How to fight obesity with....cheeeeese!

As Americans become more directly focused on their food--where it comes from, what is in it, how much of it we consume--so too does our media spotlight the politics behind it.  This weekend a surprisingly high profile (headlining the New York Times-if you didn't catch it, you most certainly should read it!) article appeared discussing the inherent conflict that occurs when our government promotes agricultural products (essentially telling us to "eat more") and fights the rising public health crisis we call obesity (c'mon guys, "eat less").

Michael Moss's article takes a good look at government check-off programs (in this case dairy)--what are essentially public relations companies funded by levies on farmers (sanctioned by the USDA) used to promote agricultural products.  Such programs invest in science to support their products as well as general marketing campaigns the most recognizable of which is the Got Milk? campaign.  Legislation prohibits these programs from using funds for lobbying purposes, but let's face it, as far as we the consumer is concerned we see advertising not lobbying.  So while checkoff programs cannot legally influence government policy per se, they are designed to influence consumers (and don't government officials drink milk and eat cheese too?).

With the USDA due to release its most recent version of the Dietary Guidelines for Americans this December (the most visible aspect of which is the Food Guide Pyramid), one has to wonder is there no conflict of interest in a government agency that supports promotion of cheese (arguably the largest source of saturated fat in the American diet) while at the same time urging Americans to reduce their intake of saturated fat?  And what will the dairy lobby have to say this go-around?

And don't get me started on the marketing campaign ($12 million!) that Dairy Management Inc. (the organization in front of the check-off program) has revamped Domino's Pizza with.  Cleverly killing two birds with one stone, Domino's has revamped its pizzas with a new line containing 40% more cheese while publicly promoting its use of REAL cheese.  Commercials take doubting customers to the Wisconsin farm to meet the farmer who makes their cheese, playing to the all-important social value placed on knowing where your food comes from, while conveniently ignoring the exponentially increased amount of fat now present in their products--clever marketing indeed.  With pizza as one of the most commonly consumed junk foods, it's a great place to dump extra cheese (and accompanying calories) with nobody the wiser...because fat makes things taste good and hey, we're not complaining...but maybe we should be.

Lessons? I love pizza (and cheese) as much as the next guy but we'll never change our food environment until we as individuals can learn to think critically about food, not just listen to what they tell us.  (Which is exactly what they--the food industry--spend billions of dollars trying to get us not to do, because it's so much easier to believe a smartly crafted advertisement than cultivate individual analytical thought).  Look before you leap, think before you eat--who and what are you really supporting?

Halloween Horror....Hospital food dressing up as....REAL FOOD

This semester has gotten away from me and the frequency of my blogging has consequently suffered...well, luckily, a recent stint in the hospital has given me the undercover opportunity to report on everybody's favorite, hospital food.  Who makes it? Why is it so gosh darn awful? And most importantly, for "at risk" populations who are forced to consume this subsect of (dare we call it) food, why is it so nutritionally bereft?

My first hospital meal (pictured) consisted of that good old American standby, meat and potatoes.  Cubes of tough beef were stewed with chunks of potatoes, accompanied by "whipped" potatoes (which tasted suspiciously like the freeze dried, just-add-water variety) and ambiguous greens (perhaps some form of frozen spinach?).  As someone who prides myself on my culinary skills and general healthful diet I was appalled and could barely stomach what I am sure was the unhappiest of factory-raised cows, let alone synthetic potatoes.

Breakfast left more to be desired, rubber pancakes and questionable sausage sticks with a sickly sweet cherry syrup.  The lunch (right) that followed was a bologna sandwich--thin slice of bologna (the most processed of meats made from all the leftover bits they don't use, squeezed into a square with preservatives and then sliced to deli perfection) between two buttered slices of white bread accompanied by a packaged piece of wheat bread, a boxed salad with french dressing (and a loving dose of high fructose corn syrup), fruit salad (the only edible portion of the meal) and a cup of highly salted lentil/vegetable soup.

While farmers markets have been popping up near and around hospitals for a few years, there is a still a big gap between fresh fruits and vegetables outside the hospital and the food that is prepared within hospital walls.  Understandably proteins and carbohydrates are an essential part of maintaining healthy weight and energy in sick patients, but this doesn't mean the food must a) taste like rubber or b) lack any other nutritive benefit.  Our society (and hospitals) are suffering from a categorical distinction between food and nutrition.  When we think of nutrition implies fats, sugars, carbs, calories, nutrients, vitamins and minerals....science.  Whereas food symbolizes restaurant eating, the food network, cooking, pleasure, locavorism....an aesthetic.  We won't be able to treat hospital patients with good food until we realize that nutritional and pleasureful eating can be one and the same.  If positivity plays a major factor in healing, shouldn't appealing, good food be a factor in nutrition, most especially in a hospital environment?
photo courtesy of my new favorite blog: cutestfood

If Nature Drank Soda...

In yet another round of food industry semantics, PepsiCo has reformulated their lemon-lime soda Sierra Mist as Sierra Mist Natural.  In response to market research claiming consumers are more likely to buy "natural" foods and beverages, PepsiCo has changed the Sierra Mist formula, eliminating high fructose corn syrup as well as chemical preservatives, reducing the beverage to "five simple ingredients and nothing artificial".  In fact, their new ad campaign (into which PepsiCo has put an undisclosed dollar amount equivalent to a "full year's worth of media investment"...which, lets face it, is probably a TON of money) features "nature" discussing its cravings for the drink, followed by the tag line, "The soda nature would drink if nature drank soda". 

