by Jim Gaffigan
MAN: I don’t want this baked potato.
FAIRY BACONMOTHER: (waves bacon wand over the potato)
(SOUND EFFECT of magic dust: Brrrring!)
MAN: Now it’s my favorite part of the meal! Thank you, Fairy Baconmother!
WOMAN: I don’t want this salad.
FAIRY BACONMOTHER: (waves bacon wand over the salad)
(SOUND EFFECT of magic dust: Brrrring!)
FAIRY BACONMOTHER: Bibbity, Bobbity, Bacon!
WOMAN: Oh my! You just turned it into a delicious entrée. Thank you, Fairy Baconmother!
Of course, once you put bacon in a salad, it’s no longer a salad. It just becomes a game of find the bacon in the lettuce. I always feel like I’m panning for gold. “Found one! Eureka!”
Bacon has special powers. I bet if you sprinkled bacon bits on a strip of bacon you could travel back in time through a tasty vortex. This would be redundant for me, because I would just travel back to a time when I was eating bacon. It would be a bacon-to-bacon time-space continuum.
Bacon can even keep you warm.
Preparing and Serving Bacon
The journey of bacon starts from humble beginnings. A package of uncooked bacon is, well, to be generous, not attractive. Taking the raw bacon out of the clear, flesh-filled FedEx envelope doesn’t help its appeal. You know bacon is bad for you when you see it raw. Zebra-striped raw meat and fat strips are not easy on the eye. Everyone has this same reaction. “Oh my God, fry that up before I realize what I’m putting into my body.” There are not many ways to prepare bacon. You either can fry it or die of trichinosis. Sadly, as bacon is cooked, an amazing amount of shrinkage occurs. You start with a pound and end up with a bookmark. The shrinkage while cooking foreshadows the main problem with bacon. There never seems to be enough.
I never feel like I get enough bacon. At a traditional American breakfast it seems we are rationing bacon. “Here are your two strips of bacon.” Eating two strips of bacon seems cruel. “I want more bacon!” At a breakfast buffet there is usually a whole metal tray filled with upward of four thousand slices of bacon (I’ve counted). Everyone seems to linger over the bacon tray at the buffet like they’ve discovered the location where bacon originates. You almost expect a rainbow to be shooting out. “I’ve found it! I’ve found the source of all bacon!” Everyone pauses at the bacon tray, trying to evaluate what a socially acceptable amount of bacon to put on your plate might be. The bacon tray is always at the end of the buffet. This is a crafty attempt by the chef to preserve the limited and endangered resource that is bacon. You always regret the items you already have on your plate. “What am I doing with all this worthless fruit? If I had known you were here, bacon, I would have waited! I’d eat only you, bacon!”
Busted! I guess he is my son.
Types of Bacon
When I talk about bacon, I’m talking about the American version of bacon, which is pork belly bacon, the kind Jesus ate. Besides normal bacon and Canadian bacon, I didn’t even know other types of bacon existed until I traveled internationally.
Canadian Bacon
I was always confused by the term “Canadian bacon.” Sure, you have to love a country that has its own type of bacon, but I remember thinking, When is someone going to tell Canada that its bacon is really just round ham? Canadian bacon is a different type of bacon that comes from the side cuts of the pig. Canadians don’t even refer to Canadian bacon as Canadian bacon. They call it “back bacon,” and they call real bacon (strip-style bacon) “American bacon.” The bacon the British eat seems like a combination of Canadian bacon and American bacon. They call it “bacon,” but it’s really not bacon. Then again, they call a cookie a “biscuit,” so they have a different word for all the important stuff.
Fatback
Supposedly fatback is like bacon on steroids. I’ve never tried fatback. Probably ’cause it’s called “fatback.” I don’t know which word creeps me out more: fat or back. Why didn’t they just throw in hairy while they were at it? “This is some delicious hairy fatback. That reminds me, your uncle called.”
Turkey Bacon
Our health concerns over bacon have led to horrible bacon alternatives. The most popular fake bacon is turkey bacon (I refer to it as TB), which tastes like an airline food version of bacon. I think we can all agree turkey bacon was a valiant but failed experiment. Some believe 70 percent of all disappointment we feel in life is from turkey bacon. I’ll stick with good ol’ American pig bacon, thank you.
