American Plate - Bite #89: McDonald's

Of all the Bites of this project, there may not be one as controversial as McDonald's, and as such, may not be one so quintessentially American. This country certainly likes to display both its benefits and detriments full-force, and McDonald's certainly encompasses both. Fast food has had a variety of reputations in American history, but its rise came right alongside the ascension of gourmet cooking. One was not a response to the other.

Brothers Dick and Mac McDonald opened their first restaurant in 1948, and the story of what happened to their business is pretty darned American as well. They set everything up. It was their idea to cook things in an assembly line fashion and to rigorously train their clean-cut employees in specializing in particular tasks. Once Dick designed the familiar golden arch logo, it wasn't long before they'd expanded to multiple franchises.

Their happiness was not to last. A salesman named Ray Kroc who sold them the milkshake mixers invested in their business, and bought it outright six years later. What the book glosses over is how much he screwed the McDonald brothers over in the process, the story of which is told by The Founder, a movie I keep meaning to get to.

Obviously, McDonald's has come a long way since then, expanding into a global phenomenon with specialized dishes in different regions. They've certainly had their share of public ups and downs. In the '80s, McDonald's was a godsend to beleaguered parents who just wanted something cheap and tasty to keep the kids happy, and the Happy Meal was a huge step towards ensuring brand loyalty early. Recently, though, examinations of McDonald's by things such as Fast Food Nation and Super Size Me have really hit the company in the pocketbook, and they've begun to struggle against competitors that tout healthier food.

O'Connell and I have a similar take on the matter, which is that McDonald's food may not be the healthiest thing on the planet, but it certain has a place in the American food landscape, and isn't a total blight. Admittedly, after reading Fast Food Nation, I only allow myself to eat at McDonald's once or twice a year (or on road trips), so those pics above were a rare treat for me. I also worked for a few years at McDonald's as a teen, and maintain that it taught me very valuable job skills; everyone should have to work at a service job like this when they're young.

On the occasions that I actually allow myself to indulge in McDonald's food, I'm always happy with the result. It's become fashionable to bash on them, but in my mind, there's nothing wrong with a good ol' fashioned Quarter Pounder with Cheese, with some of those iconic fries on the side. And when it comes to breakfast, there may not be a breakfast sandwich on Earth that can compete with a Bacon, Egg, and Cheese. Is it good for me? Hell, no. But I had one anyway, because that's what being American is all about.

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American Plate - Bite #39: Mint Juleps

A lot of the foods and drinks in this project are things I couldn't wait to get to. Yay, I get to dive face-first into a bunch of pizza or sushi or barbecue! This is the first Bite (or Sip, really) that I was a little reluctant to get to. I'm in the minority on that one; most people have nothing but nice things to say about mint juleps. The word julep is from the Persian word gulab, which means "rose-water", but connotes any refreshing drink.

They're made by mixing mint, water, confectioners' sugar, crushed ice, and bourbon. Often associated with the Kentucky Derby, mint juleps are a popular drink all throughout the spring and early summer, and not just when watching the ponies. The first record of an iced mint cocktail in America is from 1803, but it didn't take long to become more widespread. By 1820, distillers had already standardized the sour mash process in places like Bourbon Country, Kentucky, which is where the liquor takes its name from (it certainly sounds better than "corn whiskey").

Over the course of the 19th century, an influx of Scottish and Irish immigrants brought their distilling knowledge with them, and whiskey eventually replaced rum as America's favorite liquor. It packed a punch, and could be distilled locally, which eliminated the need to import or smuggle booze. Though mint juleps started out as a Southern cocktail, Senator Henry Clay is credited with introducing it to the high society folks in Washington, DC. From there, it joined the ranks of elegant drinks nationwide.

So why my reluctance? Well, two reasons. I don't really drink a lot of bourbon and I don't really eat a lot of mint. Bourbon tends to hit me pretty hard, so I have to try and take it easy. Mint is an ingrained prejudice, but one I'm slowly getting over. I still detest sweet mint dessert flavoring, so I'm that lone voice in the wild that disdains Thin Mints, mint ice cream, Peppermint Patties, grasshopper milkshakes, etc.

Fresh mint, though, is a lot more enjoyable. I tend to like it the most in savory dishes, but on an evening when a springtime rainstorm had just swept through, and my friend asked me to pick some mint from his garden in order to make these drinks, how could I resist?

