by Jim Gaffigan
SETTLER: I think I just want to go out West.
GOVERNMENT OFFICIAL: Did I mention the lakes in the Midwest? Great lakes. In fact, one is so great they named it Superior. There’s Great Plains, Great Lakes, great everything. Did I mention it’s the breadbasket of the country? Bread is free in the Midwest.
SETTLER: Uh, okay. I guess I’ll go.
So in the true spirit of the American settlers, we set up camp in the middle of nowhere, were bored and freezing, and we created delicious food that would be perfect to eat in February while drinking beer and watching football.
Chicago
I grew up in Northwest Indiana, which is a suburb of Chicago. I love telling people in Chicago I’m from Indiana. There is usually a perplexed look of “Where’s that?” I then explain that Indiana is the bordering state, which is ten minutes away. I had one Chicago woman describe Indiana to me as “the state with the road to Michigan in it.” All these insults aside, I forgive you, Chicago. I love Chicago and Chicago food.
Chicago is famous for its deep-dish pizza, but that is not the only local specialty. If a city is lucky, they will have one food specialty. Buffalo has wings. Philly has the cheesesteak. Chicago has so many. The best hot dog, the best Italian beef, and, of course, the best pizza are all in Chicago. Now, before Northeasterners get all defensive about New York–style/New Jersey–style/New Haven–style pizza, let’s embrace this fact: there is great pizza in many different cities, but Chicago is the only place to get deep dish. It’s the only place that deep dish makes sense. Only Midwesterners would be patient enough to wait an hour for deep dish or gluttonous enough to actually eat deep dish.
Just a little snack before I go onstage in Chicago.
Chicago deep dish takes forever to cook and costs as much as four New York–style pizzas. Chicago deep dish is a commitment. You arrive at Uno’s, Giordano’s, Gino’s East, or Lou Malnati’s and place your order, and then you wait and wait for what seems like a lifetime. At times it feels like they are purposely tormenting you to make the deep-dish pizza seem all the more appealing. I actually make a point of not showing up hungry when I go out for a Chicago deep-dish pizza. It would be torture. To kill time, you eat a salad with provolone, salami, and pepperoncini in it and drink a pitcher of beer like you are preparing yourself for some kind of long, difficult journey of waiting. Finally your pizza arrives in a pan carried by your server with some kind of clamp contraption that I’m pretty sure is the same one they use to shape molten glass. After the first slice you are full, and you should be. You’ve eaten roughly three pounds of food that is baked on top of a crispy, cake-like crust. There is never a reason to eat more than one slice of deep dish, but you forge on. The wait has built an enthusiasm and excitement in you that can’t be quelled by just one slice. Most humans stop after two slices, but I like to think of myself as a superhuman. My brother Joe, who lives in Chicago, makes fun of my love for Chicago-style deep-dish pizza. “It’s for tourists.” I don’t care. Last March I brought my nine- and eight-year-olds for their first deep dish, and they thought it was weird. Weird? I immediately demanded a paternity test to see if they were actually my children.
Wisconsin
Every December Jeannie and I and our five hundred children travel to Milwaukee for the holidays. It’s hard enough to eat healthy during the holidays. In Wisconsin, it’s impossible. We usually are in Wisconsin for about ten pounds. That means one week for those of you who have never visited Wisconsin. That is how time is measured in Wisconsin. Well, it should be.
“How long have you been in Wisconsin?”
“Forty pounds.”
“Oh, you came during Summerfest.”
I don’t know if it’s possible to visit Wisconsin and not gain weight. Eating healthy doesn’t seem like an option in Wisconsin. I don’t think they even sell salads. And why should they? Wisconsin is the home of the butter burger, the kringle, the bratwurst, and cheese. Lots and lots of cheese. Eating healthy in Wisconsin makes as much sense as going to rehab in Amsterdam. It just doesn’t work.
Some of my favorite things on this planet are from Wisconsin: beer, bratwurst, cheese, and, of course, my wife, Jeannie, in that order. Good food is everywhere you look. If you visit someone’s house in Wisconsin, a cheese plate is put out. It could be eleven in the morning or ten o’clock at night. There will be a tray with Cheddar cheese and summer sausage. As a result of this plethora of edible happiness, people in Wisconsin eat all the time. Eating is important in Wisconsin. Even their beloved Green Bay football team is called the Packers. The state is about eating. It makes sense that the serial killer from Milwaukee was also eating his victims. He was simply doing what a serial killer from Wisconsin should do.
