"What should we eat?" the girl asked. She had taken off her hat and put it on the table.
"It's pretty hot," the man said.
"Let's eat sliders."
"Dos Sack Meals," the man said to the bullet proof glass.
"Big ones?" a woman asked from behind the bullet proof glass.
"Yes, Two Sack Meal #2s."
The woman brought two trays of food. She put the trays on the shelf and slide the shelf through the bulletproof barrier and looked at the man and the girl. The girl was looking off at the non-existent hills of St. Paul, MN. To her they were white in the sun and the country was brown and dry. Which it actually was.
"They look like White Castle sliders," she said.
"I've never seen one."
"No, you wouldn't have."
"I might have, bitch," the man said. "Just because you say I wouldn't have doesn't prove anything. You're just like your mother. I hate you."
He stares at me through the bullet proof glass, his eyes cold, hardened. The 1000-yard stare of a Vietnam veteran being channeled through the vestige of a 17-year old boy. His arms crossed, he stands impatiently, as though he is ready to leave at a running pace without hesitation. A life of violence shows across him like a tattoo. Not too unlike the tear drop tattoo under the left eye of the man behind me.
White Castle can be a tough place to dine.
"Welcome to White Castle. What you crave?"
The voice powerful, demanding, grammatically incorrect. My impulse was to tell him everything I craved. Box seats at Target Field. A perfect Canary diamond. My father's love.
Now I stand there, at the counter of the White Castle on University Ave in St. Paul, looking at my dining options:
- Sack meal 1: four hamburgers, regular fry regular drink
- Sack meal 2: two double cheeseburgers, regular fry, regular drink
- Sack meal 3: 10 hamburgers, two regular fries, two regular drinks
- Sack meal 4: 20 hamburgers, four regular fries
Then it gets weird. Progressing times call for progressing madness.
- Sack meal 5: Six "chicken rings", regular fry, regular drink
- Sack meal 6: Two "chicken ring", regular fry, small drink
The chicken ring being some strange creation of Mary Shelly, the idea of chicken in its natural form or at least the more recognizable boot-like shape of the McNugget is out of date, instead going for a doughnut. Sure, why not?
As with the rest of my life, I tend to let me mind draw connections between reality and the great masterpieces of cinema. Orson Welle's Citizen Kane. Federico Fellini's 8 1/2. Alfred Hitchcock's North by Northwest. And of course, Danny Leiner's Harold & Kumar Go To White Castle.
Thespian and accused rapist Anthony Andersen's soliloquy and ode to the internationally known "slider". "Just thinking about those tender little White Castle burgers. With those little itty bitty grilled onions that just explode in your mouth like flavor crystals every time you bite into one... just makes me want to burn this motherf***er down!"
My own sentiments regarding the infamous Castle of White are mixed. As a youth, I was greatly opposed to the idea of fried onions and my own father and grandfather's particular penchant for the lovingly referred to "gut bombs" created a confusion deep within my subconscious that has scarred me forever.
"What did you say?"
"I said we could have everything."
"We can have everything."
"No, we can't."
"We can have the whole menu."
"No, we can't. I only brought $10"
"We can sh*t everywhere."
"No, we can't. It isn't our place to sh*t here."
In the lobby of the White Castle I stood. Finally coming to a daring conclusion. I needed to confront my childhood fear of the intestinal damaged caused by the combination of a regrettable meat to bun ratio, fried onions and pickles. I needed a crave pack. $2.99 for 4 sliders, a small fry and a drink. I also got a jalapeno burger. And then packed it all down with some chicken rings.
With fear and a poised gag reflex I took my first bite of the hamburger that looked small even in my baby-sized palm. I have such little hands.
To my surprise, I didn't vomit. Instead, what I tasted was individuality. If such thing can be tasted. For the most part, hamburgers are hamburgers. Subtle variation in patty size or bun being the main difference amongst the major chains. This, however, was different. A small patty in a large bun. Covered in fried onions that were most likely cooked on an ill-cleaned flattop grill and topped off with the briny goodness of pickle slices.
It took three bites to finish the first. Two to finish the second. I fit the third and fourth in my mouth at the same time. Not because they tasted so good that I had to eat them fast. I'm just really weird and tend to make a scene for no reason at all.
The jalapeno burger did not in fact contain jalapenos. Instead, it was a burger with pepper jack cheese. It did not look good. It tasted like a slider with a tiny piece of pepper jack cheese on it in place of the pickles.
The chicken rings. What can I say about chicken rings? They tasted like rings of chicken. Not sure what the big deal is. If anything, it reminded me of the chicken fingers of the Hardee's of old. The strangely tube-shaped chicken fingers that were no doubt oozed from the same kind of machine responsible for the form of hot dogs. The contents unidentifiable beyond the description of "it tasted like chicken". As so many things do, I was unimpressed.
The crinkle cut fries were as they have always been, perhaps less the trans-fats that we had all grown to know and love, but still, the overly salted familiarity and slightly soggy texture that are far from the best, but definitely their own.
Conclusion: it's White Castle. What the f*** do you want me to say? Is it the best burger out there? No. Not even close. But that isn't the reason to go. The reason is that despite the trend of standing on the shoulders of giants in the fast food industry, no one has even attempted to imitate the White Castle slider. Normally that would lead to a humiliating failure. Instead, White Castle has been around for 89 years. Surviving on tradition and originality.
You go to White Castle for the sake of White Castle. It is an American original and staple in the economic and capitalistic growth of our nation. It is as American as syphilis blankets. Not in a bad way, but in the whole "it worked out for us in the long run" kind of thing. But not in the "I'd give this to my mom" kind of thing.
He picked up the two heavy bags and carried them around the restaurant towards the exit. He looked up and down the parking lot, but couldn't see his car. Coming back, he walked through the dining area, where people waiting for death were eating. He sipped his Diet Coke by the rail and looked at the people. They were all waiting reasonably for death. He went around the garbage can. She was sitting at the table and smiling at him.
"Do you feel better?" he asked
"I feel fine," she said. "There's nothing wrong with me. I feel fine." Then she got up for round two of explosive diarrhea that may or may not have been caused by eating a six pack of gut bombs.
So, uh, did anyone actually get the Hemmingway reference or did I just waste a lot of f***ing time? Bunch of savages.
Next Blog: It's State Fair Time, Bitches!
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Minnesotan Decadence
There is a slight chill in the air. A hot and humid streak in the waning moments we Minnesotan's call summer has passed. The breeze has with it a cooling affect reminding us that fall is just around the corner. And with it, the Minnesota State Fair.
I let my mind wander. Images of tailgating and endless conversations about what teams will go all the way and which teams are in a rebuilding year. Sitting around the grill, watching slabs of meat sizzle away releasing aromas almost pornographic to the palette. Bonfires. Allowing oneself to be wrapped in the warm embrace of glowing embers. Too much to drink, sliding to that gray area between sobriety and Did-I-Say-That-Out-Loud?
I have no idea whose memories these are, or how they got in my head, but I hold onto them as long as I can. Letting them replace the all-to-often bouts of manic weeping and drowning of my emotions in beer and gravy.
As I sit on my patio, the wind blowing gently through the few remaining hairs on my head, I watch my beloved dog roll around in what I can only hope is a pile of her poop and ponder: what food symbolizes this moment? This time of year in Minnesota?
Perhaps it isn't so much a specific food as much as a genre. The blissful red-headed-stepchild of the food pyramid: Fried Sh*t.
First I pose you a question: what is decadence? Let me take a step back for those of you not familiar with the word. In an age of civilization that is rapidly starting to think the word "please" is spelled p-l-z or the words "you are" is u-r, I will used to semi-useful and often misleading Wikipedia to set u on yer path.
