by Jim Gaffigan
Funnel Cake: Just a giant French fry covered in powdered sugar.
Cupcakes: It’s always been a mystery to me how I could simultaneously love cupcakes and hate cupcake shops. The prices are too high in cupcake shops. A cupcake at a cupcake shop is roughly the same price as an entire sheet cake in a grocery store. I guess I just hate what the cupcake shop represents. Cupcakes are designed for people who love cake but are not fans of sharing. “I want my own cake!” Cupcake shops are just clubhouses for selfish people. Okay, I guess I kind of like cupcake shops.
Cake Pops: I understand there are plenty of fans of these stale-cake-balls-on-a-stick, but I’m convinced cake pops are an indication that the wheels have come off the bus of our culture. I’ll never forget the moment I first became aware of cake pops. I was standing in line at Starbucks and saw them. My first thought wasn’t Oh cool, cake pops. All I could think was Wait, now we’re eating cake on a stick? Maybe we are the infidels!
Would you like a delicious reindeer?
Ice Cream Cakes: I never really understood the appeal of an ice cream cake. They are so temporary. They just end up stressing me out. “Hurry up, we have to eat this thing before it melts.”
Cheesecake: Did you ever encounter a day with perfect weather? You know, it’s not too hot, not too cold, but it has that perfect feeling? I feel that way about cheesecake. Cheese plus cake? Perfect. Cheesecake is a double positive. Cheesecake is like a food all-star. With cheesecake, you can have your cake and eat cheese too. There’s never a strike at the Cheesecake Factory.
Pound Cake: It’s pretty impressive that a baker was confident enough to name a cake after one of the side effects of eating cake. “Should I have the pound cake or the seat belt extender cake?”
Flower Cake: At some point those weirdos over at 1-800-Flowers created the “flower cake,” which is made completely of flowers. No, not frosting flowers. Real, live, inedible flowers. I’ve never received a flower cake, but I can only imagine the awkwardness that the flower cake has created for some relationships. How is receiving a flower cake supposed to be interpreted? “I got you a flower cake. You know, you could stand to lose some weight.”
Carrot Cake: Cake is so powerful it can even make carrots appealing. This is accomplished in the form of carrot cake covered with cream cheese frosting. The best part of all? It doesn’t taste like carrots. That’s why instead of a salad, I normally just order a carrot cake.
Fruitcake: The most disappointing “real” cake has to be fruitcake, which is rated one step above a urinal cake. You’d think fruitcake would be better. It doesn’t add up. Fruit, good. Cake, great. Fruitcake, nasty crap. I don’t even think fruitcake is made with fruit. Whenever I’ve made the mistake of tasting fruitcake I always think, Did I just bite into a Skittle? Or was it a thimble? It seems the recipe for fruitcake is “anything but fruit.” It’s like the baker was cleaning off his counter: “Put all this crap in there.” I’m convinced nobody eats fruitcake. They just mail it to their relatives around Christmas. Rumor has it that there are only ten fruitcakes that keep getting regifted every December.
AIRPORTS: MY HOME AWAY FROM HOME
Being a stand-up comedian, I travel a lot. As a result I spend an enormous amount of time in airports. I could provide some details and specifics, but I don’t like to think about it too much. It’s depressing. Let’s just say I’m on a first-name basis with some TSA screeners at LaGuardia. If your job involves traveling, you understand. It’s too exhausting. If you are a businessperson who travels out of town even once a month, it’s too much. If you don’t travel for a living, you probably think I’m being a baby. “Oh, poor Jim! He has to take a two-hour flight from New York to Chicago. Let’s build him a statue where he’s holding a rattle.” The mistake in this logic is that the length of a flight is usually how we measure the time of air travel. “It’s only a two-hour flight! That’s not bad.” This doesn’t factor in the time it takes to get to and from the airport. For example, the Denver Airport, for some reason, is in Missouri. Additionally, the airlines want you at the airport hours before your flight. “Your flight is in two days? You should go to the airport now.” Add in packing, going through security, flight delays, and picking up checked luggage—a flight from New York to Chicago takes a week. I’m not exaggerating. Okay, maybe a little. It’s actually more efficient to take a six-hour flight. You’re killing the whole day anyway, might as well get across the country.
