I love baseball. The sport is slow but success is not measured in brief flashes so much as in consistently good play. Participants are always trying to get in the zone or on a hot streak. Whether the goal is to steal bases without being thrown out; maintain a batting streak; or simply show up, suit up, and do your job without complaint; some of the greatest individual achievements in baseball are characterized by repeating the same simple task again and again without fail. I was on a hot streak once. Sure I was never much of a factor in athletics, but in the kitchen I was in the zone. In fact, it took a year and a half of cooking before I faced the wing-clipping force of reality: I flopped my first meal.
I don’t mean to suggest that I was firing out platter after platter of Michelin star food night after night without fail. My sensibilities were rustic and inspired by my dad’s kitchen. The techniques had been drilled in me since a very young age and while I wanted to fashion myself a pioneer, I stuck largely to my roots. The result was not always perfectly executed, but it was at the very least palatable. I kept this streak alive despite changing countries and kitchens and having to mix and match ingredients. I started to feel like I could take on any task in the kitchen and produce with ease.
But when I flopped, it was a strike out on the scale of “Casey at the Bat.” My culinary hubris had led me to believe that I could tackle a dish I had rarely even tasted and certainly never seen prepared in person, a risotto. Risotto is a beautiful dish because it requires patience, skill, and persistence and rewards hard work with a transfiguratively creamy and flavorful dish that is so much greater than the sum of its parts.
But this dish is no simple rustic fare. Making risotto is about coaxing dry roasted rice kernels from their lifeless and exhausted state. With each ladle of stock, you provide a little more sustenance to the grains but you cannot indulge the thirsty outcries of the simmering pot. Like when making fine wine, you must force the kernels to struggle getting just enough water to keep from drying out altogether but not enough to let them drink freely. A good maker of risotto is a cruel chef indeed.
I started off by following the recipe of a chef I was familiar with and who would have met my Dad’s approval. Being a novice at recipe reading, I scanned the ingredient list to make sure that I was stocked and then proceeded to tell myself that I basically knew what to do. I scattered my rice in the bottom of a pan to toast some and went about organizing my other items. Moments later, as the rice began to issue forth a hitherto unknown burnt odor; I felt an overwhelming wave of fear that this dish was not going to taste good. I could imagine the velvety texture of risotto rolling around my tongue and with that in mind I determined that I would make this work. So I began to ladle in a bit of stock for my rice to dine on. I stirred vigorously hoping to integrate the stock and rice as quickly as possible. What remained at the bottom of the pan was a slurry of rice kernels, and a glutinous off-white roux like substance that was the stock mixed with the starches from the grain. Already unappetizing and somewhat thick, I determined to add more liquid to the risotto and to keep on stirring. I repeated this process almost a dozen more times. At each stage, the risotto grew to look less and less like something a person would eat and more like cement from a construction sight. Furthermore, the risotto preparation became an athletic event in and of itself. I stirred violently early on but as the slurry thickened stirring became a more and more difficult prospect until my arm simply gave out on the strain of trying to stir super glue around a pot. My girlfriend, apprehensive spectator but fervent cheerleader from the stands made a disgusted face when she saw my handiwork. She had been so committed to this project, offering support, and like any good fan, sometimes questioning my decision making from afar, that she had become invested in this project. Her look of dejection met mine, and the whole kitchen arena was quiet.
I believe my greatest problem was that I was afraid of under-nourishing the little rice kernel. While it had no mouth, it spoke in the dry crackling at the bottom of the pot when there was no water and in the satisfying gurgles it made when I plied it with stock. The sound of the kernels quietly sipping up the stock in the bottom of the pot became a sound of relief for me. I told myself that I was treating my ingredients well and that they would reward me in turn. Unfortunately, risotto, like a child, sometimes needs to experience tough love. I was not ready at that time in my development as a cook to strike the balance between love and restraint that makes risotto succeed. And so I met my first failure in the kitchen. A gloopy, stiff, concrete that had more business holding together stones on the Great Wall of China than being served as food in my kitchen. It took almost as long to scrape it out of the pot as I had spent making it.
You can’t always hit a home run. Sometimes you swing and you miss and just like for Casey, it is when you are trying your hardest to impress. But good athletes not only know how to preserve hot streaks, they know how to shake off a bad stretch. And so I have since started the streak over. 100 days on the job since the last food related accident. And after a few more years of seasoning in the minor leagues of cooking, maybe I will be ready again to step up to the plate and knock risotto out of the park, or at least get a hit.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Review of P&G Breakfast and Lunch
The only early mornings I know of in New Orleans are the ones where you have lost your way home in search of a late night meal and spend the first few hours of golden dawn stumbling between the trash strewn streets and trying to sort through that cacophony of sensations of sight and sound that produce a cocktail more punishing than anything served at the cheap daiquiri bars that long ago closed their doors to you. If you find your way back to your hotel and into a bed, a feat which escapes many of New Orleans weekeneder homeless crowd, you should not sleep too long or you may miss a special opportunity. At the corner of Union and Barrone Street in New Orleans hides P&G Breakfast and lunch, a restaurant that delivers on nothing more or less than what its name promises. But as the name implies, P&G keeps tight hours and closes at the obscenely early hour of one in the afternoon.
I made it in bed the night before, but the Mardi-Gras music blaring trombone in my head shows that I had pushed the limits of my personal consumption the night before. Despite many years of life lessons with alcohol, the prospect of tasting drinks more colored than flavored with fruit and with that subtle taste of paint thinner was too much to resist. I awoke in a cold sweat cursing my failure to properly seal the blackout curtains. The sun sliced through my window, cutting a narrow ray of sunlight right across my face. I stood up, celebrated this minor accomplishment, and used my remaining energy to fly to the bathroom. Now made thoroughly aware by the burning in my stomach and pounding in my skull I saw no alternative but to take to the streets in search of a remedy.
There is something gray and unappealing about the daytime in New Orleans. Seen through alcohol fogged lenses, the office buildings and apartments down Union Street become grey monolithic relics of soviet construction that should have never been built. We did win that war right? The empty looking buildings down this street tell a revisionist history. Nevertheless, the artifacts were great shelter against the burning sun that lurked down each side street. It alone cut through the numbness and reminded me of the wanting in heart, head, and stomach. A block before Barrone Street I sighted a nondescript black sidewalk sign for breakfast and lunch. The only prospect that could lift my soul higher than having breakfast or lunch was the logical possibility of breakfast and lunch at the same time. I picked up my pace towards what promised to be a boringly understated meal in an understated part of town. In a city known for big lights, big drinks, and big music, P&G almost disappeared into the façade of another drab office building. My stomach celebrated by reminding me of the previous night’s escapades. Nevertheless, I needed food now and my palate had been dulled by all of the punishment I laid against my taste buds the night before. I got to the end of the block and sized up P&G restaurant.
As I reached up to grab the old wooden door that marked the threshold between a maddeningly hot February in New Orleans and the inviting prospect of a breakfast and a lunch, I took a glance inside the restaurant. I immediately discovered long sterile steel trays lined against the side of the counter. My stomach rose again to meet me at the prospect of eating cafeteria food. I am known for being a food snob for many reasons, but consider my greatest personal act of snobbery to be the rejection of all things made a la cafeteria. The thought of eating that style of food takes me to a dark place I dwell on rarely, (http://willeatyourwords.blogspot.com/2010/02/review-of-maggies-diner.html) but paired with the depressing qualities of alcohol, a failed dining experience here could have been dangerous to my health in more ways than one. But the line appeared empty so I anticipated that I had avoided that part of the P&G experience. As I walked into the restaurant, I also noticed that it was devoid of customers or workers as well. I pressed onward, hoping that someone was available to cure what ails me.
I want to describe the shape of P&G as that of a long, ugly hallway but such a description does not do justice to the unusual design of the restaurant. The restaurant opens out onto a hallway with drab green walls (picked to match the Soviet exteriors no doubt) old chandeliers suspended above on unnecessary vaulted ceilings. Considering the size of the seating area it is troubling that at this time of day, no one was dining at P&G. The lack of patrons and huge dining space made me feel as though P&G received this office as a hand me down. It didn’t fit really well, but the needs of the family required that she wear it as best as she can. The menu, or what remains of it, was tacked so as to be visible from the door. In broken tiles I could make out a few fried Cajun classics. But my stomach had regained some of its pride and clamored for a meal more interesting than the typical New Orleans fare. As we reached the end of the hallway and came to the empty counter, I feared the worst for my cure.
