Oysters, Pearls, and Occupation

Today, protests erupted all over the world, some peaceful, some less so, from New York to Berlin to Tokyo. While movements like Occupy Wall Street have been ongoing (if unrecognized), responses to the events in Egypt, Syria and Tunisia earlier this year have spurred protests from the Spanish indignados to the Greek debt crisis--suffice it to say, something is going on here and it's not good. Criticized for the lack of unified message, the mere fact that there is a global outcry against the capitalist financial system points to the fact that perhaps these disparate issues (climate change, income inequality, nuclear power, food insecurity, you pick your hot button) are framing a more frightening problem: the system we built is broken, and the people in power are not interested in or capable of fixing it.

Long a political tool (Boston Tea Party, anyone? No, I'm not referring to a Bachmann support rally) and an increasingly important political issue in this day and age, it's easy to see the connection between food and the evils of corporate capitalism, and today's use of food as a protest of these issues asks important questions about the systems and cultures we support and promote. Wednesday's NY Times Dining & Wine section featured a fascinating article on the food chain supply at the Occupy Wall Street protests--an interesting look at how counter-cultures come about as well as a nice spotlight on the movement itself. Yet, this article ran under an almost full-page spread of restaurant critic Sam Sifton's final review (before he assumes the position of National Editor) of Thomas Keller's Per Se. Opened in 2004, Per Se represents that kind of American dining that reached its pinnacle at the turn of the 21st century--attention to ingredients with a dose of fine dining opulence or what Sifton calls the best restaurant in NY with a seamless combination of "French pretension with control-freaky West Coast pedantry" (and an obvious tendency toward high-culture hedonistic satisfaction, if you ask me).

In these recession-wary times this style of consumption is both outdated and offensive; as a food culture we have moved toward a more simplistic version of fine dining where fine equates to 'from the earth', traceable and fresh, and where sustainability is more important than deconstruction or molecular manipulation. That Sifton fails to acknowledge that We are the 99% can't even dream of a meal where "dinner for two can scratch at $1,000 — or about the same as the median weekly household income in New York State," let alone that the writer's self-aggrandizing farewell took top billing over the fascinating and ongoing confluence of food, politics and protest, puts the issue of income disparity into sharp relief. Is Per Se the best restaurant in NYC? The answer is irrelevant. The times they are a-changing, and the growing economic tumult and political unrest at home and abroad should have us (and Sifton) asking more challenging questions than whether an appetizer is a food or "a poem about creaminess".

What is certain is that there is something going on here, and that food will play an important role in how these issues are framed, represented and fought. Be it the "The Big Shift" or "The Great Disruption" our world is changing, our place in it less certain--it is up to us to choose where and how we want our voices to be heard. Political reform and fundamental change is always daunting, but if we have learned anything is should be that revolution truly can start on our plate.

Come On Irene...or the second most overused weekend wordplay, Rock You Like a Hurricane

Well, it's been a wonky week here in NYC. First an earthquake rocked the East Coast on Tuesday (as a Californian I am inclined to chuckle at the spastic reaction, but then again, as my 60 floor building swayed to and fro--despite my natural instinct to automatically duck & cover--it's quite counter-intuitive to wrap your head around the earth shaking on this side of the country)...and then we spent the weekend with Irene.

Bloomberg is taking some heat and some praise--shutting down mass transit, evacuating low lying areas of the city--but let's face it, we all bitched and moaned during Snowmaggedon, so no matter what Mayor Mike did this round he was gonna take some heat. But, with mass transit back up and running Monday AM and property damage and loss of life at a relative low, it's hard to say we weren't well prep'd. (On a personal note, I was never the biggest Bloomby fan, but after a weekend spent cooped up indoors watching four press conferences on NY1--his subtly unbuttoned shirt collars and gravely voice, telling us all to quit our bitching and stay safe, I gotta say I dig the guy).

So what really happened in NY this weekend? There's a lot of press going on about the sense of community amongst New Yorkers who rally together in disasters, but I am inclined to disagree. The reality is a bunch of individuals cooped up in their respective cubby holes, bitching about the inconveniences of limited services, lack of transportation, venturing out to buy up the last of the hurricane supplies (mainly beer, wine, and liquor although there was not a flashlight to be found on the island after 5pm Friday night), and then complaining that we were forced to eat and drink indoors on one of the last remaining summer weekends (the fear of impending Labor Day looms larger than a Cat 1 hurricane).

