Best Food Writing 2014

by Holly Hughes

  Furthermore, genetically modifying consumer crops proved to be inefficient and expensive. Stark estimates that adding a new gene takes roughly 10 years and $100 million to go from a product concept to regulatory approval. And inserting genes one at a time doesn’t necessarily produce the kinds of traits that rely on the interactions of several genes. Well before their veggie business went kaput, Monsanto knew it couldn’t just genetically modify its way to better produce; it had to breed great vegetables to begin with. As Stark phrases a company mantra: “The best gene in the world doesn’t fix dogshit germplasm.”

  What does? Crossbreeding. Stark had an advantage here: In the process of learning how to engineer chemical and pest resistance into corn, researchers at Monsanto had learned to read and understand plant genomes—to tell the difference between the dogshit germplasm and the gold. And they had some nifty technology that allowed them to predict whether a given cross would yield the traits they wanted.

  The key was a technique called genetic marking. It maps the parts of a genome that might be associated with a given trait, even if that trait arises from multiple genes working in concert. Researchers identify and cross plants with traits they like and then run millions of samples from the hybrid—just bits of leaf, really—through a machine that can read more than 200,000 samples per week and map all the genes in a particular region of the plant’s chromosomes.

  They had more toys too. In 2006, Monsanto developed a machine called a seed chipper that quickly sorts and shaves off widely varying samples of soybean germplasm from seeds. The seed chipper lets researchers scan tiny genetic variations, just a single nucleotide, to figure out if they’ll result in plants with the traits they want—without having to take the time to let a seed grow into a plant. Monsanto computer models can actually predict inheritance patterns, meaning they can tell which desired traits will successfully be passed on. It’s breeding without breeding, plant sex in silico. In the real world, the odds of stacking 20 different characteristics into a single plant are one in 2 trillion. In nature, it can take a millennium. Monsanto can do it in just a few years.

  And this all happens without any genetic engineering. Nobody inserts a single gene into a single genome. (They could, and in fact sometimes do, look at their crosses by engineering a plant as a kind of beta test. But those aren’t intended to leave the lab.) Stark and his colleagues realized that they could use these technologies to identify a cross that would have highly desirable traits and grow the way they wanted. And they could actually charge more for it—all the benefits of a GMO with none of the stigma. “We didn’t have those tools the first time around in vegetables,” Stark says.

  Also in 2005, Monsanto bought the world’s largest vegetable seed company, Seminis. Think of it as a wholesale supplier of germplasm. It turned out Seminis came with another benefit: something in the pipeline that Stark could turn into his division’s first test product. A decade prior, swashbuckling plant scientists had discovered on the limestone cliffs of western Sicily a strain of Brassica villosa, ancestor of modern broccoli. Thanks to a gene called MYB28, this weedy atavist produced elevated levels of glucoraphanin. Stark’s team bred further enhancements to that antioxidant-increasing compound into a more familiar-looking plant—good old broccoli.

  In 2010 Monsanto started test-marketing the new crop, calling it Beneforté. The strategy was coming together: enhanced premium veggies for an elite buyer. Beneforté broccoli came in a bag of ready-to-cook florets—so convenient!—labeled with a bar graph telegraphing how its antioxidant levels stacked up against regular broccoli and cauliflower. It sold, but Monsanto researchers knew that future veggies would need a more compelling hook. Everybody already knows that they’re supposed to eat their broccoli.

  Stark’s group had one last angle: flavor. In produce, flavor comes from a combination of color, texture, taste (which is to say, generally, sweetness or lack of bitterness), and aroma. But the traits that create those variables are complicated and sometimes nonobvious.

  For example, Monsanto created an onion—the EverMild—with reduced levels of a chemical called lachrymatory factor, the stuff that makes you cry. That wasn’t too hard. But making a sweet winter version of a cantaloupe took more effort. Stark’s team first found genes that helped a French melon keep from spoiling after harvest. Through crossbreeding, they learned to keep those genes turned on. Now farmers could harvest the melon ripe, and it stayed ripe longer with full aroma. But the researchers didn’t stop there—they also made sure the fruit had the gene for citron, a molecule associated with fruity and floral aromas. They called the final product the Melorange.