In a bustle of activity, a round and gentle looking woman came through the kitchen door to greet me. She carried a look of grandmotherly experience, despite her middle age. The great food of my youth was prepared by a father and mother who looked the part of Europeans much better than that of down home American diners. But this woman, ironically a Spanish speaking native, carried the weight of experience in enjoying good food. I smiled at her and asked for a menu to translate the word puzzle excuse for a menu on the big board. She took me by surprise and told me to just ask for something and the kitchen staff will cook it up for me. Never one to disagree with the decisions of the chef, I was flummoxed by the idea of deciding the very building blocks of my own meal. Knowing that my stomach was close to rebellion if its demands were not met, I quickly settled on a cheese omelet with shrimp and bacon. To my surprise, the women acquiesced and pointed out that it was a favorite of the chef, even neither it or any omelet appeared on the menu. I took a seat at a cheap linoleum table and waited for my food to come out.
I respectfully decline to put the full force of review behind any food consumed while under the influence of alcohol. I have eaten many things I am ashamed of after bouts of drinking and have found nourishment in the oddest things while on a late night or early morning binge. But I am inclined to believe that this omelet was good in spite of my intoxication. From end-to-oblong-plate-end this large (probably 5 egg) omelet was perfectly browned on the outside yet creamy and gooey on the inside. The salty bacon permeated the whole dish and paired brilliantly with the sweet and delicate shrimp. I looked up from stuffing myself long enough to the see the chef peering out from behind the kitchen door to check on my approval. I threw him a weak thumbs-up and felt his smile glowing from across the hall.
Here, in a lifeless part of town, I had found the sustenance that could raise my spirits and right me enough to make some of the same mistakes again that evening that dogged me on this day. Because in many ways New Orleans doesn’t let you choose your fate. The lights, sounds, and siren song drive you on a beat that you can’t change. The different music blaring out of the bars melt into one song on the French Quarter that compels you to keep pushing the limits. P&G was quiet and empty on that Saturday morning. Perhaps that is because though P&G is patently New Orleans with its overly ornate style and odd pairings, this restaurant asks you to make the choices- a concept too often lacking in the heralded New Orleans.
I made it in bed the night before, but the Mardi-Gras music blaring trombone in my head shows that I had pushed the limits of my personal consumption the night before. Despite many years of life lessons with alcohol, the prospect of tasting drinks more colored than flavored with fruit and with that subtle taste of paint thinner was too much to resist. I awoke in a cold sweat cursing my failure to properly seal the blackout curtains. The sun sliced through my window, cutting a narrow ray of sunlight right across my face. I stood up, celebrated this minor accomplishment, and used my remaining energy to fly to the bathroom. Now made thoroughly aware by the burning in my stomach and pounding in my skull I saw no alternative but to take to the streets in search of a remedy.
There is something gray and unappealing about the daytime in New Orleans. Seen through alcohol fogged lenses, the office buildings and apartments down Union Street become grey monolithic relics of soviet construction that should have never been built. We did win that war right? The empty looking buildings down this street tell a revisionist history. Nevertheless, the artifacts were great shelter against the burning sun that lurked down each side street. It alone cut through the numbness and reminded me of the wanting in heart, head, and stomach. A block before Barrone Street I sighted a nondescript black sidewalk sign for breakfast and lunch. The only prospect that could lift my soul higher than having breakfast or lunch was the logical possibility of breakfast and lunch at the same time. I picked up my pace towards what promised to be a boringly understated meal in an understated part of town. In a city known for big lights, big drinks, and big music, P&G almost disappeared into the façade of another drab office building. My stomach celebrated by reminding me of the previous night’s escapades. Nevertheless, I needed food now and my palate had been dulled by all of the punishment I laid against my taste buds the night before. I got to the end of the block and sized up P&G restaurant.
As I reached up to grab the old wooden door that marked the threshold between a maddeningly hot February in New Orleans and the inviting prospect of a breakfast and a lunch, I took a glance inside the restaurant. I immediately discovered long sterile steel trays lined against the side of the counter. My stomach rose again to meet me at the prospect of eating cafeteria food. I am known for being a food snob for many reasons, but consider my greatest personal act of snobbery to be the rejection of all things made a la cafeteria. The thought of eating that style of food takes me to a dark place I dwell on rarely, (http://willeatyourwords.blogspot.com/2010/02/review-of-maggies-diner.html) but paired with the depressing qualities of alcohol, a failed dining experience here could have been dangerous to my health in more ways than one. But the line appeared empty so I anticipated that I had avoided that part of the P&G experience. As I walked into the restaurant, I also noticed that it was devoid of customers or workers as well. I pressed onward, hoping that someone was available to cure what ails me.
I want to describe the shape of P&G as that of a long, ugly hallway but such a description does not do justice to the unusual design of the restaurant. The restaurant opens out onto a hallway with drab green walls (picked to match the Soviet exteriors no doubt) old chandeliers suspended above on unnecessary vaulted ceilings. Considering the size of the seating area it is troubling that at this time of day, no one was dining at P&G. The lack of patrons and huge dining space made me feel as though P&G received this office as a hand me down. It didn’t fit really well, but the needs of the family required that she wear it as best as she can. The menu, or what remains of it, was tacked so as to be visible from the door. In broken tiles I could make out a few fried Cajun classics. But my stomach had regained some of its pride and clamored for a meal more interesting than the typical New Orleans fare. As we reached the end of the hallway and came to the empty counter, I feared the worst for my cure.
In a bustle of activity, a round and gentle looking woman came through the kitchen door to greet me. She carried a look of grandmotherly experience, despite her middle age. The great food of my youth was prepared by a father and mother who looked the part of Europeans much better than that of down home American diners. But this woman, ironically a Spanish speaking native, carried the weight of experience in enjoying good food. I smiled at her and asked for a menu to translate the word puzzle excuse for a menu on the big board. She took me by surprise and told me to just ask for something and the kitchen staff will cook it up for me. Never one to disagree with the decisions of the chef, I was flummoxed by the idea of deciding the very building blocks of my own meal. Knowing that my stomach was close to rebellion if its demands were not met, I quickly settled on a cheese omelet with shrimp and bacon. To my surprise, the women acquiesced and pointed out that it was a favorite of the chef, even neither it or any omelet appeared on the menu. I took a seat at a cheap linoleum table and waited for my food to come out.
I respectfully decline to put the full force of review behind any food consumed while under the influence of alcohol. I have eaten many things I am ashamed of after bouts of drinking and have found nourishment in the oddest things while on a late night or early morning binge. But I am inclined to believe that this omelet was good in spite of my intoxication. From end-to-oblong-plate-end this large (probably 5 egg) omelet was perfectly browned on the outside yet creamy and gooey on the inside. The salty bacon permeated the whole dish and paired brilliantly with the sweet and delicate shrimp. I looked up from stuffing myself long enough to the see the chef peering out from behind the kitchen door to check on my approval. I threw him a weak thumbs-up and felt his smile glowing from across the hall.
Here, in a lifeless part of town, I had found the sustenance that could raise my spirits and right me enough to make some of the same mistakes again that evening that dogged me on this day. Because in many ways New Orleans doesn’t let you choose your fate. The lights, sounds, and siren song drive you on a beat that you can’t change. The different music blaring out of the bars melt into one song on the French Quarter that compels you to keep pushing the limits. P&G was quiet and empty on that Saturday morning. Perhaps that is because though P&G is patently New Orleans with its overly ornate style and odd pairings, this restaurant asks you to make the choices- a concept too often lacking in the heralded New Orleans.
A Food Fantasy: Aether by Procter and Gamble
Philosophers, physicists, and culinary adventurers have been seeking the secret “fifth element”: aether. Now, thanks to Procter and Gamble-makers of everything you didn’t know you needed, you can add that extra little bit of metaphysical zing to your favorite breakfast, lunch, or dinner treat with canned aether!
But why aether and why now?
While leading scientists are still skeptical of the existence of aether, an all-naturally occurring substance that according to Aristotle, an expert in the field, permeates all things, culinary technicians have been taking advantage of its airy consistency and light taste for years. Long prized by great chefs, aether was too expensive and too difficult to trap for use in home kitchens. But not anymore! Now, thanks to Procter and Gamble technical advances, you can incorporate aether into meals in your own home! The secret is in our new aether capturing cans. Pop the tops off of these soda-can like devices and you will feel a whoosh of delicate energized aether molecules shoot into your dish. Open up a can into your favorite marinade for a bit of ethereal zing, or pour it over a salad instead of dressing and watch as your kids line up for seconds and thirds of the leafy stuff. You can even drink aether straight from the can!