Decadence can refer to a personal trait, or to the state of a society (or segment of it). Used to describe a person's lifestyle. Concise Oxford Dictionary: "a luxurious self-indulgence".
You've gotta love an online encyclopedia that uses, as a reference, a dictionary. Perhaps the idea of using a dictionary has been so lost that only thanks to hyperlinks that one is ever even used.
Decadence. A state of a society. I like that, let's start there.
I have willingly put myself within the outskirts of the subculture known and largely despised the world over as food critics. A group of self-important undereducated know-it-alls that were scorned by a surly chef at some point in their upbringing and decided to take it out on hard working men and women that willfully got into a career of serving other people.
And it seems, that the moment one appoints themselves to be a critic of others, they defy gravity and all that Newton taught us, leaving the pull of gravity and hover high above the heads of more simple people. The people that go to Olive Garden for their fancy night out. The people that eat fast food out of necessity as much as desire.
What is decadence in a food culture that appreciates foremost the rare and the financially indulgent? The White Truffle. Foie Gras. Louis XIII.
You have to get the idea of money out of your head. Money doesn't matter.
Don't get me wrong. Money matters for most things. I still dream about the day that I could find out that it doesn't buy happiness, but as that day is unlikely to happen, I must focus on the achievable. In the world of food, it doesn't have to be expensive to be decadent.
It's very definition suggests that decadence is purely subjective. Southern Minnesota farm country and downtown Minneapolis will not share a view on what is the penultimate of indulgence. And I say "Thank f***ing God!"
You want to know what decadence is? Really? It is eating something that you feel a little guilty about. For some it is spending $80 on a steak. The idea that you sank your teeth into a cow's ass and soon enough it will come out yours.
For others it is that Lindor Truffle you had to eat at Christmas, as it taunted you from the candy bowl. What the hell? They were on sale at Target. Forget the calories and indulge.
Decadence is pleasure wrapped in guilt. It is everything that makes the State Fair worth going to. And with the taste of fried-everything still lingering in my mouth from the last time I stepped on the hallowed grounds over a year ago, I feel I need to talk about the glory of the Fried Oreo Cookie.
At some point, people realized that you didn't just need to subject hunks of protein to batter. You could do the same thing to snack food. Fried fat covering sugar covering congealed fat. Glory glory Hallelujah. Each layer presenting a new adventure in all that my fellow a**holes turn up their noses at.
Batter giving away tenderly to the oil soaked cookie. The nostalgia of keeping a cookie dunked a little too long in a tall glass of ice cold milk dances around the tongue as texture and sentiment marry in an union that will most likely be deemed unholy by the Catholic Church.
And just when you think it is over, your brain reminds you euphorically that there is still the frosting in the middle. Soft, almost gooey from the fryer is coats the inside of your mouth like some disgusting metaphor that I will save for when I have a larger and more crude fan base.
Walkers-by turn up their noses, scoffing at the indulgence as they prize themselves for taking the healthy option of eating a butter drenched ear of corn on their way to the All-You-Can-Drink Milk stand for a whole milk enema.
Pay them no mind. If possible, time it out so you exhale at just the right time to release a cloud of the powdered sugar coating your confection immediately into their path. A more socially acceptable version of blowing cigarettes smoke into the face of an adversary. Watch them cough and gag in an overly dramatic rendition of revulsion. Wallow in your own corpulence.
As I am yet to even address someone that might fancy themselves as a detractor, let's look at the idea that maybe a fried cookie is just too much fat. Too much sugar. Too much grease. Too much fun.
And if you didn't buy it, don't complain. Don't look down on it as an evolutionary step backwards in the Minnesota food culture. In fact, look at it for what it is: a hybrid in a class all it's own. It is a treat. An indulgence. Don't eat them for breakfast, but don't feel the need for self-flagellation either. Forget it, look it up.
This is fried Americana. The tradition of the Oreo cookie Minnesota-ized to feed the frenzy of Fair goers that expect new levels of insanity each year. Enjoy it, savor it. Then get another.
This isn't caviar. This isn't pate. This is a Fried Oreo Cookie. And it is Minnesota decadence personified. Look on us Oh World and weep for you do not know the pleasure we live.
Next Blog: Black Knights and White Castles
I let my mind wander. Images of tailgating and endless conversations about what teams will go all the way and which teams are in a rebuilding year. Sitting around the grill, watching slabs of meat sizzle away releasing aromas almost pornographic to the palette. Bonfires. Allowing oneself to be wrapped in the warm embrace of glowing embers. Too much to drink, sliding to that gray area between sobriety and Did-I-Say-That-Out-Loud?
I have no idea whose memories these are, or how they got in my head, but I hold onto them as long as I can. Letting them replace the all-to-often bouts of manic weeping and drowning of my emotions in beer and gravy.
As I sit on my patio, the wind blowing gently through the few remaining hairs on my head, I watch my beloved dog roll around in what I can only hope is a pile of her poop and ponder: what food symbolizes this moment? This time of year in Minnesota?
Perhaps it isn't so much a specific food as much as a genre. The blissful red-headed-stepchild of the food pyramid: Fried Sh*t.
First I pose you a question: what is decadence? Let me take a step back for those of you not familiar with the word. In an age of civilization that is rapidly starting to think the word "please" is spelled p-l-z or the words "you are" is u-r, I will used to semi-useful and often misleading Wikipedia to set u on yer path.
Decadence can refer to a personal trait, or to the state of a society (or segment of it). Used to describe a person's lifestyle. Concise Oxford Dictionary: "a luxurious self-indulgence".
You've gotta love an online encyclopedia that uses, as a reference, a dictionary. Perhaps the idea of using a dictionary has been so lost that only thanks to hyperlinks that one is ever even used.
Decadence. A state of a society. I like that, let's start there.
I have willingly put myself within the outskirts of the subculture known and largely despised the world over as food critics. A group of self-important undereducated know-it-alls that were scorned by a surly chef at some point in their upbringing and decided to take it out on hard working men and women that willfully got into a career of serving other people.
And it seems, that the moment one appoints themselves to be a critic of others, they defy gravity and all that Newton taught us, leaving the pull of gravity and hover high above the heads of more simple people. The people that go to Olive Garden for their fancy night out. The people that eat fast food out of necessity as much as desire.
What is decadence in a food culture that appreciates foremost the rare and the financially indulgent? The White Truffle. Foie Gras. Louis XIII.
You have to get the idea of money out of your head. Money doesn't matter.
Don't get me wrong. Money matters for most things. I still dream about the day that I could find out that it doesn't buy happiness, but as that day is unlikely to happen, I must focus on the achievable. In the world of food, it doesn't have to be expensive to be decadent.
It's very definition suggests that decadence is purely subjective. Southern Minnesota farm country and downtown Minneapolis will not share a view on what is the penultimate of indulgence. And I say "Thank f***ing God!"
You want to know what decadence is? Really? It is eating something that you feel a little guilty about. For some it is spending $80 on a steak. The idea that you sank your teeth into a cow's ass and soon enough it will come out yours.
For others it is that Lindor Truffle you had to eat at Christmas, as it taunted you from the candy bowl. What the hell? They were on sale at Target. Forget the calories and indulge.
Decadence is pleasure wrapped in guilt. It is everything that makes the State Fair worth going to. And with the taste of fried-everything still lingering in my mouth from the last time I stepped on the hallowed grounds over a year ago, I feel I need to talk about the glory of the Fried Oreo Cookie.
At some point, people realized that you didn't just need to subject hunks of protein to batter. You could do the same thing to snack food. Fried fat covering sugar covering congealed fat. Glory glory Hallelujah. Each layer presenting a new adventure in all that my fellow a**holes turn up their noses at.