Blatant anthropomorphism aside, this seems the most recent example of big food business playing off consumers' assumption that "natural" equates with "healthful".  In fact, eight fluid ounces of Sierra Mist Natural contains 25 grams of "real" sugar (the original Sierra Mist had 26 grams of high fructose corn syrup) which equates to over 75% of the USDA's allowance for discretionary calories from added sugars (assuming a 2,000 calorie per day diet).  What is "real" sugar? Most likely a blend between cane and beet sugar, although the "real" just supplies consumers with another syntactical stumbling block (or mental comfort--"real" standing as a value judgment for "good").

Speaking of fun food industry word games, the Corn Refiners Association is petitioning the Food and Drug Administration to change the name of high fructose corn syrup to something that the American public doesn't equate with "unhealthful evil,"  namely the much more benign "corn sugar".  Essentially, the corn industry is worried that we consumers have realized that the huge amounts of added sugar they put in everything aren't necessarily good for us; they think if they can use some fancy footwork they will effectively pull the wool back over our eyes by disguising added sugars under the much nicer name of corn sugar (corn, after all, is natural).  The scary thing is, they are probably right.

NYC or bust!

After another Time Warner internet snafu (put them on the list of things I don't love about NYC) and a lovely month on the West Coast (which I still personally feel is the best coast but I'm working on my bias) I'm back in New York and ready for fall.  Had you asked me in August what I love about NYC I would have been hard-pressed for an answer...the humidity gets to me--I don't do well in it and don't pretend otherwise.  The city is sticky, smelly and generally overrun with confused tourists and the disgruntled locals who lack Hampton-getaways.  But this last week running around getting ready for school, watching the city refill with the post-labor day rush of New Yorkers working back into their city routines I have to admit, I too heart NYC.

They say that culture is so ingrained in our everyday lives, such an integral part of how we live, breathe and eat that we are hard-pressed to observe it from within.  Within classical genres of academia the study of foreign cultures is a fine balance between "going native" and maintaining the objective eye.  It's the minutiae, the tiny details you don't realize that define your role within (or outside of) a culture.  Die hard West Coaster that I am, I could swear up and down until I'm blue in the face that I will never succumb to being a "New Yorker" but that would be a lie...it's rubbing off.  Here are three things I forgot I loved about NYC:

1) Bagels.  This is kind of a no-brainer--you don't have to be a New Yorker to love a good bagel.  In fact, you can get them anywhere in the world so what makes NY bagels special? They're big, they're doughy, and if you ask a bagel-purist to toast it for you they will scoff at you as if you are from Nowheresville, Nebraska and not the apartment upstairs.  Thick with cream cheese or as the ubiquitous breakfast sandwich bagels are one of NYCs great contributions to Americana.  Trust me, they are just better here.  

2) Jay-walking. I didn't realize until I came back but I never press the crosswalk buttons here...why? Because most intersections don't have them (and for those that do, the buttons are decorative pedestrian placaters)! Lights are timed, crossing is on-the-light or as-you-dare.  You have to admit it's slightly more sanitary that pushing buttons touched by who knows how many overeager kiddos and impatient elderly. (Begs the interesting question: are crosswalk buttons at all effective in the age of computer-controlled traffic signals or do they exist merely to satisfy some primal urge to exert control over our environment?)

3) Street-music.  Nothing like being serenaded by the orchestral sounds of Metro buses, taxi horns, FDNY sirens and subway saxophones.  It can be loud and obnoxious but it is easy to forget how enjoyable it is to sit in Washington Square Park and listen to impromptu street shows while the city whirs by.  Welcome back and welcome home indeed!

August Workcation

In an effort to beat the humidity and visit the family in one fell swoop, I escaped the stifling confines of August in NYC for the cooling summer effects of my native California.  Certain familial complications have resulted in my mom and me spending hours on end working my father's garden with almost total responsibility for the survival and upkeep of innumerable tomatoes, a virtual orchard of apples and a more-than-unruly potato patch.  7:30 am raspberry harvests, fruit fly infestations and backache aside, my august workcation has been surprisingly therapeutic.  It has made me look twice at my own presumed locavorism.

With food gleaning ever-more high profile recognition, from the great egg recall to the latest "it" foods to the great food truck race, it begs the question: the more we see/read/view our food, are we more or less connected to it?  Farmers markets are the latest locale for the visual comestible smorgasbord, where a little dirt creates an aura of authenticity and that "fresh off the vine" vibe.  Having spent the last three weeks living off the bounty of my own family's garden I've realized that maybe just eating locally isn't what locavorism should be about. (Garlic marinated roasted red and yellow peppers, delicious! Fresh-from-the-tree apple tarte tatin? Yes please.)   I'm all for reducing carbon footprints, supporting local farmers and eating less processed more healthful foods, don't get me wrong, but is it possible that focusing on farmers markets instead of superstores, organics instead of factory-produced has been reduced to a game of advertising semantics--are we missing the message?

Having given myself some distance from New York City (it seems I needed the physical for the sake of the mental), I realize how easy it is to get caught up in the faddishness of it all, to forget that eating local should be about more than paying for the label (and the peace of mind that comes with it).  After harvesting a bushel of tomatoes (alright, it was less than an actual bushel, allow me the term metaphorically), it was time to convert the harvest into a preservable food supply, also known as Aufmuth pasta sauce.  While slicing the freshly dug garlic cloves I realized that not only is eating local dirtier and more labor-intensive but it represents an incredibly satisfying engagement of the physical senses.  It is tactile and sticky, fragrant and decaying, it literally embodies our living cycle.  Maybe it's my California-hippie roots rearing their ugly heads, but it made me realize how much we miss when we focus merely on the labels and images and lose all of the work and the physical energy required for the "farm fresh"--we seem to have lost sight of how incredibly visceral the edible experience can be.