It is fair to say that we live in a health conscious world. With diabetes and other food-related health complications on the rise, people are looking for any means to “trim the fat” out of their diets. Here again aether shows its versatility and promise as the culinary panacea of the future. Aether has all the same tastes and qualities of normal air, but without any of the guilt! Aether has naturally zero calories, zero grams of fat, and zero nutritional values. Aether has the same light flavor and vapid consistency as air but also includes a small amount of ethereal goodness that no packaged or non-packaged air can match.
You might be asking yourself why you should purchase aether from the grocery store instead of using free air from around your own home. The fact is, loose air picks up pollutants and circulates them all throughout your house. By the time that air reaches your food it has picked up unpleasant bits from all over. While you can’t see these particles, and you may not even be able to taste them either, our world renowned team of Procter and Gamble scientists and philosophers insist that the similar particles in aether are purer and necessary in order to conduct light and concoct great flavor in the kitchen. With such a bevy of scientific research into the health benefits and culinary advantages to using aether over traditional air, it is easy to see why so many people all around the world are making the switch to using aether everywhere from restaurants to home kitchens.
We wish we could share with you the secret to the aether production and bottling process, but these are strictly guarded company secrets. What we can tell you is that starting just in time for the holiday season; you can have your own aether-laden holiday straight from the grocery store. Every element of the holiday feast can be improved by adding aether from Procter and Gamble. Rather than using a traditional turkey stuffing for your holiday meal, open a can of aether instead of a beer and lodge that into the bird before cooking. Rather than coming out of the oven drunk and disorderly, your bird will exit the oven wiser and prepared to debate and delight dinner table guests with it’s understanding of the mysteries of the universe. If only people could stop from eating it long enough! The great tasting benefits of aether extend beyond the bird at the center of the table. Using the drippings from the turkey mixed with another can of aether from the fridge, you can make luxurious and metaphysically thick gravy to accompany all of your favorite sides. Holiday baking can also be dramatically improved by adding aether to your pie crusts and fillings. Aether pie crusts have the same airiness in traditional pie crusts, but they are so light that they seem almost unreal. That “beyond this world” lightness can be captured in whip creams, meringues, and zabagliones as well. Anywhere you might traditionally use air in your cooking try substituting aether and you will be very impressed with the results.
We are so sure that you will be impressed with canned aether that we are willing to let you try it risk free in your own cooking. If you call the toll free number on this advertisement our friendly and helpful staff will mail you coupons to pick up a free can of aether at your nearest supermarket. If you are at all dissatisfied with your aether, we will buy you your regular air free of charge! With so much opportunity and so little risk, why not try aether for your next luncheon with the girls, or family dinner, or philosophical musing in your favorite armchair. Let the light consistency and taste-so-empty that it must be good for you, dazzle your palate and delight friends and family alike. The mysterious fifth element that flummoxed physicists and occupied the dreams of philosophers can now be yours in the kitchen. Bring home the flavor of the heavens, aether from Procter and Gamble.
Aether-Infused Whipped Cream
1 Pint whipping cream
1 Can of Aether by Procter and Gamble
1 Whole nutmeg
1 Teaspoon of vanilla extract
Pour cream into a large mixing bowl. In one motion, open the can of Aether by Procter and Gamble and pour it into the bowl while beating vigorously with a whisk. (Even though the can may appear to be empty, continue to pour its contents out while beating.) When the cream is thickening, add the vanilla extract and continue to beat in the aether. When the cream creates stiff peaks on the end of the whisk it is sufficiently beaten. Grate a small amount of nutmeg over the top of the cream and serve with your favorite pie with aether crust or over an aether fruit compote. The opportunities are endless with Aether by Procter and Gamble.
But why aether and why now?
While leading scientists are still skeptical of the existence of aether, an all-naturally occurring substance that according to Aristotle, an expert in the field, permeates all things, culinary technicians have been taking advantage of its airy consistency and light taste for years. Long prized by great chefs, aether was too expensive and too difficult to trap for use in home kitchens. But not anymore! Now, thanks to Procter and Gamble technical advances, you can incorporate aether into meals in your own home! The secret is in our new aether capturing cans. Pop the tops off of these soda-can like devices and you will feel a whoosh of delicate energized aether molecules shoot into your dish. Open up a can into your favorite marinade for a bit of ethereal zing, or pour it over a salad instead of dressing and watch as your kids line up for seconds and thirds of the leafy stuff. You can even drink aether straight from the can!
It is fair to say that we live in a health conscious world. With diabetes and other food-related health complications on the rise, people are looking for any means to “trim the fat” out of their diets. Here again aether shows its versatility and promise as the culinary panacea of the future. Aether has all the same tastes and qualities of normal air, but without any of the guilt! Aether has naturally zero calories, zero grams of fat, and zero nutritional values. Aether has the same light flavor and vapid consistency as air but also includes a small amount of ethereal goodness that no packaged or non-packaged air can match.
You might be asking yourself why you should purchase aether from the grocery store instead of using free air from around your own home. The fact is, loose air picks up pollutants and circulates them all throughout your house. By the time that air reaches your food it has picked up unpleasant bits from all over. While you can’t see these particles, and you may not even be able to taste them either, our world renowned team of Procter and Gamble scientists and philosophers insist that the similar particles in aether are purer and necessary in order to conduct light and concoct great flavor in the kitchen. With such a bevy of scientific research into the health benefits and culinary advantages to using aether over traditional air, it is easy to see why so many people all around the world are making the switch to using aether everywhere from restaurants to home kitchens.
We wish we could share with you the secret to the aether production and bottling process, but these are strictly guarded company secrets. What we can tell you is that starting just in time for the holiday season; you can have your own aether-laden holiday straight from the grocery store. Every element of the holiday feast can be improved by adding aether from Procter and Gamble. Rather than using a traditional turkey stuffing for your holiday meal, open a can of aether instead of a beer and lodge that into the bird before cooking. Rather than coming out of the oven drunk and disorderly, your bird will exit the oven wiser and prepared to debate and delight dinner table guests with it’s understanding of the mysteries of the universe. If only people could stop from eating it long enough! The great tasting benefits of aether extend beyond the bird at the center of the table. Using the drippings from the turkey mixed with another can of aether from the fridge, you can make luxurious and metaphysically thick gravy to accompany all of your favorite sides. Holiday baking can also be dramatically improved by adding aether to your pie crusts and fillings. Aether pie crusts have the same airiness in traditional pie crusts, but they are so light that they seem almost unreal. That “beyond this world” lightness can be captured in whip creams, meringues, and zabagliones as well. Anywhere you might traditionally use air in your cooking try substituting aether and you will be very impressed with the results.
We are so sure that you will be impressed with canned aether that we are willing to let you try it risk free in your own cooking. If you call the toll free number on this advertisement our friendly and helpful staff will mail you coupons to pick up a free can of aether at your nearest supermarket. If you are at all dissatisfied with your aether, we will buy you your regular air free of charge! With so much opportunity and so little risk, why not try aether for your next luncheon with the girls, or family dinner, or philosophical musing in your favorite armchair. Let the light consistency and taste-so-empty that it must be good for you, dazzle your palate and delight friends and family alike. The mysterious fifth element that flummoxed physicists and occupied the dreams of philosophers can now be yours in the kitchen. Bring home the flavor of the heavens, aether from Procter and Gamble.
Aether-Infused Whipped Cream
1 Pint whipping cream
1 Can of Aether by Procter and Gamble
1 Whole nutmeg
1 Teaspoon of vanilla extract
Pour cream into a large mixing bowl. In one motion, open the can of Aether by Procter and Gamble and pour it into the bowl while beating vigorously with a whisk. (Even though the can may appear to be empty, continue to pour its contents out while beating.) When the cream is thickening, add the vanilla extract and continue to beat in the aether. When the cream creates stiff peaks on the end of the whisk it is sufficiently beaten. Grate a small amount of nutmeg over the top of the cream and serve with your favorite pie with aether crust or over an aether fruit compote. The opportunities are endless with Aether by Procter and Gamble.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Review of The Oasis
The neon cactus sign suspended above the Oasis is in clear disrepair. You can imagine that in the past it used to glow hot, alien electric a force strong enough to draw all manner of passers by right off the road and through the unassuming door and into a world of beer, burgers, friends, and family. Despite the disrepair evident all around The Oasis restaurant on University Boulevard outside Tuscaloosa, the restaurant still has an undeniable appeal for the local population. At lunch time, it is customary to double park fellow diners in order to find a place between the vehicles and the car gurgling, rain-filled, car swallowing potholes in the gravel parking lot. The same degree of wear is obvious on the dining room tables which bear the indelible etchings of past customers. The whole scene exudes a slow, timeless, but calming pace that is the epitome of the charm and frustration of living in the South. If you are interested in having a fast burger and to get on your way, McDonald’s just up the street is your ticket. It is not that the food at The Oasis takes forever to come out to you. Quite the contrary, the service is sharp and the food comes out quickly (although the lone waitress provides only one set of eyes, hands, and ears to be sensitive to your wants and needs). While The Oasis promises a lot in terms of food, the best burger in this town…of Cottondale, it does not rush you or your order just to please the endlessly ticking clock that defines so many peoples’ lives. It is in this respect that The Oasis is rich, not just in its food, but in its overall experience. So often, even when we sit down to fancy meals, we work through our food quickly and miss the many other enjoyable parts of the dining experience. The scenery of The Oasis is not particularly interesting, but from the discolored and antiquated box television set in one corner, to the ubiquitous college town beer signs that hang on the walls, to the Mardi Gras memorabilia by the cash register, The Oasis is memorable because you feel free to talk, relax, and take time and savor the complete meal experience.