The Bad
Sadly, you shouldn’t eat bacon all day, and, according to my overly protective wife, you can’t. Eating a doughnut is a healthier choice. I’ve heard each piece of bacon you eat takes nine minutes off your life, which means I probably should have died in early 1984. To me, the only bad part of bacon is that it makes you thirsty … for more bacon. Apparently bacon affects the brain in the same way as cocaine, overloading pleasure centers and requiring increasing amounts of bacon to feel satisfied. That doesn’t necessarily sound horrible to me, but we all know the negatives of bacon. A strip of bacon gives you high cholesterol and has a fat percentage that a normal person should only consume over a decade. Bacon is the opposite of medicine, but if I died choking on a piece of bacon, I’d liken it to being murdered by a lover. We’ve known bacon has been bad for us for thousands of years. Eating bacon is literally a dietary restriction in certain religions.
MAN 1: Our rules to join this religion are: no killing, no cheating on your wife, no bacon—
MAN 2: Whoa, whoa, whoa. What was that last one?
MAN 1: Um, no bacon.
MAN 2: I’m in the wrong cult. Is there a bacon cult around here?
The bad news for bacon goes on and on. Bacon prices are always rising, and recently researchers discovered that eating bacon lowers sperm count. This study also determined that researchers waste time and money on useless studies rather than finding a cure for cancer. I don’t understand why we even need to understand the correlation between bacon and sperm count. I would have loved to have been there when that research grant was pitched to the board.
RESEARCHER: I’d like to study the effects of bacon on fertility. You know, the possibility of bacon as a contraceptive?
GRANT BOARD MEMBER: (beat) Are you even a scientist?
Contraceptive or not, I’ve always consumed enormous amounts of bacon, and I have five children. I guess if I didn’t eat bacon I’d have thirty children and probably be dead from exhaustion. Really, what I’m saying is, bacon saves lives. How do we know swine flu isn’t caused by not eating bacon?
The negatives associated with bacon have forced us to restrict our bacon consumption to the morning. I guess the idea is that before noon we are too tired to care that we are eating something entirely made up of nitrates. After the morning, bacon goes into hiding. The word bacon is not even spoken after 11:00 a.m. Bacon becomes He-who-must-not-be-named. You would never be crass enough to order a bacon sandwich in the afternoon. You must speak in code. You have to play dumb and order a BLT. “Oh, I didn’t even know bacon was in the BLT. I just love lettuce and tomatoes.” You’re like the underage kid trying to buy liquor while attempting to distract the cashier by also purchasing a pack of gum. “I just need something to drink while I chew my gum.” The word club in “club sandwich” is meant to signify the exclusive group that does not like to admit they like bacon with their turkey.
Bacon, of course, comes from the pig. The pig is an amazing animal. If you feed a pig an apple, that apple will be metabolized by the pig and eventually turn into bacon. The pig is converting a tasteless piece of fruit, essentially garbage, into one of the most delicious foods known to man. The pig has to be one of the most successful recycling programs ever. When you think about it, that is more impressive than anything Steve Jobs did. The pig is remarkable on so many fronts. Bacon, ham, and pork chops come from pigs. The pig should really have a better reputation. You’d think calling someone a pig would be a compliment.
“You are such a
pig.”
“Well, thank you. I try.”
It is actually the pig who should be known as “man’s best friend.” I love dogs, but pigs would make great companions, and when they die you could have a barbecue. “I’m sorry to hear about your pig passing. When is the luau?”
A scary bedtime story.
PASTRAMI PLAYDATE
After reading this book so far and seeing how I spend most of my time and energy, you may wonder if I ever think about or see my five young children. At the writing of this book, I have a nine-year-old, an eight-year-old, a four-year-old, a two-year-old, and a one-year-old. I should really learn their names. Being the father of five is a heavy responsibility. I try to make an effort to spend as much quality one-on-one time with each of my children. To my wife’s chagrin, this usually involves me taking them to get something to eat.