In short, just because we buy "organic" doesn't bring us any closer to the man (or woman) who grew it.  Perhaps engaging food should be more about entertaining trends or watching someone else do the cooking.  With food awareness poised in the forefront of the American conscience, we should remember that the hands on approach is generally the best learning experience...and the most satisfying.

Air fare...or lack thereof

If Steven Slater's shenanigans have taught us anything it's that a) avoiding the wait on the JFK tarmac is worth committing felonies and b) air travel just isn't what it used to be.  Disgruntled flight attendants aside, flights longer than two hours have become a Ghandian exercise in self-preservation.  That is to say, where the heck has all the food gone?

Frankly, I've never been overwhelmed by in-flight meals...something about witnessing 250 previously-frozen-now-radioactive packages being passed aisle by aisle doesn't do it for me, but damnit if I'm not starving after 6 hours from New York to San Francisco.  My most recent cross-country journey afforded me a first-hand peek at those few rogue passengers attempting to beat the system and simultaneously survive their very limited personal space with on-board sustenance, as well as the few hundred others of us who didn't. 

The cleverest of passengers trade in contraband, those "outside real world" foods that actually make it through the security checkpoint.  I have yet to see a full meal get successfully past TSA (I'm talking burritos--they are portable after all--maybe a nice tupperwared pasta or a deli sandwich), although smaller snacks abound.  Most popular among these are the obvious: apples, bananas, fruit and nut mixes, carrot sticks, pretzels (if one is so unlucky as to be flying on an airline that offers NO free snacks whatsoever....yes I mean you, American), and of course assorted less-than-healthy nibbles along gummy bear/mike-n-ike lines.  When I witness a co-passenger pulling out a Trader Joe's labeled snack bag I think to myself, "Here is someone with foresight, someone who plans ahead, cares for their welfare and will thereby be effective in an emergency situation".  These are the people you want to align yourself with in case of emergency or flight-attendant mutiny.

Then there are those who fall prey to the airport cuisine (if TGI Friday's, McDonald's and Sbarro can be called that), knowing full well their on-board options will be limited.  This group of travelers possesses expendable resources and a hearty appetite yet lacks the wherewithal of those in the first category.  These are the misguided souls who feel that wasting $15 for a sub-par wrap or less-than-authentic sushi in the terminal will ultimately be rewarding mid-flight, and who fail to realize they are really supporting the very system they believe they are bucking.  Airport food most generally sucks, and what with airlines now serving little to no food at all, an all-out passenger boycott and a handful of clever restaurateurs could really turn things around terminal-wise (an attempt to do just this is being made at La Guardia, for now I will reserve judgment).

The third category of passenger are the foodless, those who pass the hours examining what everyone else may or may not be eating. These travelers are split into two separate groups, the stubborn old-schoolers who believe in-flight snacks are a god given right (and damnit if they will spend $12 for a bullsh*t Lays snack pack), determined to starve it out at all costs and damn The Man! (I fall into this category); the second are the naive Europeans who have yet to realize that domestic American carriers really screw you over both monetarily and gastronomically.  There is, however, a proven test to distinguish between these two sub-categories lest you be confused: the stubborn Americans maintain more of a teeth-clenching, temple-pulsing rage while the faces of the unsuspecting Europeans become more gaunt and drawn as the hours drag on.

Over the course of 6 hours I witnessed a family of three savor and suckle the remaining half a tin of winterfresh Altoids while up in business class they were enjoying a choise of cedar-plank smoked salmon or New York strip steak (complete with accouterments) accompanied by a crisp Northern California Chardonnay or a robust Cabernet Sauvignon, respectively.  Perhaps classicism comes with the territory but it seems largely un-American to relegate all of coach to the fickle whims of large-scale conglomerate snack producers...or maybe that it is so wholly American is what makes it so upsetting.  I'm beginning to think Mr. Slater was really onto something...

Ode to Round Table

Considering I currently reside in what many people (erroneously, in my opinion--cue angry New Yorkers) believe to be the mecca of pizza slices, I often wonder why my belly pines for the Round Table pizzas of my childhood.  No NY slice will do--frankly I've never been over the moon about thin crusts, unevenly distributed cheese and anything requiring origami acts en route to my mouth (I'm surprised an NYC pigeon hasn't targeted me for all of this pizza-blasphemy) and in Manhattan that's pretty much the only way it comes.

Pizza is such a big to-do here, in fact, that statisticians have actually used mathematical calculations and occurrences of online reviews to deduce New York's favorite slice.  No two sources (authoritative or otherwise) can agree, what with over 5,000 yellow pages listings for pizza it's no wonder.  In the year that I have been living at the center of the "pizzaverse," I have sampled my fair share--from late night slices to full-blown pies, Sicilian (thicker crust, more cheese) to Neapolitan (your classic Italian-American NY style)--and have yet to be wildly impressed. (Lombardi's pizza--one of NYC's most famous pictured to the right)

Don't get me wrong, I'm not eschewing pizza entirely yet I rarely find myself inspired to eat that extra slice.  Most striking, there is very little variation.  While Manhattan generally considers itself the center of the culinary universe, the world of pizza is kept on a tight leash, never straying from the standards and keeping the crust a strict quarter inch thick.  You'd think with a city full of chefs making the most of what they've got, someone would think to do something about that damn pizza!  Maybe it's nostalgia that's holding me back, but give me a Round Table any day--savory rich sauce (none of that "grandma's recipe" sickly sweet stuff they have over here), prefect three-cheese blend (spread like a blanket for the toppings to nestle in), that not-too-thin/not-too-thick crust--nothing in New York compares.