It isn’t as if the South invented the notion of taking your time with your food and savoring not only the tastes but also the company and ambiance of the meal. After satisfying his most basic needs, man searched for ways to increase his safety and his satisfaction. Dining together and taking time to enjoy eating was a way to satisfy both. But while so many Americans have continued to “evolve” into calculated, efficient drive-thru diners, who have shortened their eating experiences, small restaurants like The Oasis have unavoidably had to eschew that approach because they cannot afford to do business in that manner. This was obvious when, twenty minutes after entering the restaurant with twelve of my classmates, the waitress informed us that we should start ordering in groups because the grill could not hold all of our food at the same time. Imagine if McDonald’s had to sit customers down and make them wait because it did not have enough grill or fry space to match their demand. The fast food system is predicated on producing foods that are so simple and fast that such a scenario will never develop. The waitress wasn’t ashamed to inform us that some of us would have to wait longer for our food. Most of us were so wrapped up in conversations at the table that the exposed “shortcoming” of The Oasis fell on deaf ears.
While waiting for food at The Oasis, it is hard to resist the allure of the jukebox that juts out of the corner of the room, the neon elephant in the room, demanding that attention (and dollars) be offered to it. The jukebox is nostalgic not only because it hearkens back to a style of music and look that would fit in better next to Fonz in Happy Days than in your average 21st-century burger joint, but also because it requires a patience and cooperation that do not mesh with our individualistic, I’ll-just-listen-to-my-ipod thank you very much lifestyle. While cooperation at the jukebox seems to always be encouraged by the staff and locals, when a person picks a song you are bound to show a little RESPECT (just a little bit) and appreciate their choice of music. Fairness is maintained because everyone eventually gets a turn to pick a song and play DJ. While listening to some classic songs from bygone years, I couldn’t help but wonder if the customers at McDonald’s could ever agree on songs to listen to? Do they even play music in fast food restaurants for fear of irritating the customers?
The Oasis burger had the appropriate balance of grease, meat, and cheese that puts a dripping smile on your face when you bite into it. I paired my double cheeseburger with a side of onion rings. The rings had a dark, caramelized color to them that guaranteed that the inside would be well cooked. The fry dough was not bound to the onion but broke away with its own distinct textural crunch and did not dissolve in my hand. The meal, like many greasy but carefully prepared burgers, weighed heavily on my cholesterol but lightened my soul. It was a happy meal in the most appropriate sense of the word. Between conversations with my classmates and the locals who were enjoying their first bite (and drink, or two) of the afternoon, and the copious amounts of good fried food at our table, I could not wipe the dopy grin off of my face. For me, eating a good meal is about transcending the quality of the food in front of you. It is about sharing something greater than the sum of the parts with those around you. To that end, the Oasis delivers, and all for the price of a “happy meal” at one of those lifeless, sterilized burger places. The Oasis offers a lot and only asks one thing in return. Take a seat and don’t be in a rush, the grill might already be full, music might already be playing, but if you hang out for awhile, (and oh how the time flies) you will not be disappointed.
It isn’t as if the South invented the notion of taking your time with your food and savoring not only the tastes but also the company and ambiance of the meal. After satisfying his most basic needs, man searched for ways to increase his safety and his satisfaction. Dining together and taking time to enjoy eating was a way to satisfy both. But while so many Americans have continued to “evolve” into calculated, efficient drive-thru diners, who have shortened their eating experiences, small restaurants like The Oasis have unavoidably had to eschew that approach because they cannot afford to do business in that manner. This was obvious when, twenty minutes after entering the restaurant with twelve of my classmates, the waitress informed us that we should start ordering in groups because the grill could not hold all of our food at the same time. Imagine if McDonald’s had to sit customers down and make them wait because it did not have enough grill or fry space to match their demand. The fast food system is predicated on producing foods that are so simple and fast that such a scenario will never develop. The waitress wasn’t ashamed to inform us that some of us would have to wait longer for our food. Most of us were so wrapped up in conversations at the table that the exposed “shortcoming” of The Oasis fell on deaf ears.
While waiting for food at The Oasis, it is hard to resist the allure of the jukebox that juts out of the corner of the room, the neon elephant in the room, demanding that attention (and dollars) be offered to it. The jukebox is nostalgic not only because it hearkens back to a style of music and look that would fit in better next to Fonz in Happy Days than in your average 21st-century burger joint, but also because it requires a patience and cooperation that do not mesh with our individualistic, I’ll-just-listen-to-my-ipod thank you very much lifestyle. While cooperation at the jukebox seems to always be encouraged by the staff and locals, when a person picks a song you are bound to show a little RESPECT (just a little bit) and appreciate their choice of music. Fairness is maintained because everyone eventually gets a turn to pick a song and play DJ. While listening to some classic songs from bygone years, I couldn’t help but wonder if the customers at McDonald’s could ever agree on songs to listen to? Do they even play music in fast food restaurants for fear of irritating the customers?
The Oasis burger had the appropriate balance of grease, meat, and cheese that puts a dripping smile on your face when you bite into it. I paired my double cheeseburger with a side of onion rings. The rings had a dark, caramelized color to them that guaranteed that the inside would be well cooked. The fry dough was not bound to the onion but broke away with its own distinct textural crunch and did not dissolve in my hand. The meal, like many greasy but carefully prepared burgers, weighed heavily on my cholesterol but lightened my soul. It was a happy meal in the most appropriate sense of the word. Between conversations with my classmates and the locals who were enjoying their first bite (and drink, or two) of the afternoon, and the copious amounts of good fried food at our table, I could not wipe the dopy grin off of my face. For me, eating a good meal is about transcending the quality of the food in front of you. It is about sharing something greater than the sum of the parts with those around you. To that end, the Oasis delivers, and all for the price of a “happy meal” at one of those lifeless, sterilized burger places. The Oasis offers a lot and only asks one thing in return. Take a seat and don’t be in a rush, the grill might already be full, music might already be playing, but if you hang out for awhile, (and oh how the time flies) you will not be disappointed.
A Family Food Memory
I am not a strong proponent of the “eat the whole animal” movement. Call it conditioning or inclination, but when it comes to eating offal I find myself often at a loss of appetite. The textures and tastes of different internal organs are wholly unique and it is not those qualities of the food that suffocate my appetite. When cooked like any other meat and sauced and seasoned properly they can smell and taste like any other part of the meal. The issue is that internal organs (and other less traditional American bits), unlike sausages which are made from those parts and are delicious, never stop looking like guts. A testicle will always look like a testicle no matter how you truss it up. However, as my father demonstrated with the brussel sprout, collard green, and turnip, he had an incredible power to break down my entire lifetime of trained resistance to a type of food with one meal. He has a way of taking your preconceived notions about a meat, a vegetable, or a grain and transforming it into something that doesn’t just make you want to keep eating but makes you want to go tell your friends to eat it too. Despite his gifts, my father generally knew better than to serve me innards because he knew that I harbored my strongest reservations against them. And so, when I discovered a lumpy sack of grey matter on the kitchen table one evening last year, I was not altogether surprised, but thoroughly dismayed when my father informed me that the bag contained sweetbreads, and they would be on the dinner table tonight.
Sweetbread is an etymological mystery and a threat to the uninformed and offaly unwilling diner. The description is usually reserved for the pancreas of a veal calf thought it sometimes includes the pancreases of other animals. When the completed dish is served on the plate it looks nothing like a pancreas should. In both name and appearance the sweetbread is a culinary Houdini. But all of that kitchen sleight of hand belies an unpleasant reality: the sweetbread spends minutes in the pan cooking and likely even less time being eaten but spends hours in the kitchen being prepared and throughout looking unsurprisingly like…a pancreas. It was in this unfortunate state that I encountered the evening’s meal. It was my misfortune not only to be a diner at the table this evening but, because sweetbread preparation takes a long time and is labor intensive, also a party to the preparation of the meal.