  Figuring out these relationships takes place at a sophisticated sensory and genetics lab perched amid hundreds of acres of experimental farmland in the rural, sun-scorched outskirts of Woodland, a farming town in California’s ag belt. White-coated scientists hover amid tubs full of fruits and vegetables in a lab, probing them with the intensity of forensic investigators. Penetrometers measure squishiness. Instruments called Brix meters track sugar content. Gas spectrographs, liquid chromatographs, and magnetic resonance imagers isolate specific aromatic molecules and their concentrations.

  Eventually volunteers eat the experimental foods and give feedback. In one tasting session, sensory scientist Chow-Ming Lee passes out five plastic cups filled with bite-size squares of cantaloupe, harvested from outside and brought in from a store, to a dozen melon growers and distributors. Each cup is labeled with a three-digit code. Score sheets have two columns: “Sweet/Flavorful” and “Juicy.”

  After sampling each batch and writing down their assessments, the participants punch their scores into devices that connect to Lee’s laptop, which plots the room’s general sentiment on a screen along a four-quadrant grid ranging from low to high flavor on one axis and low to high juiciness on the other. None of the melons manage to crack the upper corner of the far right quadrant, the slot Monsanto hopes to fill: a sweet, juicy, crowd-pleasing melon.

  In the adjoining fields a few hours later, Monsanto breeders Jeff Mills and Greg Tolla conduct a different kind of taste test. There they slice open a classic cantaloupe and their own Melorange for comparison. Tolla’s assessment of the conventional variety is scathing. “It’s tastes more like a carrot,” he says. Mills agrees: “It’s firm. It’s sweet, but that’s about it. It’s flat.” I take bites of both too. Compared with the standard cantaloupe, the Melorange tastes supercharged; it’s vibrant, fruity, and ultrasweet. I want seconds. “That’s the shtick,” Mills says.

  Of course, sweeter fruit isn’t necessarily better fruit, and it’s perhaps no surprise that critics of Monsanto are unconvinced that this push toward non-GM products represents good corporate citizenship. They question whether these new fruits and vegetables will actually be as healthy as their untweaked counterparts. In 2013, for example, consumer-traits researchers prototyped their Summer Slice watermelon, designed with a more applelike texture (to cut down on the dreaded watermelon-juice-dripping-down-your-chin phenomenon that has scarred so many childhoods). But the denser texture made it taste less sweet. So Stark’s team is breeding in a higher sugar content.

  Is that unhealthy? No one really knows, but it’s certainly true that the law doesn’t require Monsanto to account for potential long-term effects. (The FDA considers all additive-free, conventionally bred produce to be safe.) Nobody has ever tinkered with sugar levels the way Monsanto is attempting; it’s essentially an experiment, says Robert Lustig, a pediatric endocrinologist and president of the Institute for Responsible Nutrition. “The only result they care about is profit.”

  Monsanto, of course, denies that charge. Make fruit taste better and people will eat more of it. “That’s good for society and, let’s face it, good for business,” Stark says.

  Monsanto is still Monsanto. The company enforces stringent contracts for farmers who buy its produce seeds. Just as with Roundup Ready soybeans, Monsanto prohibits regrowing seeds from the new crops. The company maintains exclusion
clauses with growers if harvests don’t meet the standards of firmness, sweetness, or scent—pending strict quality-assurance checks. “The goal is to get the products recognized by the consumer, trusted, and purchased,” Stark says. “That’s what I really want. I want to grow sales.”

