Sometimes when I go exploring for food tales, I discover stories that are just dying to be told but find themselves without a teller. They are the hardest subjects to write about, because they tell you nothing. An unmarked food cart, a cookie served in meeting, a fruit cocktail handed to you at a wedding. These "lost food tales" are the wily cousins of traditional food stories, outlaws in a land of research and documentation, elusive and shrouded in mystery. Not coincidentally, it is precisely these tales that are most unforgettable.
Last week, driving back from a visit to the southern city of Tafileh, I stumbled upon a lost food tale. What is written from this point on is little more than speculation.kharban, broken, destitute, ruined. For amidst the rows and rows of green-leafed tomato vines were completely unusable tomatoes. nematodes. Those parasitic roundworms, latching onto the poor tomatoes' roots and silently bringing their hosts to a premature death. They had been there before, evading pesticidal deterrents and lavishing in the precious moisture that ironically both sustained and, ultimately, led to the downfall of the scarecrow's tomato kingdom. bandora (tomato) riches. And that's not because scarecrows can't talk (haven't you seen Wizard of Oz?). It's because this is a lost food tale. It can't be verified through interviews, studied through primary and secondary research, or analyzed with a rigorous statistical model. It refuses scrutiny and turns inquirers away. In short: it cannot be known.