My favorite place to go on my daddy-time dates is Katz’s Deli to split a pastrami sandwich. A true New York Jewish deli, Katz’s has an authentic Old New York environment. Even the process of getting a sandwich is a throwback to an era of Industrial-Age-bureaucracy. It’s an insane system, really. Upon entering Katz’s you are given a ticket. If there is more than one adult in your party, you get a ticket for each adult. You have to hang on to this ticket the entire time you are at Katz’s so they can write down everything you have ordered. You must present the ticket when you leave. If you lose the ticket, they kill you. I think. I’m not sure. I just know I don’t want to find out. Either way, you don’t go to Katz’s for the service or hospitality. This is not to say people are rude. It’s just more of a do-it-yourself place. There is a self-service water dispenser, stacked high with vintage water glasses, that looks like it was in the movie On the Waterfront. Anyway, you go to Katz’s for the deli. Specifically, I go for the pastrami. After you receive your ticket from the pastrami TSA, you approach a counter where you order your sandwich. As you wait, you are given a sample hand slice of your selected sandwich meat, which is placed in front of you on a small plate right next to a makeshift paper tip jar. I am always suspicious of a free sample next to a tip jar. It never seems as “free.” Your sandwich plate is then placed on a school cafeteria tray, your ticket is marked up, and you can go to other stations to get fries, a hot dog, cream soda, or a knish (for those of you who don’t know what a knish is, it’s sort of a fried dumpling of dough filled with potatoes, or, as I call it, the carboholic’s ecstasy). Then you show yourself to an open table and enjoy your monstrous sandwich. It’s not just a deli. It is an experience.
I always enjoy sharing a pastrami sandwich at Katz’s with one of my kids and not simply because they eat so little. “Okay, Daddy will finish your half of the sandwich.” I have taken a photo of each of my children with an enormous pastrami sandwich and a plate of pickles at Katz’s deli. One time when I went to Katz’s with my son Jack, they took a picture of us and framed it to put on their wall. Now whenever we go back there we get to see a photograph on display for the entire community proving that I am the type of father who feeds a five-year-old smoked meat. It’s kind of like a mug shot or a posted bad check. My kids love Katz’s. When she was six, my daughter Marre asked, “If there’s a Katz’s deli, is there a dog’s deli, too?” My helping out with the kids does not only involve me taking them to Katz’s Deli. After we return, I always volunteer to take a nap with them. Sure, I couldn’t really do anything else after a Katz’s pastrami sandwich, but I’m only napping to help Jeannie with the kids. When she rolls her eyes at me, I like to think of it as her way of saying “Thank You.”
CORNED BEEF: THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT REUBEN
I have a confession. I never had a Reuben sandwich before March 2014. I admit this with a bit of shame now that I know how delicious they are. I was in Erie, Pennsylvania, and was unabashedly told that the Reuben from McGarrey’s Oakwood Cafe was “out of this world,” whatever that means. I never understood why food is always described that way. Out of this world? You mean like the blue milk Luke Skywalker had on Tatooine? Anyway, I was hesitant to have a Reuben because as an Irish American I don’t have a great history with corned beef, but, being a tireless researcher, I obliged. I just always assumed corned beef was so horrible-tasting they had to rename the corned beef sandwich the Reuben so people would actually order it. Every Saint Patrick’s Day my mother would make corned beef and cabbage, we would eat together as a family, and then I would spend the rest of the day questioning the palate of my Irish ancestors. How drunk were those people to be eating a big tasteless, greasy ball of cabbage and the even less appealing corned beef? The stuff didn’t taste like corn or beef. It was just a big fatty, chewy hunk of unnaturally coral-red meat that tasted like cabbage. It was only in 2014 that I realized that my mother, while perfect in many ways, simply made horrible corned beef. Sorry, Mom. It was you, not the corned beef.
The Reuben is rumored to have been created in Omaha, Nebraska, which should have made sense to me, seeing how great they are at beef (you may recall my penchant for Omaha Steaks). However, I was personally shocked that corned beef came from Omaha, since it was the first time in my life that it dawned upon me that corned beef was actually made of beef. I never said I was smart.
