A Veritable Bevy of Burgers

Oh, my poor vegetarian friends.  Once again you shall be subjected to a meat-centric post.  I swear I eat vegetables!  I really do!  But somehow this blog always seems to heavily feature my base, carnivore impulses.  Although I’ve realized that I don’t have too many pure vegetarian friends left.  Many of you have given in to the seductive lure of the flesh.  But to those few hold-outs, I offer my apologies.

I like to fancy myself as something of a french fry connoisseur.  I have sampled the crispy goodness far and wide, from the shores of New York, through the corn fields of Indiana, to the canals of Amsterdam (my memories of those last fries are hazy, for some reason.  But I think they had deep insight into the universe).  It’s only in recent years, however, that I have truly come to appreciate the french fry’s soul mate, the quality burger.  A well-proportioned, juicy, grilled burger, medium rare please (and that means pink, not grey, you fools!) with a hefty slice of cheddar.  And please toast that bun.  If we’re going to be all highfalutin about it we could replace the cheddar with swiss (or dare I say gruyere!) and pile on some sautéed mushrooms.  But I don’t want any of that Kraft American cheese product shit on a hockey puck piece of meat thrown between two slices of wonder bread.  So just don’t even try it, buddy. 

In other words, I guess I’ve become a bit of a burger snob.  Luckily there are number of places vying for the chance to take me down a few notches.  I received my first bit of humbling at that most trendy of burger joints, Shake Shack.  At my first trip there, after waiting on line for 16 hours, 43 minutes, and 18 seconds, I was finally given the privilege of ordering.  And I ordered my preferred burger: medium rare, with cheddar.  Except they only cook their burgers one way.  And you can’t choose your cheese.  Well, I’ve just waited on line for 27 hours, 54 minutes, and 46 seconds, so what can I do?  I accept their fascist burger with a strained smile and make my way over to the inadequate seating.   But you know what?  I was wrong, and Shake Shack was right.  The burger was awesome.  True, it wasn’t a gourmet event by any means, but there was something about biting into it that just made me feel like I was coming home.  It’s like they elevated your typical burger to thing of nostalgic beauty.  You feel sunlight dappling your face as your race your childhood friends through a meadow.  Then suddenly you’re riding your bike down a dusty dirt road, with your faithful dog at your side.  Oh look!  There’s Harvey the friendly milk man making his rounds.  And just beyond him is the General Store, where Old Man McIntire sells rock candy and root beer.  Yes, it’s true, Shake Shack will transport you back to an imagined Norman Rockwell childhood.  It’s like Our Town except with props, no death, and no goddamn sermonizing Stage Manager.  All this, Shake Shack will provide.

You’d think that after this experience I would have a bit more leniency towards places that won’t cook a burger to order.  But oh no.  I still hadn’t seen the true ways of the force.  I was therefore horrified when I couldn’t get my burger cooked medium rare in – wait for it – Scotland.  Really people.  What kind of an idiot asks for undercooked meat in the UK?  Why didn’t I just order the lobotomy special and be done with it?  The first time I attempted to order just such a bacteria-infested burger the Scottish waitress looked at me like I had 12 heads (all of which were just desperate for a splash of Mad Cow disease), and then said that under absolutely no circumstances would they serve me a burger cooked less than well done.  In this instance I decided to pass on the burger, because I wanted it MY way, dammit!  And if it came with a side of degenerative brain disease, then so be it! 

Fortunately for me, I was in Scotland for two weeks, so I had time to mend my foolish ways.  Not that I felt I needed to, mind you.  I was secure in my culinary prejudices.  But the next time I found myself faced with this dilemma a burger was, in fact, the only available food source.  We’re pretty spoiled here in New York.  If I said to myself at 2 am, “Gee, I could really go for goat stew, baked Alaska, and a cricket taco” I’m pretty sure I could find a way to have all of these things delivered to me.  And while Edinburgh does not subscribe to the draconian bar hours of London (closing at 11pm?!?!  Que the hell!), its pubs do tend to stop serving food around 9pm.  This becomes a bit of problem when your show ends at 8pm, and it takes a full hour to round people up and decide to which of the abundant public houses we would be giving our custom that night.  So one evening, post show, we all ended up at a lovely beer garden that had no kitchen other than a tiny hut with an open flame, meat, and a cast iron pan filled with sautéed onions.  My hunger won out, and I let the shady Eastern European man behind the grill give me the standard burger, on a roll, with mature cheddar and onions.