Cincinnati
Often there seems to be logic behind a local specialty. Omaha and Texas should have great steaks, given the cattle that are raised and packaged there. Italian beef in Chicago and bratwurst in Wisconsin make sense, given the Italian and German immigrants who settled there. From my uneducated viewpoint, chili makes no sense for Cincinnati. Even what they do with the chili in Cincinnati makes no sense. They serve it over pasta. Yet somehow it works. Chili in Cincinnati is not just a local culinary specialty. It is an industry. There are thriving fast-food chili franchises in the Cincinnati area. The story goes that a Greek immigrant in the 1920s wanted to cater to the local taste buds, so he started serving chili over spaghetti at his hot dog stand, which I’m pretty sure makes no sense whatsoever. Either way, Cincinnati chili does appeal to people like me who have trouble deciding between two entrées. I’m always amazed that they have drive-thru chili places. For sure, the most dangerous item to eat in a car would have to be spaghetti, with chili a close second. I’m surprised they don’t make you eat it with chopsticks. Texting while driving seems less complicated.
St. Louis
St. Louis is famous for its thin-crust pizza, which almost seems like an overreaction to the Chicago deep-dish pizza, but when I contemplate St. Louis food I think of toasted ravioli. Maybe in St. Louis they call a deep fryer a toaster, because I’m pretty sure St. Louis toasted ravioli is just deep-fried ravioli. Calling deep-fried ravioli “toasted” is a little like calling World War II an extended argument. Toasted ravioli are delicious, but you have to eat them right away or they will turn into rocks. “When did you cook these?” “One minute ago. Now we call ’em St. Louis Diamonds.” Many people don’t know the St. Louis arch was constructed completely out of toasted ravioli a minute after they came out of a deep fryer.
Buffalo
Okay, Buffalo is not technically located in the Midwest, but it is a Great Lakes city with a Midwestern heart. The mere fact that it is the birthplace of buffalo wings makes it an honorary Midwestern destination. I’m not sure how eating chicken wings covered in spicy sauce makes watching sporting events on television so appealing, but it does. I assume most of you savages reading this eat chicken wings, aka buffalo wings. Those are baby chicken wings you are mindlessly dunking in delicious blue cheese dressing. I don’t like to eat the baby bird’s wings. I’m not a barbarian. This is why I prefer to eat their legs. I’d rather not take away a bird’s ability to fly. I realize some of you are thinking, Jim, while you are brilliant and handsome, you must realize chickens can’t fly. How do we know chickens can’t fly? Maybe the chickens have become too dependent on those legs. Legs are just making birds lazy. Have you ever seen footage of a hippo crossing a river? There’s always a bird sitting on its back. How lazy is that bird? It’s going to take that hippo ten minutes to cross that river. That bird could just glide across. It’s pathetic, really. That bird sitting on the back of the hippo, I want to eat its legs. Mostly because I’m pro hippo. I relate to the hippo. The hippo kind of looks like what would happen to the rhino if it ate only Super Bowl Sunday foods. Based on the appearance of the hippo, it is surprising that it is not indigenous to the Midwest.
MEXICAN FOODLAND
I hope it’s not considered offensive that my favorite food from t
he southwestern part of the United States is the food from the neighboring country of Mexico. It shouldn’t be insulting, given that Texas and parts of the southwestern United States were once part of Mexico. We may have taken the land after the Mexican-American War, but at least we were polite enough to keep the food, culture, and most of the street names. I’m convinced that anyone who doesn’t like Mexican food is a psychopath. Mexican food is so good, you’d think the real immigration problem would be fat guys like me sneaking across the border into Mexico. I always imagine a pudgy blond guy being led by handcuffs into a paddy wagon saying, “I just needed some good guacamole!” It is a known fact that it is impossible to eat quality Mexican food and not be in a good mood afterward. Even bad Mexican food is better than 90 percent of all other foods.
I used to be a waiter in a Mexican restaurant in Indiana. Yes, Indiana. That’s where you want to go for Mexican food—Indiana or Belgium. Actually, Indiana, like much of the Midwest, has a vibrant Mexican American community, so the Mexican food where I’m from was quite good. Then again, it’s hard to screw up basic Mexican food. The Midwestern suburban Mexican food I grew up with consisted of the same four ingredients. As a waiter I was asked a lot of questions with the same answer.