Stores, shops, restaurants, and empty groceries all boarded up (let's face it, bars really were our only option), the city was on lockdown after the subway closed at noon on Saturday. And god forbid we wait over 15 minutes for groceries. Watching cheese platters, salumis and quinoa salads (no more 11-grain whole wheat sandwich bread?! you mean the sushi guys aren't working today?! how on earth will we survive?!) fly off the West Village shelves Saturday morning was an interesting lesson in emergency preparedness. Easy for Manhattanites to complain, while our doormen and building employees were forced to spend the weekend in our basements monitoring storm damage. It makes one realize how those who live in the furthest boroughs are really the people who make the city run, without whom all of NY life's little conveniences (the bodegas, the cab rides, the deliveries) aren't possible.

While the storm was less intense than expected, Sunday morning was an eerie calm--no comforting rumble of trains beneath ground, no horns honking and not a cab in sight on 7th Ave, it was a surprisingly lonely and deserted city. But as yesterday's afternoon winds blew out the remaining clouds, the sunset was truly nature's silver lining to a weekend, if not well-spent, then at least interestingly-spent.

It's hard not to feel like something has changed today. As the plywood is discarded and tape comes off the windows, cloudless skies, humidity-less sunshine and a hint of fall in the air really do make it feel like we have started fresh. By far the most beautiful day we have had all summer, it's difficult not to feel warm about the city and people of New York. Like I said, it's been a wonky week.

Pop-Up Madness

Admittedly one of my least favorite "foodie" trends over the last two years has been the overabundance of pop-up everything. Don't get me wrong--born and raised on VH1's Pop Up Video (the original pop-up) has me hooked on assorted fun facts and little known backstories. But these days, as the economy continues to struggle pop-ups are moving beyond food trucks and restaurants, into the realm of everyday life.

Maybe it's a jaded New Yorker thing (in honor of today being my two year anniversary living in the Big Apple), but I'm popped out. In my neighborhood alone (thanks, in large part, to the demise of St. Vincent's Hospital) pop-up shops are a dime a dozen--cupcakes, ice cream, designers, two month "once in a lifetime" chef's specials...suffice it to say I'm over it.
Until the new section of the High Line opened, and bringing with it a POP UP ROLLER RINK. Easily wooed by anything related to four wheels and red rubber stoppers, I just had to check it out.

Summer is prime pop-up time, when seasonal foodstuffs and nice weather get together to bring the East Coast a unique local bounty that is nearly impossible to come across the rest of the year. Boosted by the Colicchio's The Lot on Tap (featuring a Brooklyn Brewery High Line Hef and a series of specialty food trucks), Uniqlo sponsors the roller rink. A vacant parking lot transformed into a roller rink with beer and food sounds like my heaven, but I have to say, I was less than impressed.

Lacking the circumference of regulation rinks, the High Line roller rink feels exactly what it is--pop-up. $12 dollars for entrance and a pair of skates which have been god only knows where (and personally I prefer more ankle support) for a bumpy lot in which to perform small circles. How about we take some of the proceeds and build a permanent fixture in a neighborhood that, thanks to the High Line, is primed for a serious resurgence? And if that fixture just happens to be a smooth-as-silk roller rink for those of us who are disco-inclined, all the better.

Limited time pop-ups are selling us all short. So focused are we on the novelty of latest trends (ah novelty, one of the great American pastimes to be sure), that we are willing to forfeit quality and staying power. In the grand tradition of free-market capitalism it has become socially acceptable to get in, make money, and get out before anyone can tell how viable, socially responsible or ethically relevant a pop-up business is. Pop-ups literally do not have to do anything well to be a short-lived success--so eager for the "next best thing," we are being blinded by an avalanche of newfangled showmanship. For my money, better to spend some quality time with the super groovy folks at the Central Park Dance Skate Association....for now I'll keep working on my spins.


...and a coincidentally well-timed article on the Gastronomics of Pop-Ups

Verliebt in Berlin

What's more fun and delicious than currywurst, that clever German concoction of spiced sausage smothered in curried ketchup over fries? A Baudrillardian simulacra made of Marzipan of course!!

A new look for the Ranchero...which means more new posts, pics and thoughts from travels around the big wide world!

SPRING BREAK

After another lengthy absence (the to-dos of life and grad school often impede time and travel), I have returned again, from a relaxing spring break (not in the pop-culture, neon wristband, all-you-can-drink, Cabo sense...more an actual break from schoolwork involving actual downtime occurring during spring--although it was in Mexico).

Detroit is not a destination I readily associate with Mexico, although my recent trip to Puerto Vallarta and its environs forced me to begin my journey at seven o’clock in the morning at the Detroit Metropolitan Airport (a quick jaunt from Newark). Accustomed to arriving in Mexico from New York or California (my usual jumping-off points), my multi-cultural sensitivities were appalled by what I perceived to be the overwhelming pale of my fellow travelers—the homogeneity of the crowd in Corona t-shirts and brand new flip-flops forced me to acknowledge that, while I may not want to belong in this group, I certainly looked the part (I had even foregone my New Yorker black in anticipation of my tropical adventure).

