Food: A Love Story (21 page)

Step Four: cooking your hot dog. Once you hit start, you should hear some noise, and sometimes the inside of the microwave
starts spinning. I always sit back and watch the action. The window on the microwave is there for that reason. Like a lot of people, I like to hum along to the microwave:
MMMmmmmmm
. I’m a very musical person.

Step Five: the
bing.
When you hear a
bing
, stop staring at the microwave. Once you’ve figured out how to open the door, grab the hot dog with your fingers. Warning: this sucker is going to be hot. If someone is around, use a fork or something to stab it with.

Step Six: bunning your hot dog. If you still live at home or are married, you might have hot dog buns, so check around the kitchen. If you do have a hot dog bun, put the cooked hot dog in the pre-sliced part of the bun. I recommend the top-sliced buns. Your hot dog is less likely to roll out. I learned that the hard way. Now, if you only have hamburger buns, cut or tear the hot dog in half and eat it like a hamburger. Do not attempt to cut the hamburger bun in half to try to shape it like a hot dog bun. It’s extremely dangerous. Cut the dog. However, get ready for way too much bread.

Step Seven: dressing your hot dog. Now you’re ready to put whatever you like on your home-cooked hot dog. Your choices are endless. You’ve got your mustard, your relish, your onions … hell, you could put peanut butter on it for all I care. Hey, it’s your hot dog, buddy. Unless you’re a ketchup–hot dog or mayo–hot dog person. In that case I really have nothing to say to you, weirdo. Warning! Don’t try to force your bunned hot dog into a mustard jar. Not only could the hot dog break in half, but you’re also going to end up with way too much mustard on that puppy. Another warning: don’t put the condiments directly on the bun, unless you’re a soggy-bun person—in that case, I have nothing to say to you either, weirdo.

Well, there you have it. A homemade hot dog you made yourself, at home. I hope you’ve learned something. Lord
knows there are no hot dog–making schools out there, and those microscopic directions on the package are just too darn confusing. Feel free to pass along this Jim Gaffigan homemade hot dog recipe to any of your friends you meet at the unemployment office.

GYRO: THE “LAST CALL” MEAT

The gyro is from Greece, but it’s actually the national food of drunk people. One of the only things I remember about attending college was eating gyros with melted American cheese prepared by Korean immigrants at a pizza place in DC. Ain’t America great? I’m not sure how or why gyro meat is cooked on that oversize metal paper-towel holder and then sliced with a hunting knife, but from what I can tell it’s just Greek bologna and it’s delicious. Unlike that American-cheese bastardization I had the pleasure of experiencing in college, the proper way to eat a gyro is to pack the slices of Greek bologna into a pita pocket with onions and tomatoes and drench it with garlicky yogurt tzatziki sauce. There is an ongoing debate about the pronunciation of the word
gyro
. Some say “gi-ro,” some say “yir-o,” but on the inside we are all saying, “We are drunk and want more happiness.” The last gyro I ate sober was in the Newark Airport on February 3, 2009, a day that will live in infamy. I remember turning to Jeannie and saying, “Well, that was a mistake,” which I’ve often said after I eat something, but this time I meant it. I felt so bad, I could barely finish Jeannie’s
burger before we got on the plane. It was a long, uncomfortable flight. I quickly learned that the only advantage to eating a gyro at the airport is that you don’t care if the plane goes down. I realized then that my gyro at the Newark Airport was missing a key ingredient. Alcohol.

THE CHEESEBURGER: AMERICA’S SWEETHEART

Someone once told me there was a study that found the average adult is supposed to eat red meat only once a month. Of course, this study was actually conducted by cows. Not being a fan of studies, I eat a lot of cheeseburgers. If you called me and asked me to list the last three meals I’ve eaten, at least two of them would be cheeseburgers. The third meal was because I couldn’t find a cheeseburger. If steak is the tuxedo of meat, and bacon is the candy of meat, then a good cheeseburger is the mother’s hug of meat. There should be way more poetry written about cheeseburgers. I’ve always felt that a cheeseburger could be a rating system for the pivotal moments in my life. First time doing stand-up equals two cheeseburgers. Marrying Jeannie equals three cheeseburgers. Receiving a free cheeseburger equals four cheeseburgers. You get the idea.

If I were advising a suicide hotline, I’d recommend starting every call with “Hey, how about a great cheeseburger?” I’m talking about a
cheese
burger here, not a plain hamburger. I don’t know who is eating a hamburger without cheese, but
he’s probably an alien impersonating a human. In my world a burger must have cheese, and preferably Cheddar. Cheese was such an important topping to the hamburger, the name had to be changed to cheeseburger. A world without cheeseburgers is not a reality I want to partake in. Non-ethnic restaurants that don’t offer cheeseburgers are like a
USA Today
without a sports section. What’s the point? I don’t expect a great Indian restaurant to offer a cheeseburger, but then again, I’m going to an Indian restaurant because I couldn’t find a place that serves cheeseburgers.