We talk a lot about nostalgia and food: how it can play tricks in your mind, make flavors seem more than what they were.  Round Table for me is chock full of memories: girls nights when dad worked late, Monday night football dinners, slumber party snacks--that pizza smacks of family and friends and good eatin'.  To this day, though, the pizza is just as good as it was when I was five years old--no matter how full I get I can always eat that extra slice (I've been known to accomplish impressive gastronomic feats involving the family classic, a large pepperoni)...and it's damned good leftover/cold/and just about any other way.  I'm off to California in a few days and my mom and I already have our RTP date set.  There are some things I can skip on the rare occasions I get back to my homeland (god forgive me In-n-Out), but not that pizza.  Cheers to safe travels, happy homecomings and my all-time favorite slice.

(I'm not the first person to be wooed by RTP's culinary charms--and most certainly not the last.  This man wrote his own ode to the pie.)

Zea Mays Everta

That's corn turned inside out to you....yup, popcorn! With Americans consuming 4.25 billion gallons of popcorn per year as well as producing around half of the world's annual popcorn supply (around 300 million tons), it is no small surprise that popcorn has an incredibly long and fascinating cultural history.  Although National Popcorn Poppin Month isn't until October, it never hurts to be prepared...

Despite massive google-efforts, my attempts to discover the hidden roots of my personal popcorn obsession have been relatively unsuccessful.  My grandmother's popcorn song seems to have been an invention all her own, or at least an obscure and unpublished folk ditty that has yet to make its viral debut:
"Poppity poppity poppity pop, somehow I never can stop.
Whenever they put me over the fire it seems like I have to jump higher and higher,
And that's why I leap and pop!"
Vivid memories dancing anxiously in front of the stove spring to mind, complete with the willful leapings of enthusiastic kernels as the patented scent of snack-time deliciousness fills the room.

In fact, popcorn (like baking bread or tortillas) contains an aroma compound (released by chemical reactions during the heating process) that is especially attractive to human beings...and you thought that whole subliminal marketing thing was merely a conspiracy theory.  Since the advent of the mobile popcorn cart 1885 by Charles Cretors (a Chicago based confectioner), clever use of the wafting scents of popping corn have been attracting customers to street corners, fairs, circuses, and of course, the movies.

You don't like feeling manipulated by large corporations taking your money while you wolf down synthetically-buttered snacks salted to a threshold requiring refreshments?  Neither do I.  Popcorn wasn't always a tool of corporate capitalism.  For thousands of years before those pesky European explorers got their hands on it, popcorn was a dietary and religiously significant aspect for the majority of ancient civilizations in the Americas. 

Corn, believed to be indigenous to Mesoamerica, formed one third of the dietary trifecta of the majority of Central and Latin American peoples (the other two thirds being beans and squash).  With such an important role in the indigenous diet, it is no wonder that corn was represented in religion as well.  The Olmec, the Zapotec, the Maya and the Aztec all worshipped gods of corn, and we know that corn played a roll in Native American and South American (particularly Peruvian) indigenous societies as well.  During the conquest of Mexico in the early 1500s, Hernan Cortes noted popcorn's use in Aztec ceremonies honoring the god Tlaloc.  Uses included headdresses, garlands and necklaces, and symbolic ornaments in adittion to dietary supplement.

We've come a long way from revering popcorn--although we still see remnants today on a lesser scale (popcorn balls at Christmas?) we've lost any sense of sanctity or respect for the grain.  Popcorn today is more a vehicle for ulterior motivations (including government agricultural policy as well as private interests) than a representation of sacred meanings or cultural truths.  Check out this article about a woman suing ConAgra because of health complications from inhaling the chemical additives in their microwave popcorn. 

However we eat it--buttered, candied, salted, or my personal favorite, spiked with a healthy dose of pepperoncinis--popcorn has been a part of our continental heritage since the beginnings of civilization.  Arguably one of Mesoamerica's most enduring gifts, popcorn has been a staple from the "first Thanksgiving" (don't even get me started on the Thanksgiving myth--invented during the Civil War to unify the country...although it is said the Wampanoag Indians gave gifts of popcorn to the settlers), through good times and bad (popcorn was immensely popular during the Depression and WWII as a cheap luxury), and continues to gain popularity around the world today--a street food, a holiday treat, a night-out snack, popcorn is one of the great universally appealing foods.

Read more!!  On Mesoamerican contributions to the world's food supply see Jared Diamond's Guns Germs and Steel, on popcorn in the U.S. see Andrew F. Smith's Popped Culture

 

Crazy little thing called...BRUNCH!

Brunch--that clever combination of breakfast and lunch--as American as apple pie, whose permutations across the continent run the gamut of culinary genius and savory skill...the bane of all chef's (there is literally nothing worse than slaving over bacon and eggs fighting the hangover from last night's post-dinner shift) and the joy of Saturday night owls (there is literally nothing better than scarfing down eggs and bacon to help the hangover from last night's shenanigans).  In the land of the 10,000 restaurants (actually, according to Restaurant Inspection Information New York City has closer to 20,000 restaurants) the iconic brunch has taken on a life force of it's own.

My understanding of brunch was a meal taken between 10am and 1pm featuring an assortment of breakfast classics with some clever savory lunch twists thrown in.  Obviously, a light cocktail is always an option (making brunch one of the great american excuses to drink during the day--the others being football Sundays, any sort of sporting playoff, wedding showers, etc.), light conversation with friends and family, and general merrymaking.

New Yorkers, however, (as they tend to do with most everything) have made brunch bigger and better--the meals are longer, the drinks are stiffer...brunch is, in effect, a day-long activity where drinking is encouraged and the possibilities for gastronomic expression are literally endless.  From dim sum to Latin American huevos to Malaysian curry crab, brunch in New York City is a culinary experience like no other that plays by its own rules:

1) Although Manhattanites are notoriously impatient with a knack for making reservations months in advance, brunch is something they will wait for--anywhere from 30 minutes to 2+ hours, all in the name of a fiery Bloody Mary, great locavore eggs, or the newest "it" chef (the lines at Prune make this abundantly clear). 