My dad started by taking the sweetbreads out of their lumpy sack and placing them on the table. Their initial appearance was that of brains bound with the intestinal membranes used to make sausage. My dad tried to comfort me by informing me that the first step in sweetbread preparation, an all night soak in cold water had been taken care of for him. The grey, lifeless, blobs on the table next to me seemed no better for their bath. Perhaps because my father had read my mind, or because he was following through on some ancient recipe that his teacher had passed onto him in his youth, he informed me that the sweetbreads would be taking another dip, this time in boiling water for a few minutes. It was my wish that the little pancreases boil until they were inedible, but under my dad’s watchful eye we slid the slops into a pot and let them alone for a few minutes. We removed the sweetbreads from the hot water and iced them down to stop the cooking process. I was starting to think that sweetbreads was a single person operation and I was considering an escape to the living room with its heat belching fireplace, and mom watching bad courtroom TV shows with my siblings. The sweetbreads in front of me could turn your desires to anything else in an instant. Then my father finally brought me to task on the meal. I was charged with the responsibility of removing connective tissue from around the sweetbreads. That substance that looked like sausage casing all around the flesh had to be removed, by hand, and it was my responsibility to see to it. By now, the squishy brains had tightened up to the consistency of dried out bread dough. The flesh would give a little bit but no longer appeared as though it might at any moment deflate and ooze off of the table. I nevertheless touched the sweetbreads with incredible tenderness. I could not escape the feeling that if my brains were ever handled by aliens I would hope they would show the same respect and dignity that I was showing the veal pancreases in front of me. Removing the tissue is relatively easy because it is done by hand. You have to dig into the flesh slightly to tear away at the membrane but it tugs off in satisfying, complete pieces as you go. Once I completed my assignment, my dad and I looked down on my handiwork. After he fixed the places where I missed some of what he called “unpleasant parts” and what I thought could have referred to the whole pancreas, he explained the next step. We took the grey, doughy, lumps and laid them out on a pan. Then we laid a towel and a second identical pan overtop of the sweetbreads. On top of the press went a heavy pan. The plan was to compact the sweetbreads and flatten them out so that they can be cooked as medallions. Then my dad announced the best words I had heard all day: “you can go do other stuff now I don’t need your help anymore.”
Faster than on Christmas day, I raced into the living room to be with the rest of my family. I could now go to work compartmentalizing the things I had just seen, and the squishy objects I had just touched, away from the dish I was soon to eat. Every organ dish before had let me down, but I had never been so close to the preparation process either. I felt a strange tearing between my participation in making the sweetbread dish and my desire to avoid eating them. In what felt like a few minutes of contemplating, but was likely closer to an hour and a half, my dad called all of us into the kitchen to eat. The dish that was on the plate in front of me looked nothing like the pancreases I had first encountered a few hours ago. And not only did it look good but the family collectively agreed that it tasted good too. The sweetbreads had a velvety texture, like a pate. They were light but made crispy on the outside because my dad pan fried them. What had started out as lifeless gray lumps had been transformed into a rich and flavorful meal. I realized that cooking has an incredible power of transformation. Being in a family of cooks means learning to appreciate how raw, rough, and seemingly undesirable things can often transform into the most delicate and satisfying of dishes if you take the time to prepare them right.
Sweetbread is an etymological mystery and a threat to the uninformed and offaly unwilling diner. The description is usually reserved for the pancreas of a veal calf thought it sometimes includes the pancreases of other animals. When the completed dish is served on the plate it looks nothing like a pancreas should. In both name and appearance the sweetbread is a culinary Houdini. But all of that kitchen sleight of hand belies an unpleasant reality: the sweetbread spends minutes in the pan cooking and likely even less time being eaten but spends hours in the kitchen being prepared and throughout looking unsurprisingly like…a pancreas. It was in this unfortunate state that I encountered the evening’s meal. It was my misfortune not only to be a diner at the table this evening but, because sweetbread preparation takes a long time and is labor intensive, also a party to the preparation of the meal.
My dad started by taking the sweetbreads out of their lumpy sack and placing them on the table. Their initial appearance was that of brains bound with the intestinal membranes used to make sausage. My dad tried to comfort me by informing me that the first step in sweetbread preparation, an all night soak in cold water had been taken care of for him. The grey, lifeless, blobs on the table next to me seemed no better for their bath. Perhaps because my father had read my mind, or because he was following through on some ancient recipe that his teacher had passed onto him in his youth, he informed me that the sweetbreads would be taking another dip, this time in boiling water for a few minutes. It was my wish that the little pancreases boil until they were inedible, but under my dad’s watchful eye we slid the slops into a pot and let them alone for a few minutes. We removed the sweetbreads from the hot water and iced them down to stop the cooking process. I was starting to think that sweetbreads was a single person operation and I was considering an escape to the living room with its heat belching fireplace, and mom watching bad courtroom TV shows with my siblings. The sweetbreads in front of me could turn your desires to anything else in an instant. Then my father finally brought me to task on the meal. I was charged with the responsibility of removing connective tissue from around the sweetbreads. That substance that looked like sausage casing all around the flesh had to be removed, by hand, and it was my responsibility to see to it. By now, the squishy brains had tightened up to the consistency of dried out bread dough. The flesh would give a little bit but no longer appeared as though it might at any moment deflate and ooze off of the table. I nevertheless touched the sweetbreads with incredible tenderness. I could not escape the feeling that if my brains were ever handled by aliens I would hope they would show the same respect and dignity that I was showing the veal pancreases in front of me. Removing the tissue is relatively easy because it is done by hand. You have to dig into the flesh slightly to tear away at the membrane but it tugs off in satisfying, complete pieces as you go. Once I completed my assignment, my dad and I looked down on my handiwork. After he fixed the places where I missed some of what he called “unpleasant parts” and what I thought could have referred to the whole pancreas, he explained the next step. We took the grey, doughy, lumps and laid them out on a pan. Then we laid a towel and a second identical pan overtop of the sweetbreads. On top of the press went a heavy pan. The plan was to compact the sweetbreads and flatten them out so that they can be cooked as medallions. Then my dad announced the best words I had heard all day: “you can go do other stuff now I don’t need your help anymore.”
Faster than on Christmas day, I raced into the living room to be with the rest of my family. I could now go to work compartmentalizing the things I had just seen, and the squishy objects I had just touched, away from the dish I was soon to eat. Every organ dish before had let me down, but I had never been so close to the preparation process either. I felt a strange tearing between my participation in making the sweetbread dish and my desire to avoid eating them. In what felt like a few minutes of contemplating, but was likely closer to an hour and a half, my dad called all of us into the kitchen to eat. The dish that was on the plate in front of me looked nothing like the pancreases I had first encountered a few hours ago. And not only did it look good but the family collectively agreed that it tasted good too. The sweetbreads had a velvety texture, like a pate. They were light but made crispy on the outside because my dad pan fried them. What had started out as lifeless gray lumps had been transformed into a rich and flavorful meal. I realized that cooking has an incredible power of transformation. Being in a family of cooks means learning to appreciate how raw, rough, and seemingly undesirable things can often transform into the most delicate and satisfying of dishes if you take the time to prepare them right.
Review of Maggie's Diner
For most people, the pre-teenage years are marked with the introduction of acne, awkwardness, attitude, and a growing frustration with being only halfway through the dark and seemingly empty tunnel of the education system. Despite this malaise, for many people, the silver lining in the school experience is the break between fourth bell and fifth, more affectionately termed: the lunch period. There are many reasons why lunch is the runaway winner in a vote for the best part of the school day. Obviously, books and homework are never required. However, the lunch period is no less a time of debate and discussion amongst peers. In the cafeteria line, everyone knows everyone. The teachers, students, and cooking staff all can relate to each other and have a shared appreciation for the work of the day only matched by an equal appreciation for today’s house special. The cook staff knows you not only by name, but by carpool, sports teams, and sometimes even by not-so-distant family. And for some students (your dear author not included), lunch period is special because it is the first and only time during the day you are greeted with a home cooked meal. To call cafeteria food home cooked requires a liberal ladling of imagination gravy overtop of the generous portions of Sysco mashed potatoes, Sysco creamed corn, and Sysco chicken nuggets. But for many students, cafeteria lunch taps into a sense of community and exhibits a care in preparation that is absent from the fast food meals that will dominate the rest of the day.