Initially when you start to do extensive amounts of air travel, you look for a silver lining. “Well, at least I’m getting all those frequent-flyer miles.” Then you quickly realize that what you earn for doing all this air travel is more air travel. “So if I travel by plane on your airline for a hundred thousand miles, I can earn an opportunity to travel some more on your airline?” This is equivalent to eating a hundred cans of beans so you can earn a free can of beans. At that point you don’t want beans. “I don’t want beans. Can I get a hot dog instead of beans?” “No, but if you buy a hot dog on this beans credit card, you can get some beans.” “I can’t stress to you enough how much I don’t want beans!”
Air travel is amazing, but no one enjoys it. You are being transported thousands of miles in a couple of hours. It’s really an unbelievable feat, yet on the plane everyone is grumpy and complaining. Even when the trip is over, a deep-seated paranoia sets in around baggage claim, like someone is really going to steal your ugly luggage filled with clothes that only fit you. I think I’ve figured out why we find air travel so annoying. Air travel is a direct simulation of spending time with your parents. Think about it. The pilot is your dad, and the flight attendant is your mom. You get on the plane and the flight-attendant-slash-mom instantly starts in with the nagging. “You need to fasten your seat belt.” “Okay, Mom.” “You need to turn off your phone.” “Okay, Mom!” “Would you like some juice?” “Okay, Mom.” When the plane takes off, the pilot-slash-dad bores you with one of his stories. “I just want to let you know how we are going to get there blah blah blah … you know, if you look out to the left, you’ll see the blah blah blah …” “We don’t care, Dad! Just fly!”
Because I’m getting to the airport early and enjoying all those flight delays, I spend a lot of time in airports. I spend lots and lots of time in airports. To me airports are like museums of boredom. The Austin airport sometimes has musicians, but generally you are just left sitting in a seat at a gate, hating humanity. Sometimes I’ll play mental games to entertain myself. One is to try to find the person at the airport who doesn’t look suicidal. Unfortunately, this game takes longer than Risk, and nobody is a winner, because you are at the airport. Everyone is stumbling around miserable. We should rename airports “Walking Dead Reenactment Centers.” Another game I play is Imagine Excuses to Wake Up People Who Are Sleeping at the Airport. “Are you sleeping?” “Are you tired?” or “Why aren’t there more movies with strong female leads?” are some of my favorites.
Often I’m at airports early in the morning, when humanity is at its worst. I’m usually less surprised that I’m at the airport at five in the morning and more mystified by other people’s behavior at that ungodly hour. I’m not a morning person (is anyone?), so when people are outgoing and happy before noon, I’m stunned. Once I had a sweet woman at Boston’s Logan Airport ask me, “Do you have an early flight?” I responded as anyone would, “No, I just like hanging out at the airport at six in the morning.”
My answer to this horrible airport predicament (and virtually every other problem in my life) is to eat. For no particular reason other than I always eat when I’m in airports. It drives Jeannie crazy. I could have eaten at home right before I left for the airport. But I still have to buy food at the airport. It is an involuntary behavior at this point. I’m not even aware of it. Like a superstitious Catholic doing the sign of the cross as they pass a church or a graveyard. It just happens. I get to an airport, check in, go through security, and immediately have to find food. I justify this behavior by telling myself that
I don’t want to be hungry on the plane, but it’s pretty shoddy reasoning. “Well, what if the plane goes down? I don’t want to have to start eating people.” I also tell myself I don’t want to eat the food on the plane. Airplane food used to be the only exception to my all-free-food-is-delicious rule, but now you have to pay for it. I realize I’m going out on a limb being a comedian who criticizes food served on airplanes, but everyone knows that airplane food is an oxymoron. Of course I still eat it, but I don’t enjoy it. Airplane food is unique in that it actually tastes like someone tried to make it taste bad. I mean, how can you screw up chicken and pasta? Somehow all the food on airplanes tastes like an airplane seat. Did they cook it in a seat?