2) 11:30-12:00 is unfashionably early unless you have theater tickets.  Manhattan brunch is traditionally an afternoon affair lasting from 1 o'clock until anywhere as late as 5 PM.  If a friend calls to say she's at brunch and will be in touch afterward, don't hold your breath.

3) As an afternoon adventure, New York brunch is, for almost everyone, a drinking excursion.  Bloody Mary's and mimosas aside, brunch beverages range from microbrewed beers to the newest mixologist concoctions

4) Brunch is not, as in some parts, a special event.  It is a Sunday staple that can also be found on Wednesdays, Thursdays and the occasional Saturday.  It is celebratory of nothing in particular, festively sociable and never undertaken solo.  It is a free for all, a freebie and fallacy all in one.  

In NYC, brunch is "as much a state of mind as it is a meal," where the city that never sleeps can kick its heels up for an afternoon and just relax.  Summer brunches are the epitome of NYC where the lazy, the hungover, and go-getters and do-gooders come together in thousands of restaurants across the city to enjoy the delightful blend of savory and sweet, the high and the low-brow, astounding culinary combinations and the classics, all in the name of of that crazy little thing we call BRUNCH.

Paul the Psychic Octopus

I was introduced to Paul only recently in one of those all too common (albeit for only one month every four years) World Cup moments where two people of disparate backgrounds, conflicting team allegiances and a hefty language barrier get together to chat football.  In this case, a dashing young Croatian waiter, having been made aware of my Spanish allegiance, informed me that Paul the Psychic Octopus had chosen Spain to win the World Cup semifinal against Germany.

"Paul the Psychic Octopus??" you ask, well yes. Rumors abound whether Paul was hatched  (allegedly in England) or found in waters off the Isle of Elba.  Regardless, given the short lifespan of octopi (around 3 years) Paul has officially retired--it's gotta be hard with all that pressure, correctly predicting the outcome of all 7 of Germany's World Cup games (8 if you count the Finals).  Ironically, just as I learned of Paul, so too did I arrive to Croatia's Dalmatian Coast, where octopus is something of a delicacy, if not a completely delicious everyday snack.

In fact, almost every meal featured some sort of octopus or squid--grilled, fried, baked, carpaccio'd, or gently tossed in oil and vinegar.  Despite my best efforts to support Paul's cause (after Germany's loss to Spain there was considerable worry that Paul's fate would be a large serving plate rather that a nice aquarium retirement--Prime Minister Zapatero offered Paul a team of bodyguards), I was hard pressed to give up my octopus eating. (The moral agony is evident here as I polish off a lovely octopus salad in Split...alas the stomach tends to win out over the heart in such matters).

Croatian food, as it turns out, is a funny thing.  According to Wikipedia it is "the cuisine of regions," an apt description of a country who is just now forging an independent identity (politically, if not culinarily).  Gastronomically speaking, the foods of Croatia have long been influenced by the nomadic movements of conquering peoples dating back to pre-Roman times.  Croatia is an emblematic example of the complete arbitrariness of political boundaries as related to food...critics say that Americans, with our 200 plus years of independence, do not have a national cuisine...then how is it possible for Croatians with a mere 19 years of independence lay claim to any semblance of a national culinary identity?  In our postmodern world, my answer to both questions is, there is none.  Cuisine varies everywhere (California, New York, Croatia) by region depending on climate, population, agricultural/aquacultural opportunities, etc.  You cannot possibly define this by a changeable political boundary delineating "us" from "them" (Who are they anyway? If the Balkan war illustrates anything, it is that tomorrow they could just as easily be us).  Do we think of mussels in a rich white wine and garlic broth spiked with paprika as ex-Yugoslavian food?  Personally, I don't, and yet some of my favorite Dalmatian meals were just that (well, could theoretically be called that if eating over a map).

In Dalmatia, foodstuffs are heavily influenced by two things: the Adriatic Sea and Italy.  Considering that the Romans and the Venetians conquered this coast (as well as the large influx of Italian tourism today) it is no wonder that seafood pastas, carpaccios, pizzas and insalatas dominate menus from island to island.  Every now and then, however, glimpses of Croatian folk tradition emerge....and voila, the Croatian Peka.  A peka is a cast iron pot (which used to be fashioned by a village's blacksmith), with a flat, plate-like bottom and a bell-shaped lid.  Generally, it is filled with meat or octopus (octopus being a hardy tissue that can stand up to hours of slow cooking) with potatoes and assorted vegetables, a dash of seasoning and some water.  It is settled into the embers of a fire, covered with ash and left to mellowly baste in its own juices for about 2 hours (rather ingenious if you ask me). 

The result, some of the most succulent octopus that has ever graced my tastebuds.  We sampled our octopus under the bell (as the Croatian's charmingly translate the name of the dish) on the island of Mljet at Restaurant Bourbon in the town of Polace (see right).  Tender, surprisingly juicy, my remorseful feelings of betraying Paul swiftly evaporated as the tentacles (of what could have been Paul's wife/lover/uncle/grandaughter) caressed my palate....I mean literally caressed it was that good.  To my mind, the Croatians, despite their continued grapple with the after-effects of a very modern war (psychological and physical), are still able to entice with the beguiling simplicity of their cuisine.