Grown-ups have many more options when it comes to enjoying food because money can usually buy you a quasi-nutritious meal and can probably even buy you friends to enjoy it with you. However, many times we still eat fast food and deprive ourselves of a true community eating experience. If you find yourself nostalgic for this sort of meal, then Maggie’s Diner in Tuscaloosa, Alabama welcomes you. Even in an age of Global Positioning Systems and instant connectivity, the directions to Maggie’s Diner read much like they must have when the diner was first founded. “Go down Bryant Drive until it dead ends, turn left, when you see the train tracks park.” In so many ways, Maggie’s Diner hearkens back to an older, slower time. The sign on the front door is faded and barely legible. Repairs would be in order if the sign’s purpose was to attract new clientele. Rather, it is a mural of a bygone era. Whether Maggie’s Diner still existed or not, that sign would indicate to you that at one time, people congregated here to spread the news and share in each other’s lives in a manner which is lost on many modern consumers. A similar feel awaits you as you walk into the low-ceilinged diner. Yellowed newspaper articles against the wall indicate to you that this restaurant is, in fact, the progeny of a cafeteria cook who went big. Maggie worked in cafeteria prep for thirty years before striking out on her own. The place looks, smells, and sounds of cafeteria. Dishwashers bustle about, always behind in their duties. Women coo the younger people in line and sheet pans of sugary baked goods emanate a sweet warmth throughout the two room dwelling that you can indulge in whether you finish your meat and vegetables or not. It dawns on you that Mom and Dad are not here. You are free to indulge yourself in whatever foods you desire. Or sit out and eat nothing (as I so often did as a child in school). Maggie’s brings out the good and bad in the cafeteria experience. The food is not gourmet, but it is crafted with a caring and disciplined hand, and you are welcome to enjoy your lunch whatever way you please.
When you enter Maggie’s Diner you enter a community that is much richer than the soupy vegetables and fried or stewed meats that are separated from you by one pane of glass and years of liberation from the structure of primary schooling. The richness comes from the police making conversation with the wait staff in front of you in line, and the people sitting two and four to a card table, with gaily floral table covers and equally as cheap plastic chairs. Just like the assorted styles of plates (watch out for the miniature ones) that Maggie has collected for serving, her diner is an eclectic mix of different community members who share not only a meal but their stories and experiences as well. And like any great head cafeteria woman, Maggie holds court over all of the proceedings. She runs the register but will often slip out to make conversation with her patrons and refer to them by name. She is the overseer not only of the sustenance of her flock but also their social well being.
I cannot escape leveling one criticism against this restaurant. During my unusual educational upbringing, I skipped over fifth and sixth grades and started high school early before coming back down to earth and finishing seventh and eighth grades. For me, the cafeteria experience was a somber and lonesome affair. Usually effervescent in the classroom, I was quiet and sullen during the lunch hour. Furthermore, I did everything in my power to distinguish myself from my classmates, positively and negatively. As I watched them tear into their bland cafeteria food, much of it the consistency of gruel or that of the Styrofoam trays, I quietly sat and went hungry. I wanted so badly to withdraw from their barbaric dining at the long tables that I rejected the cafeteria meal as a part of my childhood. Regrettably, one meal at Maggie’s Diner did not emancipate me from that stigma. I no longer fear conversation at the dinner table. In fact, I cherish the way that food enables multiple layers of expression: the food itself, the power of food to bring people together, and the conversation that is had around the table. However, as I sit and eat my fried chicken and vastly overcooked (for my taste) greens, my mouth grows heavy. Each chew becomes so excruciating that the prospects of conversation are dramatically reduced. All people should look for places to eat as part of the community. Maggie’s Diner has been fostering that spirit for many years and based on its four busy hours of business a day, will be doing so for years to come. However, if your childhood experiences with cafeteria food are similar to mine, the food at Maggie’s will leaving you with a quiet and lonely taste in your mouth.
Grown-ups have many more options when it comes to enjoying food because money can usually buy you a quasi-nutritious meal and can probably even buy you friends to enjoy it with you. However, many times we still eat fast food and deprive ourselves of a true community eating experience. If you find yourself nostalgic for this sort of meal, then Maggie’s Diner in Tuscaloosa, Alabama welcomes you. Even in an age of Global Positioning Systems and instant connectivity, the directions to Maggie’s Diner read much like they must have when the diner was first founded. “Go down Bryant Drive until it dead ends, turn left, when you see the train tracks park.” In so many ways, Maggie’s Diner hearkens back to an older, slower time. The sign on the front door is faded and barely legible. Repairs would be in order if the sign’s purpose was to attract new clientele. Rather, it is a mural of a bygone era. Whether Maggie’s Diner still existed or not, that sign would indicate to you that at one time, people congregated here to spread the news and share in each other’s lives in a manner which is lost on many modern consumers. A similar feel awaits you as you walk into the low-ceilinged diner. Yellowed newspaper articles against the wall indicate to you that this restaurant is, in fact, the progeny of a cafeteria cook who went big. Maggie worked in cafeteria prep for thirty years before striking out on her own. The place looks, smells, and sounds of cafeteria. Dishwashers bustle about, always behind in their duties. Women coo the younger people in line and sheet pans of sugary baked goods emanate a sweet warmth throughout the two room dwelling that you can indulge in whether you finish your meat and vegetables or not. It dawns on you that Mom and Dad are not here. You are free to indulge yourself in whatever foods you desire. Or sit out and eat nothing (as I so often did as a child in school). Maggie’s brings out the good and bad in the cafeteria experience. The food is not gourmet, but it is crafted with a caring and disciplined hand, and you are welcome to enjoy your lunch whatever way you please.
When you enter Maggie’s Diner you enter a community that is much richer than the soupy vegetables and fried or stewed meats that are separated from you by one pane of glass and years of liberation from the structure of primary schooling. The richness comes from the police making conversation with the wait staff in front of you in line, and the people sitting two and four to a card table, with gaily floral table covers and equally as cheap plastic chairs. Just like the assorted styles of plates (watch out for the miniature ones) that Maggie has collected for serving, her diner is an eclectic mix of different community members who share not only a meal but their stories and experiences as well. And like any great head cafeteria woman, Maggie holds court over all of the proceedings. She runs the register but will often slip out to make conversation with her patrons and refer to them by name. She is the overseer not only of the sustenance of her flock but also their social well being.
I cannot escape leveling one criticism against this restaurant. During my unusual educational upbringing, I skipped over fifth and sixth grades and started high school early before coming back down to earth and finishing seventh and eighth grades. For me, the cafeteria experience was a somber and lonesome affair. Usually effervescent in the classroom, I was quiet and sullen during the lunch hour. Furthermore, I did everything in my power to distinguish myself from my classmates, positively and negatively. As I watched them tear into their bland cafeteria food, much of it the consistency of gruel or that of the Styrofoam trays, I quietly sat and went hungry. I wanted so badly to withdraw from their barbaric dining at the long tables that I rejected the cafeteria meal as a part of my childhood. Regrettably, one meal at Maggie’s Diner did not emancipate me from that stigma. I no longer fear conversation at the dinner table. In fact, I cherish the way that food enables multiple layers of expression: the food itself, the power of food to bring people together, and the conversation that is had around the table. However, as I sit and eat my fried chicken and vastly overcooked (for my taste) greens, my mouth grows heavy. Each chew becomes so excruciating that the prospects of conversation are dramatically reduced. All people should look for places to eat as part of the community. Maggie’s Diner has been fostering that spirit for many years and based on its four busy hours of business a day, will be doing so for years to come. However, if your childhood experiences with cafeteria food are similar to mine, the food at Maggie’s will leaving you with a quiet and lonely taste in your mouth.
Friday, January 29, 2010
My secret food desire is...
The small child licks his sticky fingers not only to savor once-had sweets but to appreciate altogether undiscovered, complex, and underlying flavors that coat adventurous salty hands. The professional chef empathizes with the child, though he rejects the boy’s willingness to lick and suck without washing up, because his own savory pork loin is anointed with a sweet pomegranate glaze. Every culinary undertaking falls on a palate somewhere between that of the child who is nearly oblivious to what he might be ingesting, and the silver tongued, best-selling, food writer. From either end of that spectrum, the marriage of salty and sweet is met with satisfaction and praise. So then why should the plainly irresistible relationship between man, pretzel, and peanut butter only be carried out under the cover of nightfall, in a windowless dorm room, with locked doors, and low lights, and every element of security attended to? Because once I crack the jar and rend the bag of pretzels, I cast aside all sense of decency in the name of satisfying my most basic gastronomical desires.
