food – Page 19 – Life In A Word

The Meal of Champions

Last weekend my family and I had breakfast at a small place in downtown Denver called “Syrup”. Syrup’s menu includes breakfast and lunch, but make no mistake; breakfast is king here. I chose the Eggs Benedict with corned beef hash, and all of us shared the Cinnamon Roll Waffle flight – a delight to the senses. It was a breakfast to savor.

Breakfast has always been my favorite meal, or should I say breakfast “out”. People always say “really?”, but I never hear them go on to say whether lunch or dinner is their favorite. Lunch is the neglected and oft overlooked meal of the three – perhaps a topic of its own for a future blog. Dinner represents 95% of what people mean when they recommend a restaurant. Maybe that’s what makes breakfast so endearing to me. It’s the most compact of the meals. Breakfast has its essentials and therefore creativity can only go so far. Dinner has no boundaries, but breakfast can go very wrong if you stray from the expected.

I’ve sampled several of the more exotic approaches to breakfast. I’ve been to the Cafe du Monde in New Orleans for the famous coffee au lait and French-style beignets (fried dough topped with enough powdered sugar to sneeze at). I’ve been to the little Danish town of Solvang, California for aebleskivers (pancake balls with fruit in the middle). I’ve even toured the Kellogg’s factory in Michigan, and to this day I still can resurrect the smell of cooked corn flakes. Put all that aside though, because breakfast for me comes down to just a few essentials on the plate. Eggs any style. Bacon or sausage (the requisite “protein”). And toast or some other form of carb load. At breakfast “out” the eggs may become an omelet or a skillet or a scramble. The bacon may be applewood-smoked and the sausage will have a hint of sage. The toast usually runs a distant second to a freshly-made waffle or fruit-topped pancake. But dress it down and the plate looks pretty much the same as what I prepare for myself at home.

I like breakfast because I’m a morning person (though not one of those restless souls who make it to 5am yoga). I also like breakfast because virtually everything on the menu appeals to me. Except bananas. If I ever opened a breakfast place you’d have to bring your own bananas.

Sunday brunch is not only a favorite meal but a favorite activity. I associate Sunday brunch with family and with special occasions like Easter and Mother’s Day. I love dressing up for church and going to brunch after the service. I love the serve-yourself aspect of brunch – the more options to savor the better. But the “unch” in brunch gets no love from me. As my family will attest to, my plate is always 100% breakfast.

I never understood the term “American breakfast” until college, when I spent a year abroad in Rome. I love the Italians and their “dolce vita” way of life. They perfected the coffee bar concept long before it became a staple in America. But they never gave breakfast it’s proper due. Indeed, “breakfast” in Italy is a small cup of espresso and a hard, barely-sweet roll, downed hastily at the counter before rushing off to wherever it is one is going. No eggs or bacon or pancakes. What’s the fun in that?

In Ireland breakfast essentials include tomatoes and blood sausage. I can’t come to terms with vegetables for breakfast, and blood sausage shouldn’t even be mentioned in a post about breakfast. Again, no fun on that plate.

Here’s an example of breakfast fun. In the classic movie Chitty Chitty Bang Bang my favorite scene is with the breakfast machine. Dick Van Dyke’s character creates the magical car of course, but he also creates a contraption that cooks and distributes eggs, sausage, and toast, all while the breakfast plate moves along a heated track, eventually rolling down to the table ready to eat. Genius.

Breakfast places – at least in Colorado – are a born-again trend these days. Rather than Denny’s or Waffle House we now choose from “Over Easy” or “Snooze” or “The Egg & I”. And in the ultimate nod to my favorite meal, McDonald’s recently changed their menu to include All Day Breakfast. I think McDonald’s gets my drift. Breakfast is not just “the most important meal of the day”. It’s the one that should be on the menu morning, noon, and night.

copious

Ricky Gervais, the English comedian, once said, “the only reason I work out is to live longer so I can eat more cheese and drink more wine.” Maybe he was thinking about me when he came up with that one. I like a glass of wine, but my love of cheese borders on the unhealthy. Every time I pose for the camera and “say cheese!”, I’m salivating instead of smiling. I must be part mouse.

Cheese came into my life at an early age; probably true for most of us. A kid’s meal was a single slice of Kraft cheese sandwiched between two pieces of Wonder bread, mayonnaise or Miracle Whip for the glue. The cheese was technically “pasteurized processed cheese product” – infused with enough preservatives to sit in the frig for a decade and still taste the same. Like margarine. Or Twinkies.

By middle school I was making my own cheese sandwiches, with real cheddar cut straight from the brick. You could make the slices as thick as you wanted, and it was a great excuse to wield one of Mom’s biggest kitchen knives. One time though, the knife slipped from the cheese to the knuckle of my ring finger and the result was a small scar I still carry to this day. It’s like my little badge of courage, only for cheese.

When I discovered the wonders of grilled cheese, there was no turning back. We had this little cast-iron sandwich maker (the precursor to the panini press, I suppose) that would imprint a clam shell on the bread as it grilled the sandwich. Like I cared about an imprint, but it was a convenient excuse to crank out dozens of grilled cheese sandwiches.