Sometimes I tell myself I’m having a Quarter Pounder at the airport as a reward for dealing with the unnecessarily difficult task of getting to the airport, checking in, and going through the security line. I’m like a mouse getting the piece of cheese at the end of the maze, but my piece of cheese has a patty of ground beef and a bun with it. It’s a good thing I’m not a healthy eater, because it’s virtually impossible to eat healthy in airports. Healthy items are not even sold in some airports. Once I tried to buy a piece of fruit in the South Bend Airport and was informed it was only for display. Usually room-temperature prepackaged salads are the only option. “Well, I could either eat a salad that was prepared eighteen years ago, or I could eat something that won’t make me cry.”
Not all airports have the same food options. Some cities make a real effort to offer local specialties like Shake Shack at JFK and Rick Bayless’s Tortas Frontera at O’Hare, and the San Francisco International Airport is filled with some of the city’s great restaurants, bars, and cafés, but these are the exceptions. Most airports have a fast-food chain or two and then the standard airport places that you would never see or eat at unless you were trapped in the airport.
Auntie Anne’s Pretzels
If you like your pretzels doused in that fake butter they put on popcorn in movie theaters, then you would love Auntie Anne’s pretzels. Of all airport food options, I consider Auntie Anne’s a last resort. I have some dignity. I’d rather eat a bag of nuts from a Hudson airport bookstore than an Auntie Anne’s pretzel. Don’t misunderstand me. I love pretzels and have contemplated a world with only pretzel bread on many occasions, but Auntie Anne’s is not for me because I don’t find a grease-soaked pretzel appealing. One would think a shop that sells greasy pretzels couldn’t stay in business, but the airport is a captive audience, and pretzels have a great reputation. To be fair, Auntie Anne’s is not just pretzels. They also have … pretzel dogs and … pretzels with pepperoni on them and, um … pretzels rolled in cinnamon sugar and … um, that’s it. There are dipping sauces at Auntie Anne’s that are distinguished by the different ailments they cause. “This sauce causes heart disease. This sauce causes liver failure.” I’m not sure if the original Auntie Anne is still alive, but it would’ve been interesting to be a nephew or niece of hers. “We’re going over to your Auntie Anne’s. Bring your Lipitor and diabetes medication.”
Would you like a greasy pretzel or a greasy pretzel?
Chili’s Too
It seems you can find a Chili’s Too restaurant in most airports. If airports were a country, Chili’s Too would be the ethnic food. I appreciate that they add the hilarious “Too” to the name so we don’t confuse Chili’s Too with the regular Chili’s. I guess they didn’t want the mediocre food at Chili’s Too to be confused with mediocre food served at a regular Chili’s. After eating at Chili’s Too, you wonder if the misuse of “Too” was not a cute idea but an actual spelling error by the people who started Chili’s Too. I love going to Chili’s Too when I’m in an airport. Where else could I sit and watch a middle-aged guy with a mullet chew dry eggs with his mouth open while I listen to Wham! at six in the morning? Bucket list complete. “Wake me up before you go, go!”
My old stomping grounds.
Cinnabon
I do try to rationalize what I eat when I’m at the airport, but some things just can’t be justified, like a Cinnabon. It seems every airport has a Cinnabon kiosk that sells the oversize frosted cinnamon buns. I’m pretty sure Satan himself is the largest shareholder in Cinnabon. Cinnabon only sells buns with that sugary paste. There is no reason to ever eat a Cinnabon, especially not at the airport. “Well, I’m about to get on a plane. Maybe I should eat eight pounds of cake.” You usually have to take a nap halfway through eating one, which is why you see so many people sleeping in airports. The first time I ate a Cinnabon, I thought I was going to need some insulin and a wheelbarrow for the other half of my bun. It’s kind of generous referring to a Cinnabon as a bun, or a bon, for that matter. It is the size of a beanbag chair. “Should I sit in it or eat it? I guess I could sit in it and eat it.” There’s always a strange Cinnabon odor emanating from the Cinnabon store. It always smells like someone poured cinnamon-flavored tequila into a humidifier. On more than one occasion I’ve walked by a kiosk and gotten a cavity. Everyone knows Cinnabons are horrible for you. You can see it in the shame on the faces of patrons in line to get a Cinnabon. I’ve done some humiliating things in my life, but standing in that Cinnabon line is up there. There’s such a sense of defeat. “Hi. Yeah, can I get a Cinnabon? You can just staple it to my behind. It’s going to end up there anyway. Why am I doing this to myself?”