Batter giving away tenderly to the oil soaked cookie. The nostalgia of keeping a cookie dunked a little too long in a tall glass of ice cold milk dances around the tongue as texture and sentiment marry in an union that will most likely be deemed unholy by the Catholic Church.
And just when you think it is over, your brain reminds you euphorically that there is still the frosting in the middle. Soft, almost gooey from the fryer is coats the inside of your mouth like some disgusting metaphor that I will save for when I have a larger and more crude fan base.
Walkers-by turn up their noses, scoffing at the indulgence as they prize themselves for taking the healthy option of eating a butter drenched ear of corn on their way to the All-You-Can-Drink Milk stand for a whole milk enema.
Pay them no mind. If possible, time it out so you exhale at just the right time to release a cloud of the powdered sugar coating your confection immediately into their path. A more socially acceptable version of blowing cigarettes smoke into the face of an adversary. Watch them cough and gag in an overly dramatic rendition of revulsion. Wallow in your own corpulence.
As I am yet to even address someone that might fancy themselves as a detractor, let's look at the idea that maybe a fried cookie is just too much fat. Too much sugar. Too much grease. Too much fun.
And if you didn't buy it, don't complain. Don't look down on it as an evolutionary step backwards in the Minnesota food culture. In fact, look at it for what it is: a hybrid in a class all it's own. It is a treat. An indulgence. Don't eat them for breakfast, but don't feel the need for self-flagellation either. Forget it, look it up.
This is fried Americana. The tradition of the Oreo cookie Minnesota-ized to feed the frenzy of Fair goers that expect new levels of insanity each year. Enjoy it, savor it. Then get another.
This isn't caviar. This isn't pate. This is a Fried Oreo Cookie. And it is Minnesota decadence personified. Look on us Oh World and weep for you do not know the pleasure we live.
Next Blog: Black Knights and White Castles
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Where the F*** is Marcell, Minnesota?
I was somewhere northwest of Grand Rapids when reality began to sink in. First, it was highly unlikely that the posted speed limit was in fact 69 miles per hour as the spray-painted sign seemed to suggest. Second, that the car I was driving was not mine. Finally, that it had been over 24 hours since my last cup of coffee and I was in desperate need of a reprieve.
My contact in that part of the state (the lady at the gas station I filled up at) recommended two places. The one that served a “lovely breakfast buffet” back in Deer River sounded like a good idea, but it didn’t start until 10:30am. As it was 9am, I was in no position to wait it out for another 90 minutes. My body verging on collapse of both mental and physical faculties I knew I needed to press on. Her second suggestion of THE TIMBERWOLF INN would have to do.
The drive was nice. It was a beautiful clear day in northern Minnesota and I quickly found myself lost in the view. Occasionally a question would pop into my mind, like “Is any place in northern Minnesota that is an on/off sale liquor store fit to have a sign posted claiming that they are a ‘fine foods’ distributor?”
Soon I passed into a postage stamp sized town called Talmoon. The predominant attraction of this town seeming to be, as denoted on a large sign off Highway 6, HAYSLIP’S CORNER. Per the sign, HAYSLIP’S CORNER was “The Oldest” bar in Minnesota. Also that it was infamous. More questions arose, mainly concerning their use of quotation marks around “The Oldest”. Was this theoretical? Was this a direct quote?
My contact’s directions soon took me past another breakfast location called THE PINECONE. The parking lot was empty and it looked quaint. Patio seating looked inviting, but I moved on (erroneously) to my predestined location.
Not far up the road from THE PINECONE came bad omens. There, painted in white lettering were two old tires hanging on metal posts. The first warning “STAY OUT” the second “NO TRESPASSING”. In literature, this kind of thing would be considered foreshadowing. In reality it was good advise for anyone asking directions or going door to door asking if you‘ve found Jesus. In this part of the state, it is just best to assume they have, and that they believe that if Jesus was strapped, Mel Gibson’s career might look very different today.
I had spent a large chunk of my life avoiding my own Heart of Darkness, I would not find my self subject to the kind of backwoods justice of a Ya-You-Betcha version of Colonel Kurtz. I pressed on, though more weary of the potential for stray shotgun fire.
The TIMBERWOLF INN is first and foremost a hotel. There just happens to be a dinning room in what doubles as the lobby. A strange fact I realized halfway into my first cup of coffee when someone stood up to pay for their breakfast and room at the same cash register. The total being added up by hand. The tax figured out on a calculator. How quaint.
The breakfast menu was limited. The normal fare of cheese, ham or farmer’s omelets were to be expected. As nothing stood out, I chose my go-to breakfast of two eggs, hash browns and toast (which cost a pleasant $4.95).
The few other customers seemed to be locals. Their conversations went from neighbors they disliked to local high school sport stars. I had expected xenophobia and mild racism, but instead got typical small town banter.
The cook came out to say hello to the other guests and knew them by name. The waitress/concierge was cheerful and happy to serve.
The meal itself was quite good. Two eggs over medium were done perfectly, a feet that I have seen messed up in some of the more highly touted breakfast locals in The Twin Cities. The hash browns were very flavorful and only slightly greasy. The flavors being what had been made for each diner previous to my arrival. The way that hash browns should be.
When eating, and writing about hash browns, I find that the noun least appropriate to good hash browns is purity.
Overall it was a good meal at a good price (less than $7 including bottomless coffee). But I needed more.
It wasn’t so much that I was physically hungry as much as I was mentally curious. Had I made a mistake in bypassing THE PINECONE? What was it that gave me pause on my initial quest?
It took no more than entering the small eatery that I had my answer. Everything from the increased natural lighting, to the décor (a small flat panel TV with cable. A nicety I had been without for over a week) to the substantially larger menu (which had my rural Minnesota ambrosia of Biscuits and Gravy) to the various coffee bean confections colorfully printed on a large overhead board behind the cash register.
So many wonderful questions came to mind. What is a “caramel steamer”? Is it as dirty as the Cleveland variety?
How good is the “pizza voted best in area”? What is this “area” they ambiguously refer to?
How long would the old man at the table let me lean over his shoulder, watching him eat his own Biscuits and Gravy (yes, it should be capitalized, I like it that much) before finally letting me take a bite?
Still being full from by very adequate breakfast at The Timberwolf, I resigned myself to something sweet. The ambivalent teenage girl behind the counter recommended the cinnamon rolls. They came in two sizes: normal and jumbo.
Now, I don’t know who the people are that can pass on the idea of getting a jumbo anything, but they are not the kind of people that I want to party with. This is northern Minnesota. If they want to give you more, take it and be kind about it. They know the 2nd Amendment by heart up here.
Getting back in my car, the smell of the warm roll (that completely filled the inside of my large to-go Styrofoam container) covered in melted frosting filling the questionable air within the confines of the car that wasn’t mine I got back on the road. My eyes set on new destinations.
Should I ever find myself back in Marcell, Minnesota, or anywhere within acceptable driving range, I will surely indulge at THE PINECONE again. My only hope is that the cinnamon roll will taste as good to the person whose car I took as it does to me.
Next article: Deep Fried Bliss...
My contact in that part of the state (the lady at the gas station I filled up at) recommended two places. The one that served a “lovely breakfast buffet” back in Deer River sounded like a good idea, but it didn’t start until 10:30am. As it was 9am, I was in no position to wait it out for another 90 minutes. My body verging on collapse of both mental and physical faculties I knew I needed to press on. Her second suggestion of THE TIMBERWOLF INN would have to do.
The drive was nice. It was a beautiful clear day in northern Minnesota and I quickly found myself lost in the view. Occasionally a question would pop into my mind, like “Is any place in northern Minnesota that is an on/off sale liquor store fit to have a sign posted claiming that they are a ‘fine foods’ distributor?”