Before too long, I find myself struggling to secure the last pat of peanut butter out of the bottom of the jar with a half broken pretzel as my only utensil. While consumed by this surgical operation, I become oblivious to everything else around me, including the obvious advantage of using a spoon to acquire my prize. The salty loop of baked dough, studded with small flecks of perfectly cubed salt glistening like diamonds against a backdrop of brown on top of more brown, seemed an obvious tool to break the placid surface of the newly cracked peanut butter jar. Unfortunately, the peanut butter ocean, like any other such body, is much deeper than it is wide. Therefore, I find myself faced with an untenable circumstance. A modern day Winnie the Pooh, I am trapped in the jar as much by my awkwardly angled scooping hand as by my steely, honey-bear-resolve. I am emotionally and physically uncomfortable but nevertheless unrelenting in my pursuit of the sweet stuff at the bottom of the jar. The outside observer would be no doubt ashamed of my behavior. I inadvertently smear my hands and clothes with the sticky, sweet, brown stuff. The markings are not only a measure of my current struggles but also a tribute to the many clashes between salty and sweet that led up to this point. And yet the present scenario should have been altogether avoidable. If I could only limit myself to six or twelve or twenty four scoops of sweet and salty goodness. Instead I return to the jar, each scoop more challenging than the last. Perhaps it is my thirst for continued struggle with the outside world that makes the deepest caverns of the jar so alluring. The peanut butter there is no different from that which coats my fingertips like an old friend clamoring for attention that will not be received until too late, but I always dig deeper into the jar, oblivious to the calling of my sugar coated digits or the glow and vibration of a cell phone which seeks to disrupt my rituals and reconnect me with a more amicable but far less instantaneously satisfying external world.
It is reasonable, albeit fruitless, for the reader to question why I go to such great lengths to forge a bond between pretzel and peanut butter that can be acquired with far less effort at any local grocery store. While the properly proportioned peanut butter and pretzel composition is no culinary masterpiece, it is no less a product of the diligence, desire, and practice of its creator. I am drawn not only to the intoxicating combination when it passes across my lips but to the very act of constructing the perfect pairing. “Milk straight from the cow always tastes better” and “even the runty vegetables from the backyard garden are much more satisfying.” The peanut butter straight from the jar (straight from the peanut butter processing plant) and the pretzels straight from the bag (straight from the pretzel making factory) nevertheless share something in common with the statements of the dairy farmer and amateur gardener: everyone is proud of things they produce themselves. That is why mom beams when she glosses up the frozen fish sticks with her own specially selected combination of equally frozen vegetables instead of settling for the less than satisfying offerings from the TV dinner package. Our ability to shape the world can be so limited at times, but in the kitchen, anyone can be master as long as he does not settle for letting others do the work for him.
All of this begs the question: where should the line be drawn between preparing a meal from its source and allowing some steps to be done for you? This is a question that defies an obvious answer. I will however, hasten a guess as far as it concerns my love affair with pretzels and peanut butter. I am unable to resist the allure of peanut butter and pretzels in the grocery store aisle long enough to consider the prospects of making either the peanut butter or the pretzels on my own. Every person has his limits and when the craving manifests itself, I am unable to resist the siren call from the pantry room. Once again I find myself seeking cover while I indulge my basic desires. Perhaps I hope to hide with careful planning not only my animal nature in the face of peanut butter and pretzels, but also the philosophical debate that develops when I start to think about my relationship to my secret, salty, and sweet craving.
Before too long, I find myself struggling to secure the last pat of peanut butter out of the bottom of the jar with a half broken pretzel as my only utensil. While consumed by this surgical operation, I become oblivious to everything else around me, including the obvious advantage of using a spoon to acquire my prize. The salty loop of baked dough, studded with small flecks of perfectly cubed salt glistening like diamonds against a backdrop of brown on top of more brown, seemed an obvious tool to break the placid surface of the newly cracked peanut butter jar. Unfortunately, the peanut butter ocean, like any other such body, is much deeper than it is wide. Therefore, I find myself faced with an untenable circumstance. A modern day Winnie the Pooh, I am trapped in the jar as much by my awkwardly angled scooping hand as by my steely, honey-bear-resolve. I am emotionally and physically uncomfortable but nevertheless unrelenting in my pursuit of the sweet stuff at the bottom of the jar. The outside observer would be no doubt ashamed of my behavior. I inadvertently smear my hands and clothes with the sticky, sweet, brown stuff. The markings are not only a measure of my current struggles but also a tribute to the many clashes between salty and sweet that led up to this point. And yet the present scenario should have been altogether avoidable. If I could only limit myself to six or twelve or twenty four scoops of sweet and salty goodness. Instead I return to the jar, each scoop more challenging than the last. Perhaps it is my thirst for continued struggle with the outside world that makes the deepest caverns of the jar so alluring. The peanut butter there is no different from that which coats my fingertips like an old friend clamoring for attention that will not be received until too late, but I always dig deeper into the jar, oblivious to the calling of my sugar coated digits or the glow and vibration of a cell phone which seeks to disrupt my rituals and reconnect me with a more amicable but far less instantaneously satisfying external world.
It is reasonable, albeit fruitless, for the reader to question why I go to such great lengths to forge a bond between pretzel and peanut butter that can be acquired with far less effort at any local grocery store. While the properly proportioned peanut butter and pretzel composition is no culinary masterpiece, it is no less a product of the diligence, desire, and practice of its creator. I am drawn not only to the intoxicating combination when it passes across my lips but to the very act of constructing the perfect pairing. “Milk straight from the cow always tastes better” and “even the runty vegetables from the backyard garden are much more satisfying.” The peanut butter straight from the jar (straight from the peanut butter processing plant) and the pretzels straight from the bag (straight from the pretzel making factory) nevertheless share something in common with the statements of the dairy farmer and amateur gardener: everyone is proud of things they produce themselves. That is why mom beams when she glosses up the frozen fish sticks with her own specially selected combination of equally frozen vegetables instead of settling for the less than satisfying offerings from the TV dinner package. Our ability to shape the world can be so limited at times, but in the kitchen, anyone can be master as long as he does not settle for letting others do the work for him.
All of this begs the question: where should the line be drawn between preparing a meal from its source and allowing some steps to be done for you? This is a question that defies an obvious answer. I will however, hasten a guess as far as it concerns my love affair with pretzels and peanut butter. I am unable to resist the allure of peanut butter and pretzels in the grocery store aisle long enough to consider the prospects of making either the peanut butter or the pretzels on my own. Every person has his limits and when the craving manifests itself, I am unable to resist the siren call from the pantry room. Once again I find myself seeking cover while I indulge my basic desires. Perhaps I hope to hide with careful planning not only my animal nature in the face of peanut butter and pretzels, but also the philosophical debate that develops when I start to think about my relationship to my secret, salty, and sweet craving.
The worst dining experience is...
I had not yet been to the Rocky Mountains in 2006 but that didn’t stop me from trying to imagine what it would be like to be amongst such jagged, snow-capped, lonesome peaks. That year, I took a flight from Shanghai to Lhasa, Tibet and realized that the imagination alone cannot capture the dramatic mountainous landscape of the Himalayas. When I walked out of the airport my first impression was of the Hudson River School mountainous masterpiece all around me. My second impression was no less original but far more difficult to put into words. A film hung over the air and penetrated my nostrils, defying any attempt for me to block out its pungent force. This was not the same pollution that hung over much of the rest of China. That air was tainted with man made products: cement, steel, and so many indescribable chemicals. The air in Lhasa had a musky scent that was the product of a much more natural factory: the yak.
To treat the yak as just another animal is to underestimate its deity status, practically and spiritually, in Tibetan society. Tibetans honor and use the yak for every manner of product. Upon entering a taxi in Lhasa I expected to temporarily escape the sharp, shaggy scent of the beast. To my chagrin, my driver’s backseat upholstery had been removed and replaced with an attractively embroidered but predictably unpleasant yak hair cover. Tibetan monks will tell you that the Potala Palace, the most sacred landmark in a city of holy sites, is heated and lit with thousands of yak milk candles. It is like walking down the streets of Philadelphia and being unable to escape (for better or for worse) the scent of grilling beef, peppers, and cheese on every street corner.
