We’re getting ready to open, that day, and these two giants walk through my doors, they just can fit and they’re like seven-foot doors. . .
They’re wearing beautiful suits, dressed to kill, and they say, ‘You’re infringing on Orange Julius, and we’re here to tell you to close. Period.’’”
Naturally, Stan’s came through it fine. Apparently his neighbor two doors down was a lawyer who happened to be president of the company which happened to own Orange Julius.
The two ‘giants’ came back the next day and said that Stan could stay open. Now that’s American ingenuity! Who knew there was this much intrigue and subterfuge in the pastry industry?
We know about Stan’s business acumen. I wanted to know if he ever had an idea for a type of doughnut that flopped. He thought for only a second or two and then declared,
“Yeah. I tried something with kiwi. I tried kiwi. It never worked. Never, never worked.”
Shifting gears (in case the kiwi incident was still a touchy subject), I asked him what it was like in the late sixties, with his shop adjacent to a major university as protests were beginning to explode.
His answer had a special kind of wisdom to it, and, I believe, a twinge of sadness:
“It was amazing. The turmoil was here, and except for a few happenings, most of it was before the advent of the gun. Everything happened when these kids discovered the gun, in the eighties.”
In the sixties, seventies—they didn’t know about a gun. And so, whenever there was a problem, there was a fistfight, somebody got hit with a stick. . . but no guns. You didn’t hear of a shooting at a riot.”
Being in an area with several first-run movie theaters, Stan has seen plenty of celebs, and the great thing is he doesn’t come across overly star-struck, but he’s not jaded either. In fact, he told me a sweet story about Gilda Radner…
“She was a junk-food eater . . . you don’t know this . . . she would come in with her husband, a guy named Gene Wilder.
They came in about five or ten days before she passed, and I would give her a doughnut, and Gene would just . . . sit against the wall, drink a cup of coffee, and watch her.”
Early in the interview, I asked him if he was happy he didn’t become an accountant. He said, “Life has been a bowl of cherries, kiddo,” and I bought every word. Even ‘kiddo.’ Because I think Stan is the real deal.
Stan was right. It is a round world, but if you do it right, it can be filled with peanut butter and fresh banana, and topped with banana frosting and chocolate chips.
So there’s a little deep fried wisdom. But the most important thing I learned from Stan? Kiwi doughnuts are a bad idea.
In Which I Pester a Real Chef
I suppose in a sense I’m a ‘food writer’ now, since this is a book about food, but it’s certainly not the type of writing I imagined doing for my first book.
I’m sure that at one point I wanted to be a novelist, but I have to admit I’m just not that organized. I don’t remember things I wrote last week, so it seemed a bit out of my reach to keep track of multiple characters over hundreds of pages AND have the story make sense.
“His first novel was marred by the recurrence of the main character years after being killed. Also, several chapters seemed to be from an entirely different novel.”
I thought of being a screenwriter, until I realized that every possible story idea has already been made into a movie.
When I was still doing standup, I went through a very brief and regrettable phase where I called myself a ‘comedy journalist,’ and although I understand now how insufferably pretentious that was, I still love the IDEA of being a reporter.
From The Front Page to All The President’s Men, I’ve always thought it would be cool to be a hard-boiled, cynical journalist, press pass shoved in the brim of his hat, tilting against the windmills of corruption.
“Tell me the story behind this alleged ‘meatloaf’ of yours . . .”
Thankfully, I’ve found a way to channel my inner Murrow with occasional interviews of people on the fringes of the food scene.
So, emboldened by my hard-hitting look at an L.A. doughnut shop, I decided to interview an actual chef, silly hat and all. Looking back, I probably didn’t need to wear the hat.
Before talking to a real, working chef, I faced two distinct, but equally daunting challenges.
1. I didn’t know what to ask a real, working chef.
2. I didn’t know any real, working chefs.
For the questions, I just wanted to avoid clichés and ask things he doesn’t usually get asked, just to get some insight into the culinary mind.