PATRON: What are nachos?
ME: Nachos are tortillas with cheese, meat, and vegetables.
PATRON: Oh, well then what is a burrito?
ME: Tortilla with cheese, meat, and vegetables.
PATRON: Well then what is a tostada?
ME: Tortilla with cheese, meat, and vegetables.
PATRON: Well then what is …
ME: Look, it’s all the same stuff. Why don’t you say a Spanish word and I’ll bring you something delicious made out of tortillas, cheese, meat, and vegetables?
It’s all the same stuff in different shapes. It almost seems like a conspiracy. Like they had a meeting two hundred years ago in Mexico and some guy stood up and said, “Hey look, the reason I got everyone here is pretty simple. I figure we can give this same entrée seven different names and sell it to the Americans. Now, who’s in on it?” Then one guy in back stood up and said, “Wouldn’t that be dishonest?” “Well, if you keep your mouth shut, we’ll name one of the entrées after you. What’s your name?” “My name is Chimichanga.” That’s a true story.
The best Mexican/Mexican American/Tex-Mex food is found in places like San Diego, Los Angeles, Albuquerque, and, of course, Texas. Here are some of the great Mexican Foodland specialties.
Guacamole
I eat a lot of guacamole. If I died right now, I’m sure some of my children would just remember me as the balding guy who brought home the overpriced, delicious green dip. I hope at one point some really important person sat the inventor of guacamole down and told him or her, “You are a great human. We thank you for your contribution to our planet.” Guacamole is made with the avocado, which is so delicious I think it should be reclassified as a cheese. When guacamole is on the table, I tend to feel sorry for salsa because guacamole gets all the attention. It is always eaten right away because it is that good and also because exposure to oxygen turns it brown in a matter of minutes. Guacamole should be chunky. Non-chunky guacamole just makes me sad.
Churros
Churros are originally from Spain, but since I’ve given credit to Wisconsin for the German bratwurst in this book, I should probably blame Mexico for the churro. If you don’t know what a churro is, just try to picture a ribbed doughnut stick. A churro is not fluffy like a doughnut but rather hard and crunchy. It’s like the pipe cleaner of pastry. Churros are sold at fairs or anyplace that might sell cotton candy or other foods we should never eat. Churros are also sold at places we should never eat, like a New York City subway platform. I’ve only had one churro in my life. The guy who sold it to me almost seemed surprised that I was buying it. I then realized I’d never seen anyone actually eat a churro. Maybe the guy who sold me the churro went home and yelled up to a roommate: “Hey, Churro, get down here. Remember that sugary bread wand you came up with when you were drunk? Well, I finally sold one today!”
Queso
Whenever I’m in Texas, I have to get queso. Well, I don’t have to, but I do anyway. Queso is an amazing combination of melted cheese and chile peppers that I seem to crave once I enter the Lone Star State. It’s a bowl of cheesy nirvana served with chips as an appetizer in Tex-Mex places. It’s like that nasty pump cheese they put on nachos at the movies, but not made of recycled park benches. Queso even means “cheese” in Spanish. It’s like eating a block of spicy cheese but without being interrupted by the annoying cheese chewing. I like to think of queso as the unhealthy cousin of guacamole and a great way to get full to the point of physical discomfort before they even start cooking your entrée.
Green Chile
New Mexico is really passionate about the green chile, and it’s understandable. I’m amazed that the green chile does not have a greater national popularity. They are that good. Unlike the taste explosion of a jalapeño, the flavor of a green chile is balanced, consistent, and, of course, delicious. Comparing the jalapeño to the green chile is the same as comparing a burst of freezing cold air on a hot day to sitting in an air-conditioned room. In New Mexico the green chile is more than a simple ingredient—it is a necessity. They have green chile stews, green chile burgers, green chile pizza, green chile hash browns, and these are not stunt dishes. These are the most popular items on the menu in New Mexico restaurants. At times I think the reason why the green chile is not a nationwide phenomenon is because the people of New Mexico are secretly hoarding the tasty green chiles. They are hiding them from the rest of us. Everyone I’ve encountered in Albuquerque seems to have them in bulk stored in their freezer as if an impending green chile shortage is coming. I had a cab driver once confide, “I’ve got ten pounds of green chiles in my freezer.” I didn’t even ask her about green chiles. She just brought it up out of the blue. And you know what? I was impressed and a little jealous. The green chile addiction is one I understand. New Mexicans treat their green chiles like contraband. Sometimes if you drive around New Mexico, you will see locals selling green chile tamales out of an open trunk on the side of the road, and people are pulling over to buy them. Green chiles are exciting and a little dangerous. You have to wear gloves when peeling a roasted green chile, or your hands will burn. If I lived in New Mexico, I’d be eating so many green chiles I would have to get a hazmat suit. I heard there is talk of reshooting all the episodes of Breaking Bad, but instead of meth Walter and Jesse sell green chiles. I can’t wait.