If it isn’t hard enough to deal with the indignity of my airport food problem, there is the added guilt I feel facing Jeannie when I get home from the trip. “Did you eat airport food again?” “Not really. I mean, I wouldn’t call it food …” Before I get home, I always try to rid myself of all the incriminating evidence of my shameful addiction, such as napkins or empty containers with the names of these objectionable establishments boldly printed on them in primary colors, but something always gives me away. Jeannie has been known to be holding my credit card bill as I return. “Auntie Anne’s, Jim? Really? And who is this Wendy you’ve been spending so much money on?”
BREAKFAST: A REASON TO GET OUT OF BED
I love breakfast. I just wish it weren’t served in the morning. I am a night person, so I don’t really understand why people would want to wake up early and immediately eat something. I’m not even hungry in the morning anyway, mostly because I usually ate a couple of hours earlier. The perfect situation for me would be to sleep until I’m hungry again. Unfortunately, given the fact that most businesses are open during daylight hours and young children are too dumb to sleep in, I have to get up. The only consolation prize for getting out of bed in the morning is that the meal of breakfast includes some very tasty items.
Too dumb to sleep in.
You would feel guilty about eating most traditional breakfast items at any other meal during the day, but since it’s the morning, somehow these foods are considered okay. There is an unspoken agreement: “Because you dragged yourself out of that warm, comfortable bed, you can have this stack of cakes covered in syrup glue and a half package of sausages.” What is socially acceptable to eat for breakfast seems to have neither rhyme nor reason. Sausage patties or links are fine, but having a hamburger or a corn dog from 7-Eleven is somehow just not appropriate at 8:00 a.m. Similarly, what we drink at breakfast makes no sense either. The idea of someone waking up and drinking alcohol seems rather pathetic, unless of course it’s a Bloody Mary or a mimosa. Then it’s somehow chic. We also understand that drinking fruit juice of any form is akin to drinking a sugar-and-carb shooter, and ordering a glass of orange juice with dinner would evoke a perplexed look from your waiter. Somehow at breakfast, again it is okay. When I was a kid, grapefruit juice was the Pepsi to orange juice’s Coke in the morning. “Would you like orange or grapefruit juice?” This is no longer the norm because I guess at some point everyone eventually realized people would rather be constipated than drink grapefruit juice. My dad used to eat half a grapefruit for breakfast. There was a special grapefruit spoon with a ridged tip to dig out the grapefruit sections. Now you’ll only see that
spoon in museums or on Boardwalk Empire.
There are other healthy options at breakfast, like oatmeal. Everyone knows eating oatmeal in the morning is good for you, and we know this because oatmeal has no taste. Sometimes my kids will eat oatmeal for breakfast, but they only like the flavored kind in those pouches that include a cup of sugar. I’ve discovered I’m not good at making them oatmeal, but I’m really good at making them oatmeal soup. Whenever I eat oatmeal I always feel like a prisoner or an orphan. “Please, sir, may I have some more?” Nothing like starting off the day eating the same thing Oliver ate before he started singing the song where he and the other orphans were fantasizing about real food.
Keeping it healthy!
If I’m waking up and I’m going to be eating, I want eggs. Eggs are like the flagship item of breakfast. There are things that taste better than eggs (pancakes and waffles) for breakfast, and there are things that taste worse than eggs (oatmeal, fruit) for breakfast, but eggs are the breakfast standard. Eggs are what separate a continental breakfast from an enjoyable breakfast. There are so many ways to prepare eggs. Here are some of my favorites:
Breakfast Burrito: If you like eggs, cheese, potatoes, and sausage in each bite and also napping after a meal, then the breakfast burrito is for you.
Quiche: The egg and cheese pie. If you can’t decide between breakfast and dessert, then quiche is for you. WARNING: Supposedly, eating quiche isn’t manly, and occasionally when I eat quiche, my gynecologist will make fun of me.
Best quiche ever: Tartine in San Francisco.
Eggs Benedict: For a traitor, Benedict sure knew how to eat breakfast. In all fairness, poached eggs over ham on a buttery, toasted English muffin covered in Hollandaise sauce would make anyone betray their country.