For my subject, I figured it would make sense to start with someone local, and thankfully, a dear friend was able to introduce me to Bret Bannon.
Bret isn’t just a top-notch chef, mind you; he teaches private classes, he’s on the faculty at a well-respected cooking school, he apprenticed under noted chocolatier B.T. McElrath, and he leads popular culinary tours of France.
Beyond those accomplishments, he’s got a great name. ‘Bret Bannon’ sounds like a private-eye in a morally ambiguous film noir, as in, “NOBODY double-crosses Bret Bannon!”
Or maybe ‘Bret Bannon’ is the ‘by day’ identity of a superhero: “By day, he’s mild-mannered culinary instructor Bret Bannon—by night, he’s known as . . .
Despite saying at one point “I don’t have a funny bone in my body” (something I might have wanted to know before I asked him a bunch of oddball questions), he was charming and handled the interview with aplomb.
I started by asking him what kind of music he listens to when he’s cooking:
“I generally don’t listen to music when I’m cooking. If there are people over, I would rather have conversation, and not have to try to talk over music.”
Okay. Maybe music wasn’t the ice-breaker I thought it would be.
When I asked him to remember the first meal he ever prepared for someone important, he couldn’t remember the meal but remembered this:
“Mother’s Day breakfast for my mom. I made coffee, and it looked a little weak, so I added instant coffee. It was awful.”
I think it’s comforting for the average cook at home to realize that everyone who cooks makes mistakes, so I asked him to tell me about his worst kitchen disaster—
“I tried a new recipe, and cooked the caramel too long. It was like cement.”
For some perspective, I’ve caused a blender to explode, covering my kitchen in liquefied corn, and I’ve dropped an entire meatloaf minutes before serving. But I still feel like we bonded on that one.
Then I suggested a scenario from a chef’s nightmare: If, for the rest of your life, you could only use one spice in your cooking (not counting salt and pepper), what would it be?” After considerable thought, he chose ‘garam masala.’
I didn’t learn until after the interview that garam masala is actually a blend of spices.
The Punjabi version of garam masala typically includes black and white peppercorns, cloves, malabar leaves, mace blades, black and white cumin seeds . . . also cinnamon, black, brown and green cardamom pods, nutmeg, star anise and coriander seeds.
I’m sure Bret knew that garam masala wasn’t just one spice. He was just dodging my line of questioning. Very crafty, Mr. Bannon. Very crafty indeed.
Now it was time to get hypothetical: If you had a time machine, where, and during what historical era, would you like to be a cook? Turns out, he loves France (how unusual for a chef, right?), but he added,
“I don’t know if I’d want to be a cook during Louie XIV’s era… I’d rather be a participant.”
One more ‘what if’: A wealthy benefactor wants you to cook one dish that best represents your style and your strengths. What do you cook? After a long pause, he said,
“Probably . . . a cassoulet.”
I started thinking about this marvelous, hearty Provençal stew when—I had it!
That’s our superhero’s name—Captain Cassoulet!
!! Now I just have to design a cape, and a toque with special powers!
I could tell my relentless questioning was making Chef Bannon sweat, but he tried to play along . . . until a simple question about hotdish caused his story to unravel.
To give things a local angle, I asked him how he might put a gourmet spin on the beloved Minnesota classic known as Tater Tot Hotdish.
“I’d probably make my own tater tots. If I remember correctly, you grate the potatoes, and then you add a little bit of gelatin, then you hydrate it.
Then you roll it with any other spices into a cylinder that’s about an inch in diameter; then you refrigerate it, and you cut it, and you deep fry them.”
Something didn’t seem quite right. Maybe it was the word ‘gelatin’ that put me off. Sure, he could describe tater tots, but did he really understand what they represent in a broader context? Then, the bombshell:
“I’ve actually never made tater tot hotdish.”
Finally, after minutes of exhaustive research and tireless digging (okay, I was a little tired), I had uncovered some dirt! I could sell this to ‘TMZ!’