Friends, I have finally seen the light.  This was quite possibly the best burger I’ve ever had.  I was a pig-headed fool, a stubborn, unrelenting New Yorker, who couldn’t see past her own biases to the fact that when you’re dealing with something as simple as a burger, the quality of the ingredients is everything.  As I stared rapturously into my roll, my dining companions laughed and informed me that all beef in Scotland is pure Angus – which is kind of the best stuff ever.  So no matter what you do to it, it’s going to be stellar.  The meat was juicy, tender, savory.  The roll was fluffy and fresh, and dear sweet lord, the mature cheddar – I could happily eat mature cheddar on everything, everyday.  Seriously: shredded wheat, escargot, ice cream – bring it on!  The caramelized, glistening onions added just the right touch of sweetness.  It was all I could do not to run to that Eastern European Grill God and beg him for just one more bite of such sweet ambrosia. 

While in Scotland I ate a surprising number of good meals.  I mean, we haven’t even touched on the nation’s dedicated, inspiring relationship to the potato.  And the seafood!  And the scotch! (okay, technically scotch is not food, but it is essential to life, so it counts).  But today I pay homage to the humble Scottish burger – you were there for me in my times of post-performance, hunger-induced hysteria.  You sustained me through not a few rounds of debauchery.  You’ve helped me start to move past my intolerant, prissy ways.  What can I say?  Some people have therapy; I have Scottish burgers.

(Shake Shack, please don’t get jealous.  I’ll still return to you anytime I need to feel the innocence of youth!  Also, you’re right up the street and Scotland is, well, in Scotland.  Although this is New York – and perhaps Scotland delivers….)

The post in which I once again rhapsodize about my culinary heritage

I was an absurdly anxious child. At the age of six I dreamt that I was being held hostage by the "people who live under the quicksand" (they're a lot like the Children of the Corn, except less plausible). Upon waking I swore off sand of all kinds for a week - better to be safe than sorry. Less humorously, I also aquired a fear of the dark, of sleep, and of solitude. My saintly Uncle Carl had to stay by my bedside for years until the memory of the dream faded.

Perhaps as a result of one too many fire safety lectures in the second grade, I also felt the need to be prepared at all times for the inevitable destruction of my house. Before bed I would lay out, by the door, the items that I would take with me in the event of a fire, flood, or general wrath-of-god-kind-of-thing: my "safe" which I'd bought at the penny candy store, and which was entirely filled with change, a.k.a. my life savings; two treasured stuffed animals, Bunny the Rabbit, and Poopsie the Dog; lastly I had a rotating cast of toys occupying the last spot. I struggled with the decision every night. Would Sparkle-Bright the pony understand that, no matter how much I wanted to, I simply couldn't carry all of my toys in my weak, eight-year-old arms when the apocolypse struck? Would my Pound Puppies find a way to make it on their own? Yes, I was the child who never, ever should have read The Velvetine Rabbit. Or seen The Nutcracker. Or watched cartoons. I obsessively anthropomorphised all toys, and then flagellated myself over my inability to love them all equally (because each and every one could feel my indifference, and suffered greatly for it. I was, after all, their world.)