Soon I passed into a postage stamp sized town called Talmoon. The predominant attraction of this town seeming to be, as denoted on a large sign off Highway 6, HAYSLIP’S CORNER. Per the sign, HAYSLIP’S CORNER was “The Oldest” bar in Minnesota. Also that it was infamous. More questions arose, mainly concerning their use of quotation marks around “The Oldest”. Was this theoretical? Was this a direct quote?
My contact’s directions soon took me past another breakfast location called THE PINECONE. The parking lot was empty and it looked quaint. Patio seating looked inviting, but I moved on (erroneously) to my predestined location.
Not far up the road from THE PINECONE came bad omens. There, painted in white lettering were two old tires hanging on metal posts. The first warning “STAY OUT” the second “NO TRESPASSING”. In literature, this kind of thing would be considered foreshadowing. In reality it was good advise for anyone asking directions or going door to door asking if you‘ve found Jesus. In this part of the state, it is just best to assume they have, and that they believe that if Jesus was strapped, Mel Gibson’s career might look very different today.
I had spent a large chunk of my life avoiding my own Heart of Darkness, I would not find my self subject to the kind of backwoods justice of a Ya-You-Betcha version of Colonel Kurtz. I pressed on, though more weary of the potential for stray shotgun fire.
The TIMBERWOLF INN is first and foremost a hotel. There just happens to be a dinning room in what doubles as the lobby. A strange fact I realized halfway into my first cup of coffee when someone stood up to pay for their breakfast and room at the same cash register. The total being added up by hand. The tax figured out on a calculator. How quaint.
The breakfast menu was limited. The normal fare of cheese, ham or farmer’s omelets were to be expected. As nothing stood out, I chose my go-to breakfast of two eggs, hash browns and toast (which cost a pleasant $4.95).
The few other customers seemed to be locals. Their conversations went from neighbors they disliked to local high school sport stars. I had expected xenophobia and mild racism, but instead got typical small town banter.
The cook came out to say hello to the other guests and knew them by name. The waitress/concierge was cheerful and happy to serve.
The meal itself was quite good. Two eggs over medium were done perfectly, a feet that I have seen messed up in some of the more highly touted breakfast locals in The Twin Cities. The hash browns were very flavorful and only slightly greasy. The flavors being what had been made for each diner previous to my arrival. The way that hash browns should be.
When eating, and writing about hash browns, I find that the noun least appropriate to good hash browns is purity.
Overall it was a good meal at a good price (less than $7 including bottomless coffee). But I needed more.
It wasn’t so much that I was physically hungry as much as I was mentally curious. Had I made a mistake in bypassing THE PINECONE? What was it that gave me pause on my initial quest?
It took no more than entering the small eatery that I had my answer. Everything from the increased natural lighting, to the décor (a small flat panel TV with cable. A nicety I had been without for over a week) to the substantially larger menu (which had my rural Minnesota ambrosia of Biscuits and Gravy) to the various coffee bean confections colorfully printed on a large overhead board behind the cash register.
So many wonderful questions came to mind. What is a “caramel steamer”? Is it as dirty as the Cleveland variety?
How good is the “pizza voted best in area”? What is this “area” they ambiguously refer to?
How long would the old man at the table let me lean over his shoulder, watching him eat his own Biscuits and Gravy (yes, it should be capitalized, I like it that much) before finally letting me take a bite?
Still being full from by very adequate breakfast at The Timberwolf, I resigned myself to something sweet. The ambivalent teenage girl behind the counter recommended the cinnamon rolls. They came in two sizes: normal and jumbo.
Now, I don’t know who the people are that can pass on the idea of getting a jumbo anything, but they are not the kind of people that I want to party with. This is northern Minnesota. If they want to give you more, take it and be kind about it. They know the 2nd Amendment by heart up here.
Getting back in my car, the smell of the warm roll (that completely filled the inside of my large to-go Styrofoam container) covered in melted frosting filling the questionable air within the confines of the car that wasn’t mine I got back on the road. My eyes set on new destinations.
Should I ever find myself back in Marcell, Minnesota, or anywhere within acceptable driving range, I will surely indulge at THE PINECONE again. My only hope is that the cinnamon roll will taste as good to the person whose car I took as it does to me.
Next article: Deep Fried Bliss...
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Market Pantry Pizza: Good Math; Proper Care
When selecting a frozen pizza from your local grocery store freezer section, instinct and experience will tell you that it is just a f***ing pizza, buy whatever the Hell you want. Well, as with the moment when you first donned a pair of Zubbas with a Hyper Color shirt, thinking that it was the peak of fashion, your instincts are wrong.
The average stupid person will assume that all frozen pizzas are made the same. Leave these people a wide berth. Easily irritated. Easily taunted. Found most frequently within the florescent world of Walmart. They tend to startle easily and will lash out when you least expect them. With luck you can get a quick cell phone pic of their mullet and post in online to the joy and mockery of others. Common sense should indicate that if you are in a grocery store and you see a person with a frozen pizza, they care little of their health, personal appearance or the state of their lower intestine.
These people will shop for a frozen pizza with a coupon, or look for sale prices. 10 for $10 or something of that sort. However, if the person indulging on this financial oasis is not a college student or possessing a license for their glaucoma medicine, they are dullards.
True frozen pizza aficionados can only be found at the Midwestern staple of food economy and capitalism: Target Superstore. A place made up of 1 part grocery and 3 parts crap I don't care about. Hidden, usually in the furthest corner of these wondrous monuments of progressive thinking is the frozen foods aisle. Looking much as any frozen foods aisle, it may not be easily discernible from the hundreds one has travel through before. But there, typically three to four doors down can be found the Target brand Market Pantry Pizza. A true feat of culinary structural engineering.
For a paltry $2.99 (this is for the full fat version, if you really want to waste 20 cents on the "whole wheat" version just to feel better about how fat your already are, go ahead, but don't expect me to hold your hand while you weep at the middle-of-the-night realization that the special claw that is sold specifically for assisting the morbidly obese to wipe their ass is now within your limited reach)... crap, lost my train of thought.
How does it taste? Again, you ask the wrong question. It would be wrong to judge a pizza of this type based on taste. It sets one apart as a layman, too near-sighted to see true genius. No, for this we will need some advanced mathematical calculations followed by the only true way to prepare and consume such beautiful... damn it, ran out of fancy sounding nouns. This is good sh*t.
The key when selecting a pizza, any pizza, is the weight to cost ratio. At the bottom of every frozen pizza is the weight, broken down in pounds, ounces and even grams (showing that Target truly understands their own international appeal). First, always look at cost. Anything over $5 isn't worth it. Rising crust? I hate you. Air filled pockets creating the illusion of increased substance. You sicken me in ways that only the heavily eye-shadowed antics of Cris Angel Mindf**k can.
For the purposes of this article we will specifically discussing the merits of the Market Pantry Pepperoni Pizza. Pepperoni being the topic of choice for several reasons. First, the difference between what could be considered good pepperoni versus bad pepperoni is small, if not nonexistent. Unlike other meats or vegetables, there is a good chance that all pepperoni is made at the same facility, that place most likely being the Twinkie's factory as I believe that along with Twinkies, cockroaches and Joan Rivers' face, pepperoni will survive nuclear war.
Second, because pepperoni is as American a pizza topping as you can get. Sure, you can argue cheese as its own topping and your argument has merit, but as cooking time and preparation chances for pizza sans pepperoni, this argument is moot. Sausage, or what is called sausage should not be discussed. Vegetables... you know what? If you get deluxe frozen pizzas, just stop reading. It does me a disservice. You have even few taste buds than I do and are even less interested in your expanding waist line. You sicken me.