MINNESOTA CHEF CONFESSES:
“I’VE NEVER MADE TATER TOT HOTDISH!”
As Seen On TV
I’m not usually tempted by infomercials, other than the Time-Life Ultimate Rock Ballads collection. You can’t blame me there—it had that one song by Glass Tiger. . . how is that NOT worth $118?
Normally, though, I’m not sucked in by ads. But give me a half-hour pitch for some new kitchen gadget, and I will stare at the television transfixed, wondering, “How have I managed to even feed myself without one of these?”
The Girlfriend wasn’t on board with us getting a Jerky Gun™, since we technically didn’t need one, so now I try to appeal to reason.
Besides, if TV has taught me anything, it’s that my way of doing things in the kitchen will just lead to spills, messes, and wasted money.
Why, according to an ad I saw for some vacuum sealer thing, last year alone I threw away more than five hundred thousand dollars in food!
My rational mind tells me that most of the products advertised on late night television are crap, but what if this one really is ‘revolutionary?’ In that case I’d be an idiot not to buy it, especially if they’re throwing in a second one ‘absolutely free!’
I almost plunked down a hundred bucks for a Magic Bullet set, partly because it’s the only infomercial product I know of named after an assassination conspiracy theory. Mostly, though, I figured a c-note was a fair price for something that’s magical.
The Magic Bullet has a high-torque power base, and I think it was the great chef Escoffier who said, “La cuisine est tout au sujet du couple, bébé!” That’s right; I looked up the French word for ‘torque.’
Naturally, you get your cross blade and your flat blade, your tall AND short bullet cups, some steamer/shaker tops, and your resealable containers.
You also get party mugs with ‘comfort lip rings,’ because who hasn’t had a party ruined by uncomfortable mugs?
At this point I’m sure you’re thinking “That’s probably all there is,” but in fact . . . THERE’S MORE!
There’s a Magic Bullet Cookbook that’s worth the hundred bucks by itself–if only because it includes a recipe for ‘snazzy egg salad.’ I’ve made egg salad before, but it’s never had any snazz!
And they’ll throw in a blender, and a juicer that “works as easily as the two-hundred dollar juicers.” You know, those two-hundred dollar juicers so many of us grew up with. All told, the Magic Bullet set gives you twenty-one pieces of time-saving convenience!
Even more numerically impressive is the Cake Pops kit. That has twenty-five pieces, although, to be fair, eighteen of those are the sticks you use to hold the cake pops. I’m just sayin’, the sticks should only count as one item.
Weirdest part of the Cake Pops ad is when they talk about not wanting to deal with “the hassle of cake.” Yeah, because after dealing with “The Man,” cake is probably the biggest source of hassle in my life.
I own one “As Seen On TV” product. As a birthday gift, a friend bought me a Slap-Chop. I love how prosaic that name is. No exaggerated, mystical claims here . . . you slap it, it chops things.
This is great for people who feel the normal chopping experience isn’t violent enough, and I have to say, you can release a surprising amount of aggression with just a small amount of slap-chopping.
Just make sure, if you want one, that you act now, because I think they said supplies are limited.
Around the same time of night when you might see a Slap-Chop ad, there are also a huge number of career-oriented ads, but I don’t imagine they’re very effective. I’m pretty sure most people watching basic cable at four in the morning have already made peace with not having a job.
No matter which barely-accredited, essentially-fictional school is being pitched, the ads are the same. It’s always perky people telling their friends about the rewards of an exciting career at the cutting edge of tomorrow’s jobs in the growing field of computer science. Or refrigeration and heating.
I saw the same woman on two different ads. Apparently she’s taking a double major in dental hygiene and motorcycle repair. Good for her.
What really caught my attention was an ad for Le Cordon Bleu, because they have an online program! Really? How does that work? Unless Apple has come up with a computer interface that allows you to taste or smell what you cooked, how would they know if you passed?
I wouldn’t use the word ‘regret,’ but I will say that I wish I had discovered my inner foodie when I was younger, because I would have looked into culinary school. I‘ve always envied people whose educational choice might lead to an actual job.