So, what was the verdict? They were actually very tasty! I doubt I'd be able to drink a bunch of them without getting completely blitzed, but kicking back with a couple of them to while away a pleasant spring evening with friends was the perfect reintroduction to a drink I hadn't given much of a chance before.

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Research: The Brunch Backlash

We are always in the midst of a lot of shifting social conventions. You never know what aspect of society these shifts will affect, and in an odd twist of fate, the ostensibly simple concept of brunch has become a big target.

A target of what? You name it. Sometimes, it’s singled out as the purview of irresponsible people with nothing more productive to do with their time. Chefs are accused of using brunch as an excuse to peddle substandard food, and diners are accused of using brunch as an excuse to eat without the courtesies afforded to the other meals of the day (tipping, for example).

There’s also the big matter of race and class privilege. It's tough to articulate, and I’m finding it tough to land on a position in regards to protesters’ tactic of interrupting diners’ brunches in order to address issues such as police brutality. It’s definitely an issue worth addressing, and the activists have a point when they point out that brunch is a public gathering at which a lot of affluent people who feel unaffected by the conflict tend to gather. Getting their attention is precisely the goal. It’s just such a strange situation we find ourselves in, in which it’s considered safe to assume that someone who’s done nothing more than go out to eat waffles must either be uneducated or uncaring.

Even leaving that aside, brunch has been facing some tough critics lately, not least of which springs from an article in the New York Times, which proudly proclaimed that “Brunch Is for Jerks“. Lots of people jumped into the fray after that, complaining about the self-entitled hipsters who pat themselves on the back for being so awesome as they guzzle their bottomless mimosas. Or they wrote about how terrible brunch is for the poor, overworked service industry.

If you’re a fan of brunch, take heart. Defenders have started swinging back against the haters.

All of these overwrought articles have left me more puzzled than anything else. I’m neither smug with satisfaction that these brunch-eating jackasses are finally getting what’s coming to them, nor am I angry at the snarky writers taking aim at these innocent diners just trying to enjoy some eggs and a drink with friends. It’s more a wonder at just how symbolic brunch has become for highlighting so many American social issues.

Who knows how much further the battle will go? Perhaps “Bloody Mary” will take on a terrifyingly literal meaning as the war over brunch gets waged.

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Research: The Pepper Heat Index

People are always competing to set some extreme record or other. Who’s built the tallest building? Who can swim the farthest? Who can live the longest? Competitions are not confined to the human race, though. For example, every time we think we’ve discovered the hottest pepper on Earth, another upstart comes along to set an even more painful fire on our tongues. In the past few years, the Ghost Chile, the Naga Viper, the Trinidad Scorpion Moruga, and the Carolina Reaper have all held the coveted title of Hottest Pepper. There are so many different types of pepper, though. Where do they all fit in? And how do we go about comparing heat levels from pepper to pepper?

Until recently, the traditional method has always been the Scoville scale, named after a test that Wilbur Scoville devised in 1912. That scale measures Scoville heat units (SHU), which is a function of capsaicin concentration in each pepper. Way down at the bottom are our friends the bell peppers, which have a SHU of zero. Then come the milder zings like paprika and pimiento, which won’t crack a SHU of 1,000. In the 1,000-3,500 SHU range, you’ll find Pam’s and my current pepper of choice, the poblano. Jalapeño is the level above that, in the range that goes up to 10,000 SHU.

From 10,000-30,000 SHU, you’ll find serrano peppers and peperoncino. Cayenne and tobasco peppers lie in the 30,000-50,000 SHU range, while 50,000-100,000 SHU contains lesser known peppers, such as piri piri and malagueta. My painful experience with habanero makes sense, because it shares the 100,000-350,000 SHU range with Scotch bonnets. A specific type of habanero called “Red Savina” lies between 350,000-580,000 SHU, but even that pales in comparison to the peppers I mentioned in my opening paragraph. None of those peppers is less than 855,000 SHU.

All that SHU measurement is nice, but there’s a fatal flaw in the Scoville scale. It’s completely subjective, which I was shocked to learn. Decreasing concentrations of the extracted capsinoids are given to a panel of five trained tasters, until a majority (at least three) can no longer detect the heat in a dilution. OK, but... People’s taste buds differ from each other, and even on the same tongue, a taster’s receptors can be worn out or overused with multiple tastings, changing the results. Can you imagine if the official daily temperature was taken by people wandering outside and saying “Eh. It feels like it’s about 56° F today.”