Pepperoni is the ultimate equalizer in frozen pizzas. It all tastes the same so you know that even if the pizza itself is bad, you can look forward to the occasional mouthful of that wonderfully peppered mystery meat. It can multi-task in salads, sandwiches and Blood Marys. It can be used to make shapes like hearts on Valentines Day or a Pumpkin on Halloween. It can be used to make crude words that slide together once cooked and are illegible when cut. Of course, these tend to be the same people that find it romantic to propose on a Jumbo-Tron, so if the message "Cletus + Sally Mae" is lost forever, it won't be too great of a loss.
Here's the math (for which we will be using price, mass and volume to break it down, those with public school educations or a work shirt with your name embroidered on the breast pocket, breath deep, it will be okay):
We will be using for our base of comparison a DiGiorno Frozen Pizza as it seems to have become a staple for "decerning" frozen pizza eaters and people that love product commercials that bash you over the head.
Market Pantry (MP) has a volume of 47.49 square inches. Volume is equal to Pi (3.14159...) times the radius squared (5.5 x 5.5= 30.25) times height (.5 inches).
DiGiorno (D) has a volume of 94.985 (3.14159 x 30.25 x 1.0). All measurements were of the pizza I bought. If your figures come out different you can **** my ****.
So far, it seems like DiGiorno is the way to go for the hungry consumer. But wait, there's more.
The weight of MP is 21.6 ounces. That is .45 ounces per square inch.
The weight of D is 28.3 ounces. That is .298 ounces per square inch. Double the volume, but only 31% heavier. The plot thickens.
MP retails for $2.99
Digiorno for $5.99. Double the price. Double the volume without a directly correlated weight. What does it all mean? You are pay for air.
MP is the neutron star of frozen pizzas. Where it was once the Digiorno like supernova, now has collapsed under it's own mass to create a super dense substance that falls somewhere between Tungston and Polonium on the Periodic Table.
What does all this mean? How the f*** should I know? But it took me forever to write so you sure as hell were going to read it before getting to the important stuff.
To cook, PREHEAT THE OVEN! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to yell. However, I feel it is necessary for those of you that get mad that your crust is not crispy, yet still put your pizza in an unheated oven. Or, almost as bad, leave the pizza on the counter to thaw.
Cook, as directed, at 400 degrees for 15 minutes. Once time has elapsed, turn off the oven and hit the broiler. Time to fry the bastard. We want crispy, golden brown cheese like substance on the top. Crispy top and bottom. Like a pizza flavored potato chip we want this bad boy to have a little crunch.
Once cooking is complete, let rest momentarily on counter while preparing the rest of the materials you will need:
1. Salt- yup, Kosher if you got it. The sodium content on that back can't be right. There can't be that much salt on this pizza. Better to be safe, dust it like you are adding that fake snow crap to a Christmas tree.
2. Frank's Red Hot Sauce- that's right, I put this sh*t on everything, because the old lady on the commercial told me to and I respect my elders.
3. Cheap beer- I can't emphasize this one enough. If you buy beer that costs as much for a 6-pack of bottles as it does for a 24-pack of cans for the cheapest beer in the place, you paid too much to use on this food. High life, Grain Belt or something light. Don't waste the good stuff. If you insist on drinking Guinness then you will have to explain why you spent more money on one can of beer than you did on the entire pizza.
If you want wine with your frozen pizza, I hope you get stabbed in the face with a spork. Don't get me wrong, I don't wish for you to endure physical harm, hence my choice of weapon, I merely wish for you to suffer the indignity of having to live the rest of your life being "that person that got stabbed in the face with a spork".
3. A chef's knife- preferrably a good one, but if you got yours from Chef Tony at 3am like I did, that's okay too. This is in place of a pizza wheel. You will understand why soon enough.
4. A napkin or paper towel- yes, we are as the Cohen brothers pointed out a bunch of ya-you-betcha's, but that doesn't mean that we have to be smeared with sauce like heathens.
Now, allow the pizza to cool. Important for cutting. A hot pizza, when cut, acts like an ice rink with Minnesota Wild failure James Shepard on it. It just slides around and makes a mess of an otherwise good thing.
This is what happens regardless of cooling time with a Digiornio pizza. The cheese sliding into the cracks created by the cutting apparatus. Disappearing to a netherworld only populated by that one sock you lose every time you do the laundry. The resulting pizza surface resembling more the bottom of a marathon runner's foot than something appetizing.
Once cool, using the chef's knife, cut the pizza in half. Then, on each side of the first cut, make three more parrellel cuts. Turn the pizza 90 degrees and repeat. This will create an eight by eight piece grid to work from.
Without the chef's knife this process would be difficult if not impossible to perform without the inevitable creation of a pizza crust projectile from the tiny corner piece. It's destination unknown, it's mission nothing short of nefarious.
Liberally coat each individual piece with Frank's Red Hot Sauce. Allow little, if any cheese to show through.
Start eating, using your fork, from the inside, out. Eventually getting to the little nugget outer pieces. Use the small amount of crust as a handle and continue in a circle until complete.
If you drank less than two beers in the process, there wasn't enough hot sauce on the pizza. Start again with a new pizza.
What does any of this have to do with anything? Simple, it will add eccentricity and excitement to your otherwise boring life. It is against the status quo of pizza eating. People will judge you, but secretly envy your quest for perfection and adventure even in the face of something as trivial as frozen pizza.
Next Article: Where the f*** am I?
The average stupid person will assume that all frozen pizzas are made the same. Leave these people a wide berth. Easily irritated. Easily taunted. Found most frequently within the florescent world of Walmart. They tend to startle easily and will lash out when you least expect them. With luck you can get a quick cell phone pic of their mullet and post in online to the joy and mockery of others. Common sense should indicate that if you are in a grocery store and you see a person with a frozen pizza, they care little of their health, personal appearance or the state of their lower intestine.
These people will shop for a frozen pizza with a coupon, or look for sale prices. 10 for $10 or something of that sort. However, if the person indulging on this financial oasis is not a college student or possessing a license for their glaucoma medicine, they are dullards.
True frozen pizza aficionados can only be found at the Midwestern staple of food economy and capitalism: Target Superstore. A place made up of 1 part grocery and 3 parts crap I don't care about. Hidden, usually in the furthest corner of these wondrous monuments of progressive thinking is the frozen foods aisle. Looking much as any frozen foods aisle, it may not be easily discernible from the hundreds one has travel through before. But there, typically three to four doors down can be found the Target brand Market Pantry Pizza. A true feat of culinary structural engineering.
For a paltry $2.99 (this is for the full fat version, if you really want to waste 20 cents on the "whole wheat" version just to feel better about how fat your already are, go ahead, but don't expect me to hold your hand while you weep at the middle-of-the-night realization that the special claw that is sold specifically for assisting the morbidly obese to wipe their ass is now within your limited reach)... crap, lost my train of thought.
How does it taste? Again, you ask the wrong question. It would be wrong to judge a pizza of this type based on taste. It sets one apart as a layman, too near-sighted to see true genius. No, for this we will need some advanced mathematical calculations followed by the only true way to prepare and consume such beautiful... damn it, ran out of fancy sounding nouns. This is good sh*t.
The key when selecting a pizza, any pizza, is the weight to cost ratio. At the bottom of every frozen pizza is the weight, broken down in pounds, ounces and even grams (showing that Target truly understands their own international appeal). First, always look at cost. Anything over $5 isn't worth it. Rising crust? I hate you. Air filled pockets creating the illusion of increased substance. You sicken me in ways that only the heavily eye-shadowed antics of Cris Angel Mindf**k can.