A brief survey of the waiting area as well as a mid-flight lap down the aisle confirmed that was in fact not a single Mexican flying to Mexico, forcing me to acknowledge my part in this cohort of tourists (a word at which I cringe despite the fact that I often find myself traveling as one). I like to think of myself as a traveler rather than a tourist (a distinction I will explore later) so the conversations I overheard (“Mexicans hate Americans,” “We are going to do nothing but drink tequila and sit at the resort,” “Spring Break 2011—how do you say ‘shot’ in Mexican?”) left me feeling embarrassed by the rowdy, overfriendly crowd. As the wheels touched down in Puerto Vallarta and the pilot announced our arrival with a Southern twang, not a word of Spanish was spoken and my discomfort with all of the colonialist connotations of “spring break” reached a pinnacle.

Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett (BKG) suggests in the contemporary tourism economy consumers (tourists) crave experiences that the industry manufactures to “create ‘an effect called the real world’…one of tourism’s most valuable assets.” In contrast, I propose that travelers explore the real “lifespace,” to use BKG’s term, “the ‘real world,’ available everywhere, always open, and free of charge,” unmediated by the tourism industry’s attempts to commodify local culture. Jeffrey Pilcher acknowledges that certain visitors from the United States have often embraced Hispanic culture as a countercultural protest to mainstream American capitalist practices. These bohemian adventurers come close to what I define as a traveler, “in search of more authentic and natural experiences,” seeking out the true lifespace of local peoples, places not mediated by the tourist industry’s constructed cultures (selected based on consumer expectations and notions of what, realistically, can sell). In this case and by contrast, tourists (like a majority those on my plane) arrive in Mexico expecting a watered-down version of Hispanic culture, “demand[ing] to eat their familiar fajitas, margaritas, chips, and salsa,” while absorbing vast quantities of cheap beer and all-you-can-eat resort buffets, largely ignoring the goings on of the peripheral lifespaces that are serving their needs.

It goes without saying that I prefer to categorize myself squarely in the role of traveler rather than tourist, although upon deeper reflection I find that these categories are not hard and fast, just as I have previously (in this same forum) been hyper critical of self-proclaimed travelers who completely ignore the lifespaces in which they find themselves, preferring to establish their cultural capital by collecting passport stamps rather than 'lifespace experiences'. I found the constructed nature of Puerto Vallarta stifling. It brings to mind BKG’s discussion of density and saturation with regards to tourist sites. She argues that industry-created lifespaces (such as resorts) are value-added and therefore more profitable than the true lifespace; furthermore, value-added lifespaces have the benefit of removing the “dead space between attractions,” thus doing away with the messy (or less attractive) aspects of real life.

Personally, I find the low-density lifespaces to be the most appealing, the nooks and crannies where lives are lived instead of performed for my benefit. In Puerto Vallarta the coastline is crammed with end-to-end resorts such that the essence of any real lifespace is all but removed. While there are still neighborhoods that retain local flavor, these are only accessible by the rickety, local bus into the hills of the inner city, leaving most tourists with a view only of the high-density spaces the industry wants them to see (recall my airplane compatriots claiming they were excited to eat and drink, never leaving the confines of their all-inclusive resort, in effect only seeing Mexico as it is assembled for them). The main resort strip in Puerto Vallarta is dually evocative of BKG’s issue of site saturation, what she describes as the influx of tourists ultimately displacing the local cultures that presented the initial appeal. In Puerto Vallarta, the old town is overrun with Hard Rock Cafes, McDonalds’ and Senor Frogs’ to the point that the historical charm is lost under the rubble of corporate capitalism and glittery, oversized sombreros vying for the all-important dollar.

All of which begs the question: as global tourism brings an influx of travelers and tourists into local lifespaces, are we subsequently eliminating the vibrancy that attracted us in the first place? Like a copy of a copy, is it possible to maintain the lifespace in a constructed and controlled environment? I highly doubt it, which forces the true traveler (in the sense of cultural adventurer) to step further and further from the beaten path. And in doing so, reveal the double-edged sword of travel: by forging a path into a heretofore 'undiscovered' village/beach/restaurant we are, in effect, opening it up as a site of tourism for those who come after us. Beneficial to the local economy but detrimental to those seeking 'authentic' experience--is there any authenticity left in the globalized world of information (and people) exchange? Do true lifespaces exist or are they merely the leftovers of tourist sites? As travel necessarily requires a degree of tourism (a traveler by any other name), these tensions weigh heavily as food for thought.

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!