My priorties, while angonizing, were at least clear back then. If you were to tell me now that I had to leave my home, my family and my friends, and could only bring one suitcase with me, I would wring my hands in frustration and sit down on the floor, determined to not make any choices whatsoever. Perhaps this is a sign of "decision fatigue". Perhaps this means that I am not as wedded to material goods as I once was. (Oh who am I kidding - I would gently cradle my glorious iPhone to my breast and rush out the emergency exit.) Actually I think this speaks to the fact that such decisions are not really part of an adult's life. We have back-ups, insurance, couches to surf on should the need arise. Rarely do we have the occassion to contemplate the few items that constitute our identity. My Grandmother, however, had to make just such a decision.

I've heard various versions of the story, but what I've been able to gleen is this: at some point my grandparents determined that it was no longer safe for my Grandfather to stay in Communist Czechoslovakia. Whether this was because he was a "Dutch spy" or a frequenter of the black market is up for debate; all I know is that his arrest was imminent. So my Grandmother had the difficult job of packing her life into a small suitcase. Mind you, the official cover story was a "family vacation". The suitcase could not be too big, or the jig would be up. Of course, none of her relations could be told; this would be dangerous to her before she left, and to her family after her departure.

What do you bring with you when you leave your homeland, perhaps never to return? How do you encapsulate a life into a carry-on? My grandmother took two things: her cookbook and her cookie cutters. To this day I amazed at her decision. How eloquent, to bring your country's culinary traditions with you when you flee. And how painful to think that, while you may never break bread with your sisters and brothers again, at least you'll savor the same tastes they'll be experiencing.

I've told you all about the roast chicken. I haven't discussed the ritualized cooking of my Grandmother's chicken paprika recipe that I shared with my Father. And just this past weekend I sat with my Aunt and cousins and listened to them reminisce about my Grandmother's pitacki (this is in no way spelled correctly), and her potato pancakes. My grandmother left a culinary legacy to all of us. When we cook as way to nurture, or dine as a way to commune, we honor her immense courage and yet also her whimsy. We relish her quirks - the way she always understood when I was "full for dinner, but not full for dessert", or her reluctance to share her culinary knowledge until she saw me as an independant, self-sufficient woman. If only I had reached that point sooner.

There are so many things I never asked her, so many stories I wanted to hear. But at least we have her cookbook. I saw it at my Aunt's house after the memorial service. It wasn't at all what I expected - I think I envisioned some sort of ancient Czech tome, whereas this was actually more of an Eastern European Betty Crocker. Although I can't read it (I never learned Czech), I feel the meaning of it: go forth, young woman, and cook. Create, envelope, console. This is what food does for us. It pipes in directly to memory, and gives us a way to express love that we can wholy make a part of ourselves. It is a love that sustains. It is an act of gratitude. This, grandma, is what you gave to me. Thank you.

The following is brought to you by Andi's bank account (it's underfed and wears a lot of black, just like any good New Yorker)

Long Island is a tough place to grow up. Everything is so green, and well-manicured. In school you’re constantly told about all the opportunities you have, and how it truly is possible to cure cancer, get elected president, and birth the new Messiah, all at the same time. What’s a slightly rebellious girl who doesn’t abuse drugs supposed to do? How was I to make my mark upon this field of radical success? Clearly the only way I could assert my identity was by forcing my way into singing at my high school graduation. All kidding aside, it is a wonderful memory. I sang a duet with a fellow student, Renee, whom I didn’t know very well at all. The scheme had evolved while we were both waiting to audition to sing The Star Spangled Banner at the ceremony, only to be informed that the auditions were a mere formality. The fix was in! The role had been cast! Well, we decided that we wouldn’t go down without a fight, and informed the administration that we would be singing a duet whether they liked it or not. Apparently the administrators at my high school were easily bullied, because this tactic worked. My friend Ethan suggested Blackbird and offered to arrange it and play guitar (was this residual guilt over being one of the beneficiaries of the pre-casting? I prefer to chalk it up to pure altruism.) So on a hot day in June we all donned our blue polyester robes and created a quiet, beautiful, random moment. It’s one of my only clear memories of the day.