As for Paul, recent news has informed me that the Iranian leader Mahmoud Ahmadinejad has proclaimed my psychic cephalopod mollusk friend the symbol of all that is bad and evil in the Western world.  Surprisingly, I am inclined to agree--encasing a wild animal for a constructed public spectacle, attributing to it an anthropomorphic sentience and lifestyle (octopus retirement, octopus fame, octopus sixth sense, really?) while we willfully pollute its natural habitat and gluttonously consume it's flesh (that might just be me) is a bit hypocritical.  That and someone had the "brilliant" idea to create an unofficial ask Paul iphone app to make all of your difficult decisions for you.  In fact, word on the street in South Africa is that production has started on a movie about Paul.  Celebratizing an octopus may be going a bit far, but all that is evil in the Western world? I mean, Spain did win the World Cup after all...enjoy your retirement Paul, you deserve it!

wavo's back!!!

I know, I know, it's been a month--that's what happens when you are exploring the wide culinary worlds of the great beyond.  I'm back, but a minor internet snafu has left me sans connection until saturday night (fingers crossed, c'mon time warner--i'm currently holed up in the basement of the NYU library trying to delete a months worth of junk mail, que deprimente)...until then, a little croatian brew to cool your jets in this hot nyc summer mugginess...and...
In honor of my return to the land of the big mac, check out this salon.com article...could we get any grosser?

Lobstah!

One of my all-time favorite treats on east coast visits to one very special Bostonian are Kelly's lobster rolls (preferably enjoyed on Revere Beach with a cup of chowdah and an ice cold brew).  This past weekend while visiting said Bostonian I once again splurged on that delicious lobster roll--stuffed to the gills with huge, meaty chunks of claw and tail, perfectly coated in mayo.  It got me thinking, one of the best parts of being a (newbie) east coaster is the lobster...(these bad boys to the left became a beautiful bisque)

In fact, lobster was not always a delicacy in the United States.  Colonial New England saw its shores literally bursting with lobster, to the point that colonists saw them as a throw-away food.  As society developed and class systems emerged, the natural abundance of lobster easily lent themselves to a cheap and thereby "lower class" food.  Some people posit that the effort required to put into eating lobster also added to upper class shunning of the delicacy (personally I've always found a little elbow grease for my food rather rewarding).

As America continued to grow and develop, so too did our tastes evolve in a sort of "trickle up" effect, or what these days we refer to as gentrification.  Just as tacos began as lowly street food and are now seen on gourmet menus, the elites ultimately realized what they were missing out on and lobsters gained popularity, such that by the mid 1840s, commercial fisheries were established. 

Up until the 1920s lobsters were relatively abundant, with the industrial revolution and transportation technology allowing them to be sent all over the country.  My great-grandfather, well known for his epicurean parties, was said to have had lobsters trained in from Maine for one particularly extravagant soiree.  As supply dwindled and demand continued to grow, prices rose which is why lobster today is now considered a delicacy.

Interestingly enough, lobster rolls were not invented until the advent of the hot dog bun (and what would a lobster roll be without that perfectly rectangular, toasted, buttered log of whitebread?) presumably in the mid 1950s or early 60s--the so-called convenience food generation.  Lobster rolls really ought to be attributed to America's fascination with salad, which, having evolved over time became a vehicle for any number of ingredients (peaking, once again, in the 50s and 60s with the infamous jello salads).  Tuna, crab, shrimp and lobster salads became the fanciest way to present seafood--toss with mayo and celery and serve.

No one knows what brilliant man (or woman) had the idea to combine toasted white bread and lobster salad, but you know who you are--congratulations, you invented one of the postmodern world's richest delicacies.   

  ...I seem to have posted in a timely manor...I just cracked open this week's NY Mag to this lovely article on lobster rolls!

Food Porn

It's an official bonafide term that I hear on a regular basis: food porn...more than one clever blogger has aptly named his foodie musings the term even has its own wikipedia entry.  The term illicits provocative notion but in actuality, it demonstrates how far removed we are from our food.

Not that I'm not one to browse the web, salivating over high resolution closeups of morels, homemade pastas and any number of delicious potential meals.  My favorite is a lineup, a buffet if you will of blogs writing about food.  Feast your eyes over the rows of pictures until a delectable dish catches your eye...one click and you are instantly routed to the blogger's entry, usually complete with recipe for your own culinary forays.

But it does beg the question: with all this gastronomic stimulation, how much of this visual feast is really about food?  Has this overemphasis on image-based media turned us into a look-don't-eat culture?  For many, it is easier to flip through the glossy pages of food magazines while consuming a microwave dinner than it is to cook a meal.  By engaging the visual we are essentially negating all the pleasures of what actually makes food sexy.

Food porn takes away two thirds of what is enjoyable about food: taste and scent (with visual stimulation being the third).  Texture too, is lost.  My theory is that the overwhelming bombardment of visual media in our postmodern fragmented society has forced us to create communities where we can (internet communities being a perfect example).  Food porn is sexy because we can all agree on the beauty of an image.  It can be seen and debated.  Taste, texture, scent are less quantifiable and arguably more subjective.

But what is food without taste or smell? After all, even the most artfully styled photograph is merely two dimensional.  Yes, it is everlasting, but perhaps somethings are better left undocumented.  One million pictures could not do justice to my mother's famous pesto: my father's carefully tended garden basil and garlic, perfectly measured from memory, the pasta exactly al dente recalling years of family dinners and special occasions.  Images may capture a memory but they cannot make one if one does not previously exist.  It is the full dimensionality of an experience that does.

Food and sex have long been entwined, in part because both are inherently physical pursuits that engage the full spectrum of our human senses.  So, as much as I love a beautifully photographed dish (I cannot lie, I am an ample documentor of my own culinary adventures), I love eating that dish even more.

Wavo's sexy food of the day: Scapes!  I was introduced to garlic scapes (the green stem that grows from a garlic bulb and ultimately flowers) last night by a friend and I am anxiously awaiting tomorrow's farmers market to purchase them for myself (I can't get them off my mind, they are incredible!)  Perfumed with garlic (one of the sexiest food scents if you ask me), yet resembling a scallion, rich and fibrousy, almost spinach like when cooked.  Their beautiful spiral only adds to the carnal appeal.  Engage your senses and enjoy!

