginable. Food has changed my life.
Yet ask Pauline at Mario’s on Byres Road how often I’m in eating the chicken, bacon, chips and (extra) gravy – there’s no sense to fine dining without some sense of the journey that brought us to starched lined napkins, extensive wine lists and white-gloved staff.
There will always be a place for Spam in my life, albeit not as frequently as the Hawaiians, the South Koreans or the islanders of Guam. And while I’m not convinced that reshaped chopped pork meat is worthy of a festival in an age when there is so much to get us down how can one argue with the celebration of something simple?