My last major of record was English, so clearly by that point I’d given up on the idea of ‘earning a living.’ I constantly had to answer the question, “What are you gonna DO with your degree?”
If I’d been in cooking school, it would have been so much easier. I could have said “I’m gonna cook, dumbass.”
The Culinary Institute of America is, I suppose, the Harvard of cooking schools, and their curriculum features all the classes you might expect in food preparation, food safety, nutrition . . .
The school also offers something called ‘meat fabrication,’ which sounds a little too Orwellian for my tastes (“Workers will be given their lunches once the meat is fabricated”).
I might have seriously considered a career at the cutting edge of tomorrow’s jobs in the growing field of meat fabrication, until I found out how much a culinary education costs. At the Institute, tuition is just over fifty thousand dollars.
Now I know why duck confit is so expensive. Hell, the duck probably only costs ten bucks . . . the other thirty goes to paying off the chef’s student loans!
At this stage of my life, though, if I somehow came across fifty grand, I think I’d pass on culinary school. Instead, I’d invest that money in some sort of cooking gadget that I could sell in a half-hour show.
All you have to do is tell people that the way they’ve always done some kitchen task is “too much hassle” or “throwing money down the drain.” Maybe add the phrase “space-age technology.”
Sure, I’d have to spend money on a B-grade celebrity spokesperson (“Now here’s TV’s Scott Baio with a testimonial for the revolutionary new Asparagus Master!”). I’d also need to invent something, but after that, it’s pure profit.
Maybe I’ll create a quinoa sifter (“Tired of sifting your quinoa the old-fashioned way?”), or specially designed broccoli tongs.
I have an idea for a kitchen device that is just begging to be invented, but since I have no mechanical aptitude and can’t draw, I have decided to give away my idea. All I ask is, if you do something with it, let me do the following ad . . .
(voice-over intro)
“It’s the kitchen necessity that everybody’s talking about—The Flipper!”
“Are you spending too much tim
e flipping your omelets by hand? Do you always overcook one side of the pancake? Tired of burgers sticking to supposedly non-stick pans because you didn’t flip them in time? How many meals have you ruined with flimsy spatulas?
Stop ruining your family’s meals—you need The Flipper! Powered by the same technology used in NASA’s advanced weather satellites, a tiny patented mechanism activates the Turbo Food Paddles on The Flipper, so you can serve perfectly-flipped food every time!
But that’s not all! If you call in the next twenty seconds, we’ll throw in the Kitchen Sorcery Wand for free, and we’re not even sure what it does! In fact, we’ll give you ten of them for free, along with a stylish faux-naugahyde carrying case!”
Knowing What’s Good for You
As the de facto menu planner for our non-traditional quasi-family unit, I try to make sure The Girlfriend and I eat a healthy, balanced diet. Granted, our definition of ‘balanced’ might be different than yours.
For instance, we believe that, if you had a salad for dinner, you can, and probably should, have a gigantic apple fritter for dessert. You know, for balance.
In general, we eat healthy food, and we both had to relearn some things. For instance, I had to explain that neither ice cream nor chocolate is, per se, a ‘food group.’
But what does healthy mean, exactly? Now, I’m sure even ravenous meat-eaters would probably agree vegetables are involved, in some way.
Growing up, I never had a problem eating my vegetables, because if they were on my dinner plate, I was supposed to eat them.
Of course, Mom never exactly challenged our palates—the Great Kale Experiment of the early seventies notwithstanding.
I was a vegetarian for two weeks in 1987, a commitment which, in retrospect, lasted longer than a lot of my relationships in 1987.
I might have stayed with vegetarianism, except that in the eighties, I was on the road all the time, and options for the aspiring herbivore were limited at your various Perkins and Stuckey’s locations. You get really tired of iceberg lettuce and warm ranch dressing.
Does This Taste Funny? A Half-Baked Look at Food and Foodies Page 5