  But he gets coy about the company’s longer-term agenda. “I’m not sure we ever really projected what kind of market share we’ll have,” he says. The vegetable division cleared $821 million in revenue in 2013, a significant potential growth area for a $14 billion-a-year company that leans heavily on revenue from biotech corn and soy. More telling is the company’s steady stream of acquisitions, which suggests a continuing commitment to the produce aisle. It owns a greenhouse in the Guatemalan mountains, where the dry, warm air allows three or four growth cycles a year—great for research. In 2008 Monsanto bought De Ruiter, one of the world’s biggest greenhouse seed companies, and in 2013 it picked up Climate Corporation, a big-data weather company that can provide intel on what field traits might be needed to survive global warming in a given region. Mark Gulley, an analyst at BGC Financial, says the company is following the “virtuous cycle” approach; it spends heavily on marketing and pours much of the proceeds back into R&D.

  The new crops keep coming. In 2012 Monsanto debuted Performance Series Broccoli, a conventionally bred line that stands taller, enabling cheaper, faster mechanical harvesting as opposed to hand-picking. Breeders are also growing watermelons with the green-and-white-striped rind patterns familiar to US consumers but also the tiger-striped variety favored in Spain and the oval jade version loved by Australians. “It’s supposed to remind you of where you grew up,” says Mills, the Monsanto melon breeder. That suggests the division plans to be a player in the trillion-dollar global produce market.

  For his part, Stark hopes that when Monsanto’s affiliation with some of its best sellers becomes more widely known, the company might win back some trust. “There isn’t a reputation silver bullet, but it helps,” he says. In that basement dining room at Monsanto headquarters, he waxes rhapsodic about the lettuce long after he has cleaned his plate. During a recent trip to Holland, where Frescada is gaining popularity, Stark saw folks peeling leaves straight off the heads and munching them without dressing, like extra-large potato chips. “People just ate it like a snack, which was not the intent, but . . . ” Stark trails off and looks around the room. His napkin is still on his lap. He’s savoring the potential.

  THE FLAVOR MAN

  By Laura Taxel

  From Edible Cleveland

  Every city should have a local food champion like Laura Taxel, dean of Cleveland food writers (Cleveland magazine, Edible Cleveland, ClevelandEthnicEats.com), who always seems to have the inside scoop on hometown chefs, markets, eateries, recipes—and one-of-a-kind artisans like Kevin Sheuring.

  Kevin Scheuring has a lot on his plate. A character, by every measure and definition, easily spotted thanks to long blonde dreadlocks, tattoos, lip ring, and earrings of a gauge that makes most mothers squirm, he lives a food-focused life. Memorable both for his appearance and his outspoken, expletive-laced style, Scheuring is the founder and sole employee of SpiceHound, a mobile retailer of quality spices, herbs, chiles, and natural salts, and the barely paid manager and passionate advocate for the Coit Road Farmers Market in East Cleveland.

  He believes food is the most important purchase we make and that everyone would be better off choosing it thoughtfully and preparing it from scratch. “You eat 1,000 plus meals a year,” says Scheuring, “Cook most of them yourself. Be bold, fearless, and creative and don’t be afraid to screw one up now and then.”

  That’s advice he follows himself, constantly experimenting with everything from making sausages and sauerkraut to canning tomato sauce and baking bread, and prompting his wife to once pose the rhetorical question, “Why am I married to an old ethnic woman?”

  He didn’t start out this way. “I played guitar and bass in a rock band,” Scheuring says. “I ate tacos from a boxed kit. Never in my wildest dreams did I see myself as a guy who would sell spices and be seriously into food.”

  Things changed after he got married. The couple bought a house in Collinwood, where he’d lived since 1988 and “a neighborhood,” Scheuring notes, “populated with other poor musicians just like me.” He became interested in eating well and became a regular shopper at the nearby Coit Road Market, whose roots reach back to 1917, when a group of local farmers began selling food from the backs of their trucks.

  In 1932, the farmers formed a cooperative, bought property, and erected the long enclosed shed and covered arcade that’s still in use today. It is Northeast Ohio’s only permanent, enclosed, year-round farmers market. The place has survived economic hard times, white flight, the deterioration of the surrounding community, and the loss of many farmer member tenants. It almost closed in the 1990s. A last-minute rescue pulled it back from the brink and put it in the hands of a nonprofit, the East Cleveland Farmer’s Market Preservation Society.