Eventually I was adding Monterey Jack to my omelets, a spicy Mexican blend to my quesadillas, and handfuls of Mozzarella to my homemade pizzas. I was consuming copious amounts of queso. Cheese became its own level on my personal food pyramid.

Several years ago, in a particularly cruel twist of fate, I developed what I think was an allergy to cheese. Every time I ate a little Swiss or Ricotta my lips would puff up to the point where they didn’t look like lips anymore. Picture a blowfish minus the gills. No amount of antihistamines would bring me back to normal. It was like God waving a big white flag and saying “Dave, the (cheese) party is OVER!” Mercifully, the allergy went away and my cheese consumption returned to its previously unhealthy levels.

Trivia time-out: If you sample every variety of cheese ever made – one a day – it would take you more than five years to get through them all. Dang. My lips would explode.

My taste for cheese has become more refined in recent years. I actually sort through and sample all those little blocks you find at your supermarket deli. I’ll pair my cheeses with a nice wine for an overly elegant appetizer.

On a recent trip to Estonia, my wife and I visited a small dairy farm that specializes in cheese and yogurt production (our tour guide was appropriately nicknamed “cheese angel”). We bought an entire wheel of Gouda, just because I thought it was cool to have a “wheel” of anything. Shreds and slices, blocks and bricks; now entire wheels of cheese.

The U.S. is the world’s leader in cheese production, at more than 5,700,000 tons per year. You could pave a very long, very wide, yellow-bricked road to Oz with all that Provolone. I’d call us the “big cheese” of the world’s producers, wouldn’t you? Speaking of the U.S., Vermont has what may be the country’s only “cheese trail”. 40 dairy farms and cheese factories are networked on a back-country circuit of highways that covers most of the state. Many farms operate on an honor system, with free samples and help-yourself purchases. I need to go to Vermont. Tomorrow.

If I’m looking for an excuse to continue my copious consumption, they say cheddar, Mozzarella, and some varieties of Swiss and American help prevent tooth decay. But they also say without your gall bladder you’ll have a hard time digesting fats (like cheese). So I need to take care of that little guy. And there’s my reason to work out.

connoisseur

I love licorice. It is hands down my favorite choice from any aisle, bag, box or bin in the candy store. A lot of people love chocolate and so do I, but it’s not even a close second to licorice in my book. Furthermore, I have a lifetime of experiences with licorice to where I am a practiced judge when it comes to flavors, textures, and brands. Red or black, sweet or salty, soft or hard, domestic or imported. I am a connoisseur of this unique confection.

photo - licorice

I was tastefully (ha) reminded of my licorice obsession this past Christmas. My son and his wife gave me a Santa’s bag worth of the black and red (and yellow, green, and orange). There were over twenty flavors, brands and colors in the bag. For most people this would be a year’s worth of satisfaction. For me, I’ve made a pretty good dent after just three months. I’ll probably be looking to replenish my stash sometime this summer.

Licorice has come a long way since my childhood years. My dad also had an affection (confection?) for licorice and he introduced me to a hard chewy black button known as the “Heide”, from the Henry Heide candy company. To this day, the Heide is still my favorite licorice. Years ago Heide was snapped up by a bigger candy manufacturer. Before they were, I wrote them a letter and expressed my appreciation for their wonderful licorice products. In return they sent me a generous box of samples and a small book that told the story of their product. I wonder if companies still make that gesture today when they hear from their satisfied consumers.

Inevitably I get the question “red” or “black”? Until recently I gave a rather smug answer, saying “black” is the only real licorice by definition. Then I discovered the product of a small New Zealand company, through my local natural foods store. Their soft, red raspberry licorice knocked me over; so much so that I sent my dad a bag. It’s made from organic ingredients local to New Zealand, with a full-bodied fruity taste (no, I’m not talking about wine). Isn’t it a wonder a product so unique and captivating can travel halfway around the world to the shelves of my local organic grocery? Life is good.

I have several childhood memories of licorice. Heide made other licorice-like products, including Jujubes, Jujyfruits, and Red Hot Dollars. “Switzer’s” was a common brand years ago with a twist product similar to today’s “Twizzlers” or “Red Vines”. Finally, I know I’ve eaten miles of “shoelaces” – the kind of licorice that some would call edible phone cable.

Here’s a fact that’s probably true of a lot of candies. A generation or more ago licorice was made with “real” ingredients. Even inside of the harsh plastic wrapper, you would find some derivative of licorice root in the ingredient list. Then a really smart food chemist came along and figured out how to imitate for cheaper. Any connection to real licorice disappeared, at least in this country. But in the last few years I think we’re getting back to where we belong. Whole organic foods are becoming the norm. Even prepared foods, like my New Zealand brand licorice, are made from raw, natural, healthy ingredients. For that reason, I will continue to be a connoisseur of the world’s brands of true licorice. The next generation can have their Red Vines.