Fortunately, these days, there’s a system that’s a lot more scientific. Using high-performance liquid chromatography, it can be determined how many parts-per-million of alkaloids (the heat-causing agents) are present in any given pepper.

Tastes in pepper heat vary across cultures (Asians seem to favor a sharp punch of heat at the beginning, while Americans favor a lower heat that sustains for a longer period of time), and some people have made it a personal mission to find the upper limit of what their taste buds can handle. I’ll leave all that record-grabbing to them, and just enjoy the gentler wallop of a dish spiked with cayenne.

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Research: Goulash

I love paprika, but I am far from its only fan. Paprika is especially popular in Hungary (the plant that yields it has been grown in Budapest since 1529), and frankly, I don't have a lot of experience with the best-known use of it: Goulash. Goulash is the national dish of Hungary, though it’s a popular dish worldwide. Paprika is the sole defining feature of goulash – all of its other components are variable. Paprika was used from the very beginning; the first recorded goulash recipe in 1748 specifically recommended its use. Hungary loves paprika so much that they haven’t even restricted its use to the culinary world. During the 1831 cholera epidemic, Hungarians used red paprika powder, red paprika schnapps, and red paprika wine as medicine. I can’t recommend following this treatment regimen for any illness you might contract, though, so let’s stick to paprika’s use in goulash.

There seems to be some internet confusion over whether it’s more properly referred to as a soup or a stew, so let’s indulge in some research history. Let’s see… Goulash is eaten hot, served as a main dish, and though paprika is the most important ingredient, its flavors center around the meat and vegetables. Survey says: Stew.

Goulash traces back to the 9th century, to stews eaten by Hungarian shepherds. Cooked and flavored meat was dried with the help of the sun, and packed into bags made from sheep stomachs. Just add water, and the meal is complete. In fact, the word goulash derives from gulya, which is Hungarian for “herd of cattle”. Goulash can be made from pretty much any meat, from beef to veal to pork to lamb. It’s typically made from shank, shin, or shoulder cuts. Those cuts are rich in collagen, and when they break down, the collagen converts to gelatin, giving goulash its thick texture. This may be why goulash is one of the few stews that does not rely on flour or roux as a base.

The meat is cut into chunks, seasoned with salt, and then browned with sliced onion in a pot with oil (or lard, if you’re going old-school). Paprika is added, along with water or stock, and then left to simmer. Then you add garlic, whole or ground caraway seed, and vegetables such as carrots, parsley roots, bell peppers, or celery. Other herbs and spices are also generally added (chili pepper, bay leaf, and thyme, usually). Diced potatoes are a popular addition, since they provide starch as they cook, which makes the goulash thicker and smoother. A small amount of white wine or wine vinegar may also be added near the end of cooking to round out the taste. Modern cooks have also started adding tomato, but those are not included in “traditional” goulash. Once it’s done, the goulash can be served with egg noodles, called csipetke in Hungary. Csipetke are not a side of pasta, though. They’re prepared by boiling them in the goulash itself.

Those are just the basics of Hungarian goulash. There are tons of variations:

Gulyás à la Székely: Reduces the amount of potatoes, and adds sauerkraut and sour cream.

Gulyás Hungarian Plain Style: Omits the csipetke, and adds vegetables.

Mock Gulyás: Substitutes beef bones for the meat, and adds vegetables. Also called Hamisgulyás (Fake Goulash).

Bean Gulyás: Omits the potatoes and the caraway seeds, and uses kidney beans instead.

Csángó Gulyás: Adds sauerkraut, and omits the csipetke and potatoes.

Betyár Gulyás. Uses smoked beef or smoked pork for the meat.

Likócsi Pork Gulyás: Uses pork and thin vermicelli in the goulash instead of potatoes and csipetke, and is flavored with lemon juice.

Mutton Gulyás: Uses mutton as the meat, and adds red wine for flavor. Also called Birkagulyás.

There are also countless variations on goulash in other countries. Since I'm writing this from America, I’ll just mention American goulash briefly. The American tweak is a casserole mentioned in cookbooks dating back to 1914, and has plenty of its own variations. Originally it was a seasoned beef dish, but now usually includes various kinds of pasta (usually macaroni or egg noodles), ground beef cooked with onions/garlic, and tomatoes. Cheese, melted into the dish during the cooking process, can also be added. Now that’s American. At least we have the good grace to maintain the use of paprika to connect it back to its Hungarian origins.

How about putting this research to good use? Instead of the usual pot roast or meatloaf at your next dinner party, how about trying out a hearty goulash? Your guests will thank you! Maybe even in Hungarian.