The inescapable scent of yak in every imaginable form besides food made me loathe the prospect of eating the helpful animal. However, I knew I would not escape my fate when my first meal in Lhasa occurred at the Mad Yak Restaurant. The restaurant was a buffet with two lines. The first line, labeled CHINESE, looked like much of the unimpressive tourist faire that had constituted many of the planned meals I had participated in as part of my tour through China. That buffet line was eerily lit, lukewarm, and unattended; a small microcosm of the state of Tibet under Chinese rule. By contrast, the TIBET line was festively dressed in spite of the similar look and smell to each of the dishes on offer. Yak had none-too-mysteriously found its way into every dish available. I had to find a seat to stave off the wave of nausea that accompanied that smell which I had for so long tried to compartmentalize away from my taste buds. If I wanted to embrace Tibetan culture, I could not shy away from eating the local delicacy. I was unable to rise from what I could only imagine was a yak stuffed and yak woven chair, as if my body had been melted to the seat with the yak butter candles that I had seen in every temple and store in the city. But the stomach has a way of compelling all of the other organs to fall in line, and so it was that I found myself walking timidly to the head of the Tibetan buffet line.
My natural inclinations away from offal and body parts that look like the living thing (heads, feet, testicles) made it easy for me to stave off the first few offerings of the buffet line. It was far more difficult for me to refuse a nameless offering with unidentifiable yak bits coated in dark oil colored sauce. Perhaps, nothing in this restaurant would grace the pages of an exotic Western gourmet magazine, but my stomach would not allow me to leave this line without sustenance. I settled on light yak curry and dark yak curry, hoping that the equally nose invading powers of curry would provide me respite from the gamey yak smell that crept out of each pot on the line. I sat at a table with five other inquisitive Americans, each of us wondering what would happen when we bit into the sacred native beast of the Himalayas. My health and energy, not to mention my pride as an adventurous and culturally respectful eater, rested on my ability to face down my yak destiny. I looked down at my plate and pursed my lips. Like the opening minutes of a university examination, I observed my plate and tried to see through its complexities, avoid its pitfalls, and cherish the taste of victory without ever raising my pen (or fork). But as I inspected my meal further, I was reminded of all the other things that yak had come to represent on this trip. Yak was clothing, fuel, lighting, shelter, comfort, and symbol of worship. I admired the reverence that the Tibetan people show their national animal. However, the yak had been so far removed from the realm of food stuffs that I could no longer bring myself to bite down into it. I excused myself from my yak eating friends and joined the Chinese buffet line.
Ashamed that I could not bring myself to eat the yak on my plate, I grabbed the first option I recognized from the Chinese line, chicken with cashews, and sulked back to my table, defeated. At least I would find solace in one of my Chinese comfort food favorites. I knew I was in trouble upon my first bite. The chicken, or those parts which I could identify, was oily and pathetically lean. The cashews were stale, which combined with the sauce, created an un-food like rubbery note to the dish. Perhaps my meal failed me because Tibet does not have access to the same sorts of ingredients, like the tropical cashew, that can be found in other parts of China. Or perhaps, it was the lack of attention paid by Tibetan cooks who only paid lip service to Chinese customers and their tastes. I am inclined to believe that it was my shame and fear that made everything I consumed on that night unpalatable.
The night carried on with costumed yak dancing and singing. Even after a few drinks and all of the noise, I could not ignore my perceived shortcomings as an eater. I resolved myself to make up for my faults at the next possible opportunity and celebrate the yak on my palate. After a few more drinks and after failing to sleep all the way through sunrise I was taken ill with pain in my chest and stomach cramps. I suspect that my Chinese meal was to blame. The health clinic in Tibet declared it altitude sickness. I was confined to my bed, and limited to a water and bread diet, until I exited the city two days later. I have not seen or smelled or had the opportunity to taste a yak since that day. I have come to realize that the worst dining experience is the one never had and that will always take me back to that nostalgically musky smelling town of Lhasa and a plate of rustic yak curry.
To treat the yak as just another animal is to underestimate its deity status, practically and spiritually, in Tibetan society. Tibetans honor and use the yak for every manner of product. Upon entering a taxi in Lhasa I expected to temporarily escape the sharp, shaggy scent of the beast. To my chagrin, my driver’s backseat upholstery had been removed and replaced with an attractively embroidered but predictably unpleasant yak hair cover. Tibetan monks will tell you that the Potala Palace, the most sacred landmark in a city of holy sites, is heated and lit with thousands of yak milk candles. It is like walking down the streets of Philadelphia and being unable to escape (for better or for worse) the scent of grilling beef, peppers, and cheese on every street corner.
The inescapable scent of yak in every imaginable form besides food made me loathe the prospect of eating the helpful animal. However, I knew I would not escape my fate when my first meal in Lhasa occurred at the Mad Yak Restaurant. The restaurant was a buffet with two lines. The first line, labeled CHINESE, looked like much of the unimpressive tourist faire that had constituted many of the planned meals I had participated in as part of my tour through China. That buffet line was eerily lit, lukewarm, and unattended; a small microcosm of the state of Tibet under Chinese rule. By contrast, the TIBET line was festively dressed in spite of the similar look and smell to each of the dishes on offer. Yak had none-too-mysteriously found its way into every dish available. I had to find a seat to stave off the wave of nausea that accompanied that smell which I had for so long tried to compartmentalize away from my taste buds. If I wanted to embrace Tibetan culture, I could not shy away from eating the local delicacy. I was unable to rise from what I could only imagine was a yak stuffed and yak woven chair, as if my body had been melted to the seat with the yak butter candles that I had seen in every temple and store in the city. But the stomach has a way of compelling all of the other organs to fall in line, and so it was that I found myself walking timidly to the head of the Tibetan buffet line.
My natural inclinations away from offal and body parts that look like the living thing (heads, feet, testicles) made it easy for me to stave off the first few offerings of the buffet line. It was far more difficult for me to refuse a nameless offering with unidentifiable yak bits coated in dark oil colored sauce. Perhaps, nothing in this restaurant would grace the pages of an exotic Western gourmet magazine, but my stomach would not allow me to leave this line without sustenance. I settled on light yak curry and dark yak curry, hoping that the equally nose invading powers of curry would provide me respite from the gamey yak smell that crept out of each pot on the line. I sat at a table with five other inquisitive Americans, each of us wondering what would happen when we bit into the sacred native beast of the Himalayas. My health and energy, not to mention my pride as an adventurous and culturally respectful eater, rested on my ability to face down my yak destiny. I looked down at my plate and pursed my lips. Like the opening minutes of a university examination, I observed my plate and tried to see through its complexities, avoid its pitfalls, and cherish the taste of victory without ever raising my pen (or fork). But as I inspected my meal further, I was reminded of all the other things that yak had come to represent on this trip. Yak was clothing, fuel, lighting, shelter, comfort, and symbol of worship. I admired the reverence that the Tibetan people show their national animal. However, the yak had been so far removed from the realm of food stuffs that I could no longer bring myself to bite down into it. I excused myself from my yak eating friends and joined the Chinese buffet line.
Ashamed that I could not bring myself to eat the yak on my plate, I grabbed the first option I recognized from the Chinese line, chicken with cashews, and sulked back to my table, defeated. At least I would find solace in one of my Chinese comfort food favorites. I knew I was in trouble upon my first bite. The chicken, or those parts which I could identify, was oily and pathetically lean. The cashews were stale, which combined with the sauce, created an un-food like rubbery note to the dish. Perhaps my meal failed me because Tibet does not have access to the same sorts of ingredients, like the tropical cashew, that can be found in other parts of China. Or perhaps, it was the lack of attention paid by Tibetan cooks who only paid lip service to Chinese customers and their tastes. I am inclined to believe that it was my shame and fear that made everything I consumed on that night unpalatable.
The night carried on with costumed yak dancing and singing. Even after a few drinks and all of the noise, I could not ignore my perceived shortcomings as an eater. I resolved myself to make up for my faults at the next possible opportunity and celebrate the yak on my palate. After a few more drinks and after failing to sleep all the way through sunrise I was taken ill with pain in my chest and stomach cramps. I suspect that my Chinese meal was to blame. The health clinic in Tibet declared it altitude sickness. I was confined to my bed, and limited to a water and bread diet, until I exited the city two days later. I have not seen or smelled or had the opportunity to taste a yak since that day. I have come to realize that the worst dining experience is the one never had and that will always take me back to that nostalgically musky smelling town of Lhasa and a plate of rustic yak curry.
The purpose of this blog is to...
celebrate the form of food writing through personal food essays and restaurant reviews in the Tuscaloosa area. This blog is a part of the NEW 490 New College course "Eat Your Words" taught by Dr. Bebe Barefoot. I am new to the arena of "academic" creative writing but hope that these essays will be both entertaining and informative for my classmates, my teacher, and anyone else who stumbles across this blog.
Cheers,
Will
Cheers,
Will
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