  “This market is underutilized,” says Scheuring, “but it’s so important that it is here for people. It’s a part of Cleveland history, and I actually think the original model—farmers banding together and running their own permanent market site—is a good one for the future.”

  Once he began messing around in the kitchen, Scheuring developed a fascination with various ethnic cuisines and found himself driving all over town to get many of the spices he needed. A light went on. He saw an opportunity in his obsession and decided to become a spice vendor and set up shop at Coit Road. In the ensuing 10 years, he proudly announces, he has never missed a single market day.

  He now orders in bulk from 20 different suppliers and offers an international array of products that include the familiar—garlic, sweet smoked paprika, onion powder, dill, mustard seeds, and cloves—and rarer, more esoteric items such as preserved lemons, Himalayan pink salt, dried habaneros, African Bird chilies, star anise, sumac, ground galangal, fennel pollen, and juniper berries. He can talk knowledgeably and at length about the specific characteristics of cinnamon from Vietnam and why it’s best to get nutmegs whole.

  There is, he admits, a certain contradiction in being a self-described “hardcore locavore” and a seller of spices sourced from around the world. But we still want pepper, he says by way of explanation, and other flavorful ingredients that simply cannot be grown or produced in this area. And that’s okay. So he has no problem seasoning the meat, poultry, vegetables, and fruits he gets from area farmers with Tasmanian pepperberries, Mexican oregano, and Madagascar vanilla beans.

  Everything is packaged in small $1 bags: quantity varies rather than price. Scheuring does this to keep things simple and affordable. The approach also encourages customers to experiment and discourages overbuying. “Old spices lose something. It’s best to use them up quickly.” The packets are set out in 216 compartments in a display case he built himself (it has that look). It was supposed to be a prototype, but he never seems to find the time to craft a finished version. When Coit Road is closed, Scheuring folds up the whole thing and carts it around to other farmers markets.

  But the East Cleveland location is his priority. He took on the role of market manager in 2006. He keeps things running smoothly, manages the EBT program (Electronic Benefits Transfer that provides subsidies for shoppers), works tirelessly to promote the place, and does cooking demos. He helped establish a small urban farm and community garden on an adjacent plot of land and is trying to get a co-op up and running to house chickens that will supply participants with eggs. It is not, he admits, the most profitable use of his time, but he tells me “there are things that just need to be done, whether you get a paycheck or not.”

  It was Wednesday afternoon at closing time when we met to talk. He had just finished cooking stuffed poblano peppers in the market’s “demo kitchen”—propane and butane burners, countertop convection ovens, no plumbing—for the dinner he’d share with his wife, Lynne, later. It speaks to the consisten
t theme in all that he does. Whether he’s selling spices, manning the office at Coit Road Farmers Market, or whipping up a meal, Kevin Scheuring is always thinking about how to make sure there’s something good to go on the table.

  Spicehound Says

  Spices go stale. Buy in small quantities, and use within a couple of months.

  To test for freshness, crumble or rub spices and herbs in your hands. Sniff. If the smell isn’t vivid, pleasing, and strong, the product is past its prime.

  Put a small amount of each spice and herb on the tip of your finger and taste it. This will give you a better idea of how it will impact a dish, and whether you want to use a little or a lot.

  There are no rules about what spices go with which foods. Flavors are like colors—choose what you like. If a combination works for you, then it’s good.

  Season incrementally to avoid going overboard.

  Most spices are better added early in the cooking process. Fat is an excellent carrier of flavor so sautéing in oil, butter, or ghee at the start brings out their best.

  Cauliflower Tomato Tarka

  By Kevin Scheuring

  One of the challenges of selling spices is the reality that most folks will never grind them and therefore never experience the superior flavor of fresh-ground spices. The other side of this is how often people don’t consider using whole spices, well, whole. We accept whole caraway in bread, whole fennel in sausage, and whole anise in cookies, but don’t consider whole spices much beyond that.