Vaya Mundo!

In honor of the World Cup opener (and the fact that I ate exlusively Mexican food yesterday and most of today), it seemed appropriate for the ranchero to feature my fav Mexican spots, past and present (despite the 1-1 draw, at least Mexico got one point).  I'm pretty sure I was of Hispanic decent in a past life.  I've worked years to perfect my own enchiladas, posole, guacamole, etc. but sometimes you just need it to be cooked by someone else.  Here are my top 8:

La Costena, Mountain View, CA:  People, especially Californians, get all uppity when you talk about your burrito spot of choice.  Even on the corner of Rengstorff and Old Middlefield are the oft disputed Los Altos Taqueria and La Costena.  My money is on La Costena--started as a grocery with a little burrito bar in back, now winning awards right and left.  The only thing better than getting a delicious pollo adobado burrito is finding all your Mexican grocery needs as well in a one-stop shop!

Pancho Villa, San Francisco, CA: Yeah, yeah, the Mission is chalk full of delicious and Pancho definitely has the monopoly on your standard fare (much less "authentic" than El Farolito, a copycat of the purported originator of the Mission burrito Taqueria La Cumbre--take your digs where you will), I have to admit for a quick-n-easy burrito fix, I'm a Pancho girl.  (I used to be an El Toro Taqueria loyalist, but since the renovation it's just not the same--even tho it's owned by Pancho's peeps).  Super pollo asado burrito with spicy salsa and extra pico...done and done.

Dos Pinas, San Francisco, CA: Ok, not the Mission, Potrero actually, but across the street from where I went to culinary school.  Chicken chile verde street tacos (3/$5) with a side of rice and beans and I am a smitten kitten.  The al pastor is pretty ridiculous as well.  The walls of hot sauces are great too, just make sure it hasn't expired (I'm pretty sure some of those bottles have been there for a while).

Mi Nidito, Tuscon, AZ: One word, birria.  Spicy, saucy, delicioso, this is Sonoran food done to perfection.  A nice change from your California Mexican, Sonoran is a little smokier, more sultry...chiles with soul.  Eat anything with carne seca or birria and there's really no losing.

El Burrito Loco, St. Louis, MO: My college favorite! I used to beg my friends to make the 25 minute drive out to South Grand with me (especially once Mi Ranchito opened off Delmar).  If only for the chipotle chicken quesadilla.  Really, leave the burritos aside, chipotle chicken is where it's at! The owners hail from Chihuaha and import their cheese--well worth the carbon footprint.

Dos Toros Taqueria, Union Square, New York, NY: Started by a couple of Bay Area brothers (natch), by far the closest I've come to satisfying my burrito cravings in NYC.  Although with all the hype surrounding them these days, it's so popular the line is usually out the door...and nevermind chatting up the cute SF guys who work there.  Props for happily raised chicken and fresh ingredients--love the habanero hot sauce.

Cascabel Taqueria, UES, New York, NY: Carnitas carnitas carnitas. Yum.  Excellent crispy delicious carnitas tacos with those lovely Mexican onions that turn pink when you grill them just so.  The camarones are also divine--going back to try the tortas (I love me a good Mexican sandwich every now and then).

Taqueria Los Angeles, Puebla, Mexico: 1/2 kilo of al pastor with all the fixins for $4.  No words.  My heaven (see picture).

Honestly, I could go on for days.  Tacos for lunch, Sopa Azteca for dinner followed by a guacamole breakfast!  And I don't discriminate--I'm wide open to new deliciousness.  Now I have to start working on my menu for Wednesday when Spain takes on Switzerland. Go World!

"mucho es tanto, pero no culantro"

Like much of Central America, Panamanian food at its simplest follows the classic rice and beans structure accompanied by indigenous plants, root vegetables and local fish.  For flair, the epitome of Latin America: yuca (cassava) and culantro.

Platos tipicos include all manners of yuca--fried, boiled, steamed, and deep fried again (those Panamanians love their fried yuca the way Americans love french fries), as well as corvina (sea bass) most commonly found in ceviche or simply fried whole. 

Because of its role as an international gateway between both east and west as well as north and south, the influx of foreign foods into the Panamanian diet is astounding.  This brings the question of the globalization of cuisine to the forefront of modern Panama, particularly Panama City, who's restaurants run the gamut from Japanese sushi to Indian curry.

Contrary to popular belief, this is not a strictly modern phenomena.  Panama has long been host to global interests-from the Spanish conquest in the 1500s, to the French attempt to build the canal in the late 1800s, to American ownership of the canal zone until 1999.  Lest we not forget the lives and laborers who furthered the culinary dimensions of the region: Africans, Chinese, South and Central Americans, etc.  Layer upon layer of culinary richness inform the Panamanian diet, begging Anthony Bourdain's question: "Is Panama just the canal?"

Can you separate a strictly indigenous or Panamanian cuisine?  The national dish of Panama is alleged to be sancocho, a simple chicken soup with yuca, corn on the cob and a heady dose of culantro.  Yet sancocho is not specific to Panama--it is a meat stew common in many parts of Central and South America.

The origins of ceviche are hotly debated (is it a dish imported from coastal Spain by explorers seeking to preserve fish? There are also citations of ceviches made in Aztec society in central Mexico).  In Panama, the ceviche is usually raw corvina "cooked" with lime juice (the acid denatures the proteins, altering their structure similar to the way heat does) seasoned with onions and culantro.  Neither of these dishes have any strict geographical claim to Panama.  Is it the culantro, then, that makes it unique?