For the purposes of this article we will specifically discussing the merits of the Market Pantry Pepperoni Pizza. Pepperoni being the topic of choice for several reasons. First, the difference between what could be considered good pepperoni versus bad pepperoni is small, if not nonexistent. Unlike other meats or vegetables, there is a good chance that all pepperoni is made at the same facility, that place most likely being the Twinkie's factory as I believe that along with Twinkies, cockroaches and Joan Rivers' face, pepperoni will survive nuclear war.
Second, because pepperoni is as American a pizza topping as you can get. Sure, you can argue cheese as its own topping and your argument has merit, but as cooking time and preparation chances for pizza sans pepperoni, this argument is moot. Sausage, or what is called sausage should not be discussed. Vegetables... you know what? If you get deluxe frozen pizzas, just stop reading. It does me a disservice. You have even few taste buds than I do and are even less interested in your expanding waist line. You sicken me.
Pepperoni is the ultimate equalizer in frozen pizzas. It all tastes the same so you know that even if the pizza itself is bad, you can look forward to the occasional mouthful of that wonderfully peppered mystery meat. It can multi-task in salads, sandwiches and Blood Marys. It can be used to make shapes like hearts on Valentines Day or a Pumpkin on Halloween. It can be used to make crude words that slide together once cooked and are illegible when cut. Of course, these tend to be the same people that find it romantic to propose on a Jumbo-Tron, so if the message "Cletus + Sally Mae" is lost forever, it won't be too great of a loss.
Here's the math (for which we will be using price, mass and volume to break it down, those with public school educations or a work shirt with your name embroidered on the breast pocket, breath deep, it will be okay):
We will be using for our base of comparison a DiGiorno Frozen Pizza as it seems to have become a staple for "decerning" frozen pizza eaters and people that love product commercials that bash you over the head.
Market Pantry (MP) has a volume of 47.49 square inches. Volume is equal to Pi (3.14159...) times the radius squared (5.5 x 5.5= 30.25) times height (.5 inches).
DiGiorno (D) has a volume of 94.985 (3.14159 x 30.25 x 1.0). All measurements were of the pizza I bought. If your figures come out different you can **** my ****.
So far, it seems like DiGiorno is the way to go for the hungry consumer. But wait, there's more.
The weight of MP is 21.6 ounces. That is .45 ounces per square inch.
The weight of D is 28.3 ounces. That is .298 ounces per square inch. Double the volume, but only 31% heavier. The plot thickens.
MP retails for $2.99
Digiorno for $5.99. Double the price. Double the volume without a directly correlated weight. What does it all mean? You are pay for air.
MP is the neutron star of frozen pizzas. Where it was once the Digiorno like supernova, now has collapsed under it's own mass to create a super dense substance that falls somewhere between Tungston and Polonium on the Periodic Table.
What does all this mean? How the f*** should I know? But it took me forever to write so you sure as hell were going to read it before getting to the important stuff.
To cook, PREHEAT THE OVEN! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to yell. However, I feel it is necessary for those of you that get mad that your crust is not crispy, yet still put your pizza in an unheated oven. Or, almost as bad, leave the pizza on the counter to thaw.
Cook, as directed, at 400 degrees for 15 minutes. Once time has elapsed, turn off the oven and hit the broiler. Time to fry the bastard. We want crispy, golden brown cheese like substance on the top. Crispy top and bottom. Like a pizza flavored potato chip we want this bad boy to have a little crunch.
Once cooking is complete, let rest momentarily on counter while preparing the rest of the materials you will need:
1. Salt- yup, Kosher if you got it. The sodium content on that back can't be right. There can't be that much salt on this pizza. Better to be safe, dust it like you are adding that fake snow crap to a Christmas tree.
2. Frank's Red Hot Sauce- that's right, I put this sh*t on everything, because the old lady on the commercial told me to and I respect my elders.
3. Cheap beer- I can't emphasize this one enough. If you buy beer that costs as much for a 6-pack of bottles as it does for a 24-pack of cans for the cheapest beer in the place, you paid too much to use on this food. High life, Grain Belt or something light. Don't waste the good stuff. If you insist on drinking Guinness then you will have to explain why you spent more money on one can of beer than you did on the entire pizza.
If you want wine with your frozen pizza, I hope you get stabbed in the face with a spork. Don't get me wrong, I don't wish for you to endure physical harm, hence my choice of weapon, I merely wish for you to suffer the indignity of having to live the rest of your life being "that person that got stabbed in the face with a spork".
3. A chef's knife- preferrably a good one, but if you got yours from Chef Tony at 3am like I did, that's okay too. This is in place of a pizza wheel. You will understand why soon enough.
4. A napkin or paper towel- yes, we are as the Cohen brothers pointed out a bunch of ya-you-betcha's, but that doesn't mean that we have to be smeared with sauce like heathens.
Now, allow the pizza to cool. Important for cutting. A hot pizza, when cut, acts like an ice rink with Minnesota Wild failure James Shepard on it. It just slides around and makes a mess of an otherwise good thing.
This is what happens regardless of cooling time with a Digiornio pizza. The cheese sliding into the cracks created by the cutting apparatus. Disappearing to a netherworld only populated by that one sock you lose every time you do the laundry. The resulting pizza surface resembling more the bottom of a marathon runner's foot than something appetizing.
Once cool, using the chef's knife, cut the pizza in half. Then, on each side of the first cut, make three more parrellel cuts. Turn the pizza 90 degrees and repeat. This will create an eight by eight piece grid to work from.
Without the chef's knife this process would be difficult if not impossible to perform without the inevitable creation of a pizza crust projectile from the tiny corner piece. It's destination unknown, it's mission nothing short of nefarious.
Liberally coat each individual piece with Frank's Red Hot Sauce. Allow little, if any cheese to show through.
Start eating, using your fork, from the inside, out. Eventually getting to the little nugget outer pieces. Use the small amount of crust as a handle and continue in a circle until complete.
If you drank less than two beers in the process, there wasn't enough hot sauce on the pizza. Start again with a new pizza.
What does any of this have to do with anything? Simple, it will add eccentricity and excitement to your otherwise boring life. It is against the status quo of pizza eating. People will judge you, but secretly envy your quest for perfection and adventure even in the face of something as trivial as frozen pizza.
Next Article: Where the f*** am I?
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Overloaded Senses, Glazed Pleasure
I awoke in St.Cloud, Minnesota to darkness. The darkness of my inner eyelids and the blackout blinds of the Homewood Suites (beds so comfortable you don't have to drink yourself to sleep, but you still can). This is a very special time for me. Those first few moments in the morning, unclear of what is happening and what has happened. The adventure of waiting to see what your senses will tell you about the mistakes you haven't lived long enough to regret yet. This is as close to white water rafting as I will ever come in the adventure department.
What will hit first? Strangely enough, this time it is touch. A rarity. More often than not it is taste that upsets me, or smell that unnerves me. Touch, particularly this touch, does not instill confidence. The touch being my tongue on the roof of my mouth. It felt furry, more so than usual. This morning it felt like somewhere between a marmot and a sea otter. Truly a fine pelt that would be admired in the animal kingdom. The kind of thing that ancient fur trappers would have stabbed each other over. However, inside my mouth, it was unwelcome.
More unfortunate is the realization that I am out of shaving cream, the last remnants being used by my friends to shave my eye brows and forearms the night before. Instead I will have to be satisfied with parting my tongue hair on the left until I can get my hands on some Nair.
Next was taste. The taste of smoke lingering like a relative that doesn't get the hint after Thanksgiving Dinner. The fact that I don't smoke is an afterthought. Distinct flavors of Cadmium, Arsenic and Ammonia were common enough on my palate (before bed I like to check the fire alarm batteries with my tongue, check to make sure the rat poison is fresh and that my glass cleaner has been properly diluted. To do anything less is to show contempt for firemen and fire safety. To spit on the graves of the millions that died in the Bubonic Plague. To forget all that Mr. Clean has done for this country). However, the Nicotine was unwelcomed. How had it gotten there?