Fried Bread
The only thing more astounding than the dramatic beauty of the Southwest is the fact that people there are eating fried bread. There is unhealthy eating throughout the United States, but in New Mexico, Arizona, and Utah, there are stands that only sell fried bread. When I first saw that, all I could think was, I’ve found my people. I realize a doughnut is also fried bread, but at least we don’t call it fried bread. In some parts of the Southwest fried bread is called “fry” bread. It’s like a call to action. “If you aren’t fat already … fry bread! Let’s get fat!” Fried bread is very neutral and can pretty much go with anything. It is used in place of the shell for spicy tacos, covered in honey and sugar as a dessert, or just snacked on in its natural form. Fried bread is like the unhealthy Switzerland of the food world.
At what point do you even feel comfortable eating something called fried bread? I’d love to hear the interview to decide if someone is prepared to become a part of the fried-bread culture.
INTERVIEWER: Have you ever eaten cake in the shower?
APPLICANT: A couple of times.
INTERVIEWER: You may be ready for fried bread. Ever eat in your car so you don’t have to share with your children?
APPLICANT: Every day!
INTERVIEWER: You are definitely ready for fried bread.
Fried bread by its very name goes against all the basic rules of healthy eating. It is the opposite of a diet.
ME: (interrupting) Okay, what about fried bread? Is there, like, a fried-bread-only diet?
I don’t judge the fried-bread eaters. I admire them. They are much more honest than most of us. We eat fried bread, but we do it in code.
“Would you like fried bread?”
“Never! (sotto) I’ll just have an elephant ear.”
“Would you like fried bread?”
“Of course not! I am a debutante! I’ll just have a beignet.”
We have a million names for fried bread, but in the end it’s all fried bread. We just want to eat fried bread and have no one find out about it. We are like that guy at the party trying to find weed.
“Hey, is your friend Herb here tonight?”
“Who?”
“You know. He hangs around that other guy named Bud?”
“I still don’t know what you are talking about.”
“You know, he’s going out with the girl from Mexico named Marijuana?”
“Sorry, I don’t know that dude. Hey, you want to smoke some pot?”
WINELAND
It’s always fascinating interacting with crowds after shows. I can get a sense of each city or state’s identity and what they are proud of while meeting audience members. Some states are very vocal. “We’re from New York, and we’re tough!” “We’re from Texas, and we like things big!” My home state is more like, “We’re from Indiana, and … we’re going to move.” After shows in some cities, audience members will express gratitude for the show, and then they will add in an apologetic thank-you for coming to their town. “I’m sorry you had to come all the way here. Can you take me with you?” Being from a small town in Indiana, I can relate to that feeling: “Sorry, there’s nothing cool here.” The one place I never encounter even a hint of low geographic self-esteem is Northern California. This is understandable, since NorCal is so beautiful, rich, and relaxed. It’s an abundant, good world in Northern California, and the residents know it. It’s not arrogance. It’s just grateful awareness. Everyone in Northern California seems to be healthy, financially stable, and drinking wine. Did I mention the wine? It’s flowing everywhere in Northern California. It is wine country, so it’s no surprise that fine wine in NorCal is as common as Budweiser in St. Louis. Wine is a key element of the culture, and it is overemphasized with gracious abandon. Bottles of wine are gifted to me at every show I do in Northern California. The outdoor stages are located in wineries so beautiful I feel like I am performing in a painting. Last year I even performed at a wine-themed music festival called Bottle Rock. Yes, “bottle” refers to a wine bottle, and, yes, I was given bottles of wine there too.