Culantro, as well, is common to many cuisines of Latin America, the Caribbean as well as those of Thailand and Vietnam.  A distant cousin of cilantro (in appearances closer to a primordial spiked romaine lettuce with an almost celery-esque fibrous stalk), culantro is decidedly more pungent than cilantro.  It is delicious (for lover's of cilantro, at least...word on the street is some people have a certain genetically inherited enzyme that makes cilantro taste like soap, thus the love it/hate it attitude, so much so that anti-cilantro web communities exist by the hundreds), and it flavored almost every dish i enjoyed in Panama--from ceviche, salsa, salad, stew, fish and chicken.  (Research seems to be pending on the soap-flavor enzyme, and it is unclear if this applies to culantro as well, I believe not).

Despite the constant exchange of foodways between Panama and the cuisines of the globe, it is indigenous ingredients like culantro that maintain a grasp on something purely Panamanian.  With roots dating back to pre-Columbian times, used by peoples over hundreds of years for both culinary and medicinal purposes, the flavor of culantro (to me at least) is the flavor of Panama.  Even more so as it is a local ingredient being incorporated into the ever-increasingly diverse realm of international cuisines on Panamanian soil.

Is it possible for any post-colonial country emerging in the 21st century to claim a "pure," local cuisine?  As long as societies have existed so too has globalization.  Obviously not on the grand scale we see today, but trade, the exchange of foodstuffs and information has long influenced the developmental trajectory of societies.  Even in the U.S. we struggle with defining our "national cuisine," as we have always prided ourselves as a melting pot of cultures and foodways.  Countries like Panama have an even bigger culinary burden to bear: maintaining an autonomous cuisine while incorporating the generations of chefs, cooks and ingredients who have made that country home.

[Interesting readings on exchange of foodstuffs through trade and exploration and globalized food: The Columbian Exchange by Alfred Crosby and Home Cooking in the Global Village by Richard Wilk.]

the Currency of Travel

I spent last week exploring Panama--from Panama City and the canal on the west coast to the eastern archipelago of San Blas. Beautiful, remote and sometimes very third world, I was amazed at the number of young European and North American backpackers I met.

Panama is fast-becoming the next hot stop on the Gringo Trail, yet I was amazed at the number of times I was asked, "How long are you traveling?" As if my week long vacation was something to be looked down upon, a lesser form of wanderlust.

What is the difference between vacation and travel? Semantically speaking, travel indicates a journey whereas vacation is a respite, yet in my mind the two are far from mutually exclusive. Isn't backpacking around South America nothing more than an extended respite from "real life"? No, it would seem not so. Fellow backpackers measured my coolness and authenticity based on the length of my travel. A week is merely a drop in the bucket (regardless of any past travel experiences; this is not cumulative over time).

It seems that in reaching the height of affluence and influence, the western world has spawned a generation of itinerant young travelers--the "backpacker generation," traveling the world on a budget with little more than their copy of Lonely Planet and a tentative plan. What amazed me was the ignorance with which these educated youths travel--with very little understanding of local cultures and an extremely basic grasp of language, they pack from hostel to hostel, befriending others like themselves in a never-ending party of one-up-manship and cervezas nacionales.

When not boasting of sites seen, the most common lament is an incessant whine over the "Westernization" (or more offensively, "Americanization") of post-colonial Latin America. While racking up passport stamps, backpackers are repeatedly offended by the presence of gluttonous consumption in the face of rural poverty. It is the epitome of irony, to arrive in a foreign land only to spend your time there partying with other people of similar backgrounds, ignoring local culture while complaining of the lack of it.

Granted this is an overarching generalization which is not to say that there are many backpackers who travel with reverence. However, of all the people I met in Panama not a single person could describe to me the food or the local way of life. Rather than exploring off the beaten path these travelers gauge the value of their experiences by time spent partying in hostels, drinking local rum (ok I’ll give them that—they are more than willing to sample local spirits and illicit substances).

What do they come home with, other than a serious tan, a few indigenous tschoschkes, and about 500 new facebook friends? The answer is unclear. A Canadian kid I met on a deserted Caribbean island told me he had been living in Nicaragua for four months working as a dive instructor. He then asked me how to say "cup" in Spanish, admitting that although living in Central America he could barely speak a word of the language. With an astounding narrowmindedness toward food and culture (another fellow island guest refused to eat fish freshly caught from the sea, preferring instead chicken that the chef had boated in from the nearby mainland).

It seems grossly hypocritical to bellyache about globalization and westernization when it is precisely these attitudes that young travelers are bringing to the locations they visit. It is not just those who travel that promote this sort of cultural ignorance--backpacker movies have long depicted youths ready to live it up in foreign lands, only to stumble ignorantly into tragedy. (See this list of best backpacking movies)

Although backpacking has long been viewed as the most "authentic" means of travel, the consumptive way of life embodied by the wandering traveler seems to completely undermine any genuine cultural experience. Which begs the question: as globalization continues to bring more and more developing countries under the wing of global capitalism, is there such a thing as an authentic travel experience? It cannot be enough to say you've seen Machu Picchu or to flip through your passport stamps with abandon. I believe to really experience a place you have to step outside your comfort zone--away from the hostels, the bars, the famous beaches--to see the other side of life. The daily goings on of the laborer, what he eats, where he drinks and sleeps. How women are treated, how food is prepared, who works, who doesn't, who cooks what, etc.

Until popular culture ceases to glorify the wandering youthful indulgence typified in novels and film (see "The Gringo Trail" or "The Beach") it may be too much to ask for travelers to seek the underlying truths of a place. However, I must say, I think I learned more about people (from both the third and first worlds) on my week-long vacation than any of the people I met spending months on end hopping from one gringo bar to the next.