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Research: The Reputation of American Fruitcake

A couple of Decembers ago, my friend Chris and I enjoyed some of the truly wonderful julekake he had baked for the first time. And a couple of days later, I devoured a terrific little pannetone cake that came in a Foods of the World assortment. If other countries have mastered the method for baking an actually tasty fruitcake, why does that word send a shiver down every American spine?

In a way, terrible fruitcake is all our fault. Back in the 16th century, European fruitcake was humming along quite nicely as a symbol of a successful harvest season, when suddenly, cheap sugar poured in from the American colonies. Candying fruit became a simple way of preserving it, making it available to places with a dearth of fresh produce. Inserting the sugared fruit into cake was a convenient way of making a buck, and since fruitcakes were heavily produced in the American South, cheap surplus nuts found their way into the recipe as well. Soaking it in booze helped counteract some of the sweetness, and no doubt gave people a handy way of coping with their families around the holidays.

Fruitcake was popular enough to become a Christmas staple, so what precipitated its fall from grace? A lot of it has to do with marketing, a problem that plagues white bread as well. In the early 20th century, industrialization transformed the food landscape. Mass-produced fruitcakes were sold via mail-order, and these newly available cakes definitely did not represent the height of quality. Fruitcakes became heavy and dry.

From there, its popularity began a steady decline it has never recovered from. It became associated with other bygone recipes of your grandmother’s kitchen, like aspic casseroles. Tales and jokes about people’s hatred of fruitcake proliferated; one article I found mentioned a soldier who received a gift of fruitcake on the front lines of WWII, shoved it in his bag, and discovered the uneaten cake 40 years later in his mother’s attic. Johnny Carson joked that “The worst gift is fruitcake. There is only one fruitcake in the entire world, and people keep sending it to each other,” a jibe that people have been repeating almost word-for-word to this day.

Some American bakeries claim that fruitcake is making a comeback, but this doesn’t really pass the sniff test. Christmas baking displays often exclude them. Restaurants don’t serve them. Nobody I’ve talked to about it can seem to remember the last time they spotted one at a family gathering, unless one was served as a joke.

It’s not all bad news for fruitcake, though. There does seem to be one country that appreciates American fruitcake. Japan apparently can’t get enough of the stuff, enjoying the sweetness of the fruit and the dense texture of the cake. So, in the interest of the season of goodwill, let’s strike up a mutually-beneficial trade agreement. Japan can have all of our fruitcakes, and we’ll take Norway’s.

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American Plate - Bite #52: Oysters Rockefeller

John D. Rockefeller is heavily associated with New York City, but the Big Apple has pretty much nothing to do with the iconic dish that carries his name. For that, we have to jet to another one of America's well-known food destinations. In 1840, French immigrant Antoine Alciatore founded Antoine's Restaurant in New Orleans, and it was an immediate hit, which makes sense, given the city's embrace of its citizens' Cajun and Creole backgrounds. In fact, if you'd like to have a more personal experience with this restaurant, you can, as it's amazingly still in operation, having been owned and run by the Alciatore family since the very beginning.

Antoine's son Jules is who really put the restaurant on the map. In 1899, he created the original recipe for Oysters Rockefeller. Its status as a decadent dish with an indulgent, rich green sauce inspired the name; if you're going to serve a fancy dish as a status symbol, why not name it after one the Gilded Age's wealthiest and most notorious financiers? Since then, Antoine's has served more than three million servings of this iconic dish, and its popularity has spread across the country.

The fact that this dish was invented at and served at a restaurant is no mistake. When have you ever had Oysters Rockefeller at home? Some dishes and ingredients are welcome in multiple dining spheres, but these almost demand to be eaten out in public, which is exactly what I did.

They're deceptively simple. Oysters Rockefeller is just oysters topped with other ingredients (usually parsley and other green herbs, bread crumbs, and a rich butter sauce) and then baked or broiled. That said, I've never had two servings that have tasted the same. Every restaurant seems to have a different twist on this classic.

As you can see, the ones pictured above were served on ice in order to keep them chilly, and they turned out to be quite good. I like eating oysters in pretty much all their forms (on the half shell, fried, and so on), but Oysters Rockefeller will always have a special connotation in my brain. It's a dish to be enjoyed out on the town, and as such, are symbolic of a certain kind of fun and friendship. That's a pretty impressive accomplishment for such an unpretentious little preparation.

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