Reuben, whoever he was, got really lucky with the sandwich. For me, all indications would be that the sandwich wouldn’t work. Let me break it down:
Corned beef: Hate
Sauerkraut: Hate
Swiss cheese: Hate
Russian dressing: Not a fan
Rye bread: Like my eighth choice
Reuben sandwich = Delightful
Apparently, Reuben took a bunch of crap no one wanted and turned it into bliss. Maybe Reuben was just a guy cleaning out the refrigerator. I can see it clearly. It was late March 1920 in Omaha, Nebraska. During those long, cold days after Saint Patty’s Day, Reuben and his brother were playing jacks at the kitchen table.
REUBEN’S MOM: (offstage) Reuben! Clean out the icebox. It’s starting to smell in there. Get rid of that Swiss cheese, sauerkraut, and corned beef. No one wants that junk.
REUBEN: Gross!
REUBEN’S MOM: (offstage) Do it!
REUBEN’S BROTHER: I dare you to eat all that nasty stuff at once.
REUBEN: How much will you pay me?
REUBEN’S BROTHER: Two bits!
REUBEN: Deal! Hand me that Russian dressing and the George Foreman Grill.
(scene)
Don’t you think it’s a little weird that Russian dressing is called Russian dressing? It’s not from Russia. It’s a lot like Thousand Island, but it has no relish in it. It’s just mayo and ketchup mixed together to make red mayo. The use of the color red to define Russian dressing is clearly an outdated slam against Russians, because Russia used to be a Communist country. Since I am a very evolved human being and feel above perpetuating that kind of senseless bigotry, I refuse to call it that. That’s why I’ve started referring to Russian dressing as “North Korean dressing,” and now I feel way better about eating my Reuben sandwich.
HOT DOGS AND SAUSAGES: THE MISSING LINKS
Mikey eating a kabanos sausage at East Village Meat Market.
A hot dog, of course, is a sausage, and it is the most popular sausage. The hot dog has become so famous it is considered as American as baseball and that car company that went bankrupt. I am a true hot dog fan. Even my favorite hors d’oeuvre is pigs in a blanket, which I affectionately refer to as the midwestern California roll. When I was a kid, I loved hot dogs so much my sister Pam gave me a package of Oscar Mayer hot dogs for my tenth birthday. And, yes, it was my favorite present. That all being said, hot dogs are not even my favorite type of sausage. To me, the bratwurst is the king of sausages.
Bratwurst
On the sausage scale of greatness that exists in my mind, bratwurst is off the charts. It has no rivals. Although I also love Italian sausages, chorizo, andouille, and those thin Polish kabanos sausages, my heart with all its clogged arteries belongs to bratwurst. When I was dating Jeannie, I found my
self comparing her to a bratwurst. It was then that I realized I was serious about her. Unlike Jeannie, a bratwurst is not pretty to look at and frankly does not sound appealing. I remember as a six-year-old being at a friend’s house on some breezy summer afternoon. My friend’s mother received a call from my mom and announced, “You have to go home now. Your dad is making bratwurst.” I remember thinking, Ugh, anything with worst in the name has to be horrible. Of course, I went home and realized that the frightening-named things my father was making were what my family referred to as “brats.” I loved the tasty, juicy sausage with the crisp grilled skin. I’d had no idea the unfortunate formal name of my favorite summer food was bratwurst. No wonder it goes by brat. I mean, if my parents had named me Jimwurst, I’d probably say, I’m going to just go with “Jim.”
Now once the weather starts getting nice, around May, I think only about bratwurst. I eat bratwurst exclusively during the summer. I guess it’s the seasonal popularity that makes it even more appealing. Luckily I get to spend some time every summer in Wisconsin, America’s bratwurst basket. Sure, it’s always nice to visit Jeannie’s family, but the easy access to a perfect bratwurst is a huge draw. I’ve heard if you eat bratwurst for more than a week straight anywhere in the United States, you have to pay taxes in Wisconsin. Bratwurst are so associated with Wisconsin, I’m surprised there isn’t a delicious brat in the middle of the state flag. But by the end of the summer you realize why hot dogs are the most popular sausage. You can eat a hot dog year-round. You can eat brats only in three-month increments. Sure, it’s fun to pull a muscle eating a bratwurst because it contains roughly the same amount of fat and calories as two Thanksgiving dinners, but the body cannot survive on brats. So around September I’m back to my loyal friend the hot dog.