It’s been 15 years. I believe Renee has a family now, and Ethan recently tied the knot. I, on the other hand, am still trying to become a functioning member of society. I do think I’m making some progress – Exhibit A: I went on my first business trip! Of course, it was through one of my many part-time jobs, and really felt more like an unsupervised fieldtrip, but nevertheless, my airfare was covered and I got to stay in a hotel, so it counts. I spent three work-filled days in Chicago, but, never fear dear readers: I also managed to eat vast quantities.

One of my major goals was to figure out this “Chicago Pizza” thing. Up till now, my non-east coast pizza experiences had only solidified my extreme New York Pizza snobbery. What, exactly, was the point of thick, doughy, flavorless crust, low quality globby cheese, and tomato sauce spiked with six gallons of sugar? (Yeah, I’m talking to you, Indiana. It’s been eleven years and I still won’t forgive you.) Well, I have now been schooled. Chicago pizza is fabulous. The cornmeal crust is crisp on the outside, grease-filled and chewy on the inside. The sauce was fresh and fragrant – at times a bit too fresh. The slice by which all other deep dish slices shall be judged had pepperoni, and the spicy processed meat was an essential ingredient. Without it, the pizza tasted a bit as though someone had smashed raw tomato on it. So, vegetarians, abandon your morals when you go to Chicago and join us in the search for superior heart disease. Get meat on your pizza.

The office pizza party at Gino’s was very much in line with my general lifestyle – cheap, seedy, and tasty. The following night I classed things up with my new work friends at the well-heeled Chicago restaurant Blackbird. Let me just say that, all signs to the contrary, I have in fact experienced fine dining. It’s just a very rare occurrence. And I never know what to wear. Luckily in this case, my options were limited to the schlubby items in my suitcase: a skirt with a swiftly unraveling hem, and my finest pair of mary-jane crocs. True, most of the place was filled with women dressed for a club, with stacked heels, but the rest of my party was elegant and gorgeous so I just hid behind them. I snared hardly a single dirty look as I clomped into the cool, minimalist establishment.

How to describe the food? Nouveau awesome? We had eleven outstanding courses, which I won’t even try to re-create here. Let’s look at the highlights: sexual Halibut – it was buttery, it was flaky, it melted in my mouth, it took me to a place that I don’t think I’ve visited before with seafood. The delicate meat was bathed in a red wine jus, and paired with…something crunchy which I couldn’t identify, but still ate enthusiastically. This was followed by an aged pekin duck breast which was served with a tequila braised radish. Oh the duck. The skin was crisped to perfection, and the meat was cooked to a savory mauve. And then there was veal. Miso glazed veal. With lightly fried artichoke hearts. And fresh farmers cheese. This was when things got serious. I believe we paired this with a glass of Blackbird wine? Although at this point a fair amount of wine had already been consumed, so who really knows? It’s hard to explain the gustatory perfection of this dish. Picture it – you take a bite of the rosy-colored veal. The tender meat gives ever so slightly in your mouth. The sweet saltiness of the miso caresses your tongue. And then, oh joy! A succulent bit of fried Artichoke dissolves against your teeth. Finally, you fall into the gentle embrace of the rich, pillowy cheese. You take a sip of spicy red wine, and suddenly all the flavors melt into a perfect symphony of sinful sybaritic splendor.

I did mention that I was with some lovely ladies. We all come from the same “company” at which we “teach” people to play glorified, high-stakes crossword puzzles. This was, by far, the perfect group with which to share this experience. Our raptures gave way to laughter as each of us visited the ladies room and saw the strange, headless, naked male torso picture which covered an entire wall. And, just maybe, such decorations prove that this restaurant actually wants to be visited by a sporadically employed, irresponsible, impractical 33 year old woman. As we age we take on the veneer of respectability, but underneath it all we’re really just a bunch of kids laughing at dirty pictures, and, in general, having way too much fun. In other words, beware: we may look classy enough to gain admittance to your restaurant, but once inside our true nature will not be denied. We will revel in our lust for food, wine, and camaraderie. So either get on board, or take cover! Or at the very least avoid putting creepy pictures of naked guys in the bathroom.