A cheeseburger a day keeps the feelings away. Cheeseburgers seem to put me in a trance. I usually remember I was going to start eating healthy around the last bite of a cheeseburger. I eat my cheeseburgers in a ritualistic manner. The first bite is always done with a bit of hesitation. “Am I going to like this cheeseburger? Am I going to love it? How is the meat? Do I need more condiments?” The second bite is the “getting to know you” bite. I might think I like the cheeseburger, but I haven’t given over fully. The third bite is when I give in. I am enveloped in pure happiness. I say things like, “This is amazing!” or “No, you can’t have a bite” or “Go tell your mother you’re hungry.” The fourth bite always has a twinge of sadness to it. It means I’m more than halfway through with my cheeseburger. The fifth bite is always a small nibble because I’ve suddenly decided I should ration the cheeseburger so I can make the experience last. Then, before I know it, the cheeseburger is gone. It’s a memory. A beautiful memory.

Here are some great cheeseburger memories:

Schoop’s

Calvin Trillin once wrote, “Anybody who doesn’t think that the best hamburger place in the world is in his hometown is a
sissy.” This is a brilliant observation that refers to the inherent provincial affection we all have for our hometown burger. It’s an attachment that extends beyond taste or logic. So I guess I’m no sissy when I say one of the best burgers on this planet is a Schoop’s burger from where I grew up in Northwest Indiana. I understand and appreciate the wisdom of Mr. Trillin’s point, but I naively believe that even if I were from Kansas City or New York City, I would find the Schoop’s burger to be the most excellent. Schoop’s does two things to their burgers I normally dislike. Their burgers are well done and flattened—hamburger sins in my mind. Magically, at Schoop’s these sins are forgiven. Their burger is flawless. The meat is crispy but not burnt, the cheese proportion is perfect, and the pickles are a sharp accent without being overpowering. I’ve yet to eat a Schoop’s burger during a return visit to Northwest Indiana and be anything but completely satisfied. Calvin Trillin has spoken.

One of the greatest accomplishments of my life.

Shake Shack

I’ve lived in New York City for over twenty years, and during that time I have enjoyed some of the finest burgers of my life. Jackson Hole, PJ Clarke’s, and Corner Bistro hold special places in my heart, but Shake Shack is something even more special. Where else other than Shake Shack would you find people in New York City lining up in zero-degree weather? Well, maybe a Broadway show or a place that sells mittens. The Shake Shack cheeseburger is one of the juiciest, most flavorful burgers—and with its not-too-hard, not-too-soft bun, it is well worth the wait. I asked the owner of Shake Shack to build one of his restaurants in my apartment. I figure the kids don’t need a bedroom.

Bonding with Marre at Shake Shack.

Burger à Cheval

A cheeseburger with an egg on it is called a Cheeseburger à Cheval at Balthazar in New York City. In French, the translation
of this is “on horseback,” but the reference to horses does not stop anyone from eating this burger, because most people don’t speak French and those who do probably are poetic enough to understand that this phrase refers to the over-easy egg on top of the meat. I like to add bacon, so I cover the three major animal-meat categories of cow, pig, and chicken. It’s my way of supporting farmers. I love a fancy restaurant that is serious about its cheeseburger. Balthazar delivers every time for me. The perfectly cooked yolk is soft enough to be liquid but not liquid enough to be disgusting. It’s nature’s ideal sauce.

Butter Burger: Kopp’s/Culver’s

Growing up, I never realized exactly how seriously Wisconsin took its title of “Dairy State.” It all became clear when I was exposed to the Wisconsin butter burger. I can only assume the butter burger was inspired by someone’s desire to use as much butter as possible. A pat of butter is put on the bun, another is put on the burger, and the onions on top are grilled in butter. Not surprisingly, the burger tastes a lot like butter. Any state that puts cheese and butter together should get
two
stars on Old Glory.

Undead Gaffigan: Zombie Burger

Zombie Burger is a gourmet burger restaurant in Iowa that combines everyone’s two favorite things: burgers and the postapocalyptic world of zombies. You can get burgers like “The Walking Ched” or “George Romero’s Pittsburgher.” When Zombie Burger asked me over Twitter what I wanted on an “Undead Gaffigan,” I instantly knew—bacon, Cheddar, white bread, five patties (one for each of my kids), and jalapeños, because I’m a hot Latina! Here is the beauty that was created for me.