There wasn't enough time to dwell on this as the smell hit me. The aroma of last night's meal wafts from the floor beside the bed.
Sight kicks in, much to my chagrin? What was I looking at? What had I eaten?
A small bit of pink plastic? Was that the skewer from last night's amuse bouche? Had I eaten it all? As I recall, it was a delightful way to start the meal. A fried gruyere cheese cube skewered and set over a shot glass filled with an orange herb vinaigrette dipping sauce. Simple and pleasant.
Something seared? Ah yes, seared rabbit with Parmesan profiteroles. No, that wasn't last night. I ate that weeks ago. It was wet-aged beef tenderloin with truffle oil and a side of frites. Delicious. A worthy Death Row meal.
Is that a jalapeno seed? It was jalapeno sorbet... when was that? What course? While I can't remember, I do remember laughing incessantly over what I had opted to call "Cold Spice". Now, in the acrid air of morning, or noon as it were, I can't for the life of me remember what was so funny about it.
It was a good night, for eating I mean. Delicious, unexpected nuances of flavor and presentation at a place that I have no interest in reviewing. It was all in the past. Besides, how many times do you need to read about some hunyuk from Minnesota getting an exclusive plating menu at a Michelin star winning chef? Right here, right now, I need sugar and fat. And I need it now.
There was a time that this was an easy request. In the glorious pre-Atkins era of carbohydrate overindulgence there were actually places that a person could drive-thru to get a twelves pack of light, tender mouthfuls of glazed mana from heaven. Now, thanks to the good science of Dr. Robert Atkins (the realization that the body needs carbohyrdates to create energy and in the absence of said energy source the body will convert fat into energy) and the overzealous nature of The Oprah, our nation has become terrified of something as basic and glorious as The Krispy Kreme Donut.
From the bakery cases in gas stations, Krispy Kreme soared to the pinnacles of consumerism, getting their own stores with take-out windows and nothing even resembling a low-fat menu, getting shout-outs in movies, being a choice snack for the decerning tastes of college Ultimate Frisbee teams the nation-wide.
Then, when people decided that their values had changed and that it was far more healthy to eat bacon six times a day than to have a single apple, the ambrosia was black listed. It is good to see where people are willing to draw the line when it comes to health.
Now, back to the bakery cases from whence they came. Near gone, but far from forgotten Krispy Kreme is not only a fond memory of hearty Midwestern folks, but it is an institution and the perfect example of American excess, I mean, The American Dream. The idea that a poor immigrant can come to this country with no linguistic skills and only a hearty work ethic, work for 70 years in abhorrent conditions and ungodly hours so that their children and their children's children can grow up to be morbidly obese... wait, that can't be right, but it sounds like what happened.
I've gone this entire article without swearing. F***!
What the hell was I talking about?
... oh yeah. I like Krispy Kreme Donuts. So I got up, put on my swimsuit as it is my only unsoiled pair of pants and went to the gas station. I ate two. They were really really really... good.
Next Up: Something about pizza, and this time I mean it
What will hit first? Strangely enough, this time it is touch. A rarity. More often than not it is taste that upsets me, or smell that unnerves me. Touch, particularly this touch, does not instill confidence. The touch being my tongue on the roof of my mouth. It felt furry, more so than usual. This morning it felt like somewhere between a marmot and a sea otter. Truly a fine pelt that would be admired in the animal kingdom. The kind of thing that ancient fur trappers would have stabbed each other over. However, inside my mouth, it was unwelcome.
More unfortunate is the realization that I am out of shaving cream, the last remnants being used by my friends to shave my eye brows and forearms the night before. Instead I will have to be satisfied with parting my tongue hair on the left until I can get my hands on some Nair.
Next was taste. The taste of smoke lingering like a relative that doesn't get the hint after Thanksgiving Dinner. The fact that I don't smoke is an afterthought. Distinct flavors of Cadmium, Arsenic and Ammonia were common enough on my palate (before bed I like to check the fire alarm batteries with my tongue, check to make sure the rat poison is fresh and that my glass cleaner has been properly diluted. To do anything less is to show contempt for firemen and fire safety. To spit on the graves of the millions that died in the Bubonic Plague. To forget all that Mr. Clean has done for this country). However, the Nicotine was unwelcomed. How had it gotten there?
There wasn't enough time to dwell on this as the smell hit me. The aroma of last night's meal wafts from the floor beside the bed.
Sight kicks in, much to my chagrin? What was I looking at? What had I eaten?
A small bit of pink plastic? Was that the skewer from last night's amuse bouche? Had I eaten it all? As I recall, it was a delightful way to start the meal. A fried gruyere cheese cube skewered and set over a shot glass filled with an orange herb vinaigrette dipping sauce. Simple and pleasant.
Something seared? Ah yes, seared rabbit with Parmesan profiteroles. No, that wasn't last night. I ate that weeks ago. It was wet-aged beef tenderloin with truffle oil and a side of frites. Delicious. A worthy Death Row meal.
Is that a jalapeno seed? It was jalapeno sorbet... when was that? What course? While I can't remember, I do remember laughing incessantly over what I had opted to call "Cold Spice". Now, in the acrid air of morning, or noon as it were, I can't for the life of me remember what was so funny about it.
It was a good night, for eating I mean. Delicious, unexpected nuances of flavor and presentation at a place that I have no interest in reviewing. It was all in the past. Besides, how many times do you need to read about some hunyuk from Minnesota getting an exclusive plating menu at a Michelin star winning chef? Right here, right now, I need sugar and fat. And I need it now.
There was a time that this was an easy request. In the glorious pre-Atkins era of carbohydrate overindulgence there were actually places that a person could drive-thru to get a twelves pack of light, tender mouthfuls of glazed mana from heaven. Now, thanks to the good science of Dr. Robert Atkins (the realization that the body needs carbohyrdates to create energy and in the absence of said energy source the body will convert fat into energy) and the overzealous nature of The Oprah, our nation has become terrified of something as basic and glorious as The Krispy Kreme Donut.
From the bakery cases in gas stations, Krispy Kreme soared to the pinnacles of consumerism, getting their own stores with take-out windows and nothing even resembling a low-fat menu, getting shout-outs in movies, being a choice snack for the decerning tastes of college Ultimate Frisbee teams the nation-wide.
Then, when people decided that their values had changed and that it was far more healthy to eat bacon six times a day than to have a single apple, the ambrosia was black listed. It is good to see where people are willing to draw the line when it comes to health.
Now, back to the bakery cases from whence they came. Near gone, but far from forgotten Krispy Kreme is not only a fond memory of hearty Midwestern folks, but it is an institution and the perfect example of American excess, I mean, The American Dream. The idea that a poor immigrant can come to this country with no linguistic skills and only a hearty work ethic, work for 70 years in abhorrent conditions and ungodly hours so that their children and their children's children can grow up to be morbidly obese... wait, that can't be right, but it sounds like what happened.
I've gone this entire article without swearing. F***!
What the hell was I talking about?
... oh yeah. I like Krispy Kreme Donuts. So I got up, put on my swimsuit as it is my only unsoiled pair of pants and went to the gas station. I ate two. They were really really really... good.
Next Up: Something about pizza, and this time I mean it
Thursday, August 12, 2010
First Blog... it's all about first impressions
I am an American. And being and American I am inherently possessed of the dangerous combination of too much time to think and too little information in which to formulate an educated opinion. Making it worse, I’m male. So when I take the time to write down the random madness that springs to mind, it is right. It doesn’t matter what you say. However, there is a big difference in forcing friends and family to endure never ending diatribes about whatever might have annoyed me that day and actually making an effort to reach out into the electronic void to say something. That something might actually be read by someone. And that someone will no doubt swaddle themselves in the security blanket of internet anonymity in which to lash out at my debatable religious viewpoints, scarce political feelings and ambiguous sexual proclivities.
So… I’m an American guy with nothing to say and too much time to say it. Let’s talk about ketchup.
KETCHUP
How does one define the red, viscous fluid used en masse by hoards of American eaters in order to cover up the debatable taste and questionable content of their average meal? How do you describe ketchup to a Brit that knows only of mayo, bread sauce or vinegar. Or to a Canadian that prefers the strange brown brew referred to loosely as gravy? An Asian beyond content with fish and soy sauce? Or someone, somewhere that is desperately hoping that I save the five cents it costs to get the brand name Ketchup instead of the un-American Catsup and send it to them so that the proceeds may buy them a school?
In a word: love.
Ketchup is to Americans as the internet is to pox-marked, racist virgins the world over: a security blanket. It is the go-to staple in cupboards, refrigerators and restaurant tables from Tampa to Portland (either of them). It is there to remind us that if the food that we ordered tastes worse than we expect and we are too cowardice to send it back, that we can bath the graying hamburger-like meat or equestrian filled hot dog in enough ketchup so as to imagine we were eating something worth the $9.99 we overpaid for bad service and warm beer.
But what about the “Foodie” crowd? The people that actually expect to go to a restaurant and have a pleasant experience while arguing over if it is star anise or freshly ground coriander that is tickling their taste buds (for all I know they both taste the same). To these people I ask, why are you reading this? Don’t you have someone that you should be looking down your nose at right now?
Any true American, be you white collar or blue collar, must somewhere deep in your heart subscribe to that darkest of admissions that you are actually a ketchup loving “red collar”. If for no other reason that it is our heritage. It is part of our collective youth. Be you rich or poor, every child has experienced that moment of wonderment, looking at the red carton with the magical golden arch on the front, it’s cup runneth over with oil drenched, salt encrusted morsels of potato heaven. The desire to get the “Happy Meal” if for no other reason than the poorly constructed toy that someone, somewhere would choke on and the slivers of delicious Idahoan brilliance. So simple. So wonderful.
Take a basic starch seen across the world. Shred it. Throw it in oil until brown. Dose in salt. Serve. Bon apatite. Too hot? What could possible serve to counter-balance the scorching oil? Perhaps a small, individually wrapped packet of America’s proof that we can improve on God’s design? One packet was never enough. Give me 10. Give me 20! Give me some from the purse of the blue hair that just shoved 50 in her purse just so that they could sit in the butter drawer of her refrigerator for the next decade. And should the day come that woman died and her heirs went through her house, dividing up her estate. Greedily wolfing down fast foot as they argue over who has to take her ashes and who gets to take her prescription meds, that ketchup will be there, as good as the day it was oozed, the perfect mask for the culinary mistake you have sitting in your cardboard-thus-good-for-the-planet container.
Sweet and tangy. Warm and nostalgic. A throwback to simpler times when men were men and women were hairier. To a time when it was served after 30 minutes of shaking that damn glass bottle until it looked like the smallest dab would finally fall out just to watch as the entire bottle emptied onto your plate, the table and your lap. A blessed time.
A time when servers gave you a bottle of red gold instead of a little metal dish that isn’t enough to dip one fry in let along coat a burger with enough left over to also dunk in any bare part of bun. Seriously? Are restaurant owners that concerned about loss of revenue over ketchup? Or that the bottle looks tacky so that they should class the place up with it’s own serving bowl? If you serve food that needs to be masked in ketchup, presentation is the least of your worries. Give me a God damn bucket and stop asking me if I want dessert!
You actually got to the end? Thanks Mom. I appreciate the effort. I know that some day, maybe days, maybe months, maybe years, I will live to regret the 20 minutes I just spent wasting your time.
Next Blog: The Structural Pros and Cons of Market Pantry Pizza
So… I’m an American guy with nothing to say and too much time to say it. Let’s talk about ketchup.
KETCHUP
How does one define the red, viscous fluid used en masse by hoards of American eaters in order to cover up the debatable taste and questionable content of their average meal? How do you describe ketchup to a Brit that knows only of mayo, bread sauce or vinegar. Or to a Canadian that prefers the strange brown brew referred to loosely as gravy? An Asian beyond content with fish and soy sauce? Or someone, somewhere that is desperately hoping that I save the five cents it costs to get the brand name Ketchup instead of the un-American Catsup and send it to them so that the proceeds may buy them a school?
In a word: love.
Ketchup is to Americans as the internet is to pox-marked, racist virgins the world over: a security blanket. It is the go-to staple in cupboards, refrigerators and restaurant tables from Tampa to Portland (either of them). It is there to remind us that if the food that we ordered tastes worse than we expect and we are too cowardice to send it back, that we can bath the graying hamburger-like meat or equestrian filled hot dog in enough ketchup so as to imagine we were eating something worth the $9.99 we overpaid for bad service and warm beer.
But what about the “Foodie” crowd? The people that actually expect to go to a restaurant and have a pleasant experience while arguing over if it is star anise or freshly ground coriander that is tickling their taste buds (for all I know they both taste the same). To these people I ask, why are you reading this? Don’t you have someone that you should be looking down your nose at right now?
Any true American, be you white collar or blue collar, must somewhere deep in your heart subscribe to that darkest of admissions that you are actually a ketchup loving “red collar”. If for no other reason that it is our heritage. It is part of our collective youth. Be you rich or poor, every child has experienced that moment of wonderment, looking at the red carton with the magical golden arch on the front, it’s cup runneth over with oil drenched, salt encrusted morsels of potato heaven. The desire to get the “Happy Meal” if for no other reason than the poorly constructed toy that someone, somewhere would choke on and the slivers of delicious Idahoan brilliance. So simple. So wonderful.
Take a basic starch seen across the world. Shred it. Throw it in oil until brown. Dose in salt. Serve. Bon apatite. Too hot? What could possible serve to counter-balance the scorching oil? Perhaps a small, individually wrapped packet of America’s proof that we can improve on God’s design? One packet was never enough. Give me 10. Give me 20! Give me some from the purse of the blue hair that just shoved 50 in her purse just so that they could sit in the butter drawer of her refrigerator for the next decade. And should the day come that woman died and her heirs went through her house, dividing up her estate. Greedily wolfing down fast foot as they argue over who has to take her ashes and who gets to take her prescription meds, that ketchup will be there, as good as the day it was oozed, the perfect mask for the culinary mistake you have sitting in your cardboard-thus-good-for-the-planet container.
Sweet and tangy. Warm and nostalgic. A throwback to simpler times when men were men and women were hairier. To a time when it was served after 30 minutes of shaking that damn glass bottle until it looked like the smallest dab would finally fall out just to watch as the entire bottle emptied onto your plate, the table and your lap. A blessed time.
A time when servers gave you a bottle of red gold instead of a little metal dish that isn’t enough to dip one fry in let along coat a burger with enough left over to also dunk in any bare part of bun. Seriously? Are restaurant owners that concerned about loss of revenue over ketchup? Or that the bottle looks tacky so that they should class the place up with it’s own serving bowl? If you serve food that needs to be masked in ketchup, presentation is the least of your worries. Give me a God damn bucket and stop asking me if I want dessert!
You actually got to the end? Thanks Mom. I appreciate the effort. I know that some day, maybe days, maybe months, maybe years, I will live to regret the 20 minutes I just spent wasting your time.
Next Blog: The Structural Pros and Cons of Market Pantry Pizza
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