Food: A Love Story (22 page)

Given that I had a show that night in Des Moines, I went with the one-patty version.

Juicy/Jucy Lucy

I love Minneapolis and not just because I enjoy being in cities where I’m not the only pale blond guy with an oversize head. My head is so large that in middle school I had to use a football helmet from the high school. I don’t know why my head is so large. You could store a normal-size head inside my head. I like to think my head is like a head case. Okay, I will stop now. Anyway, whenever I bring my large head to Minneapolis, I always head over (sorry) to Matt’s Bar and get a Jucy Lucy. Then I usually go to the hospital for burns to my mouth. A Jucy Lucy (yes, that is how it’s spelled) is a cheeseburger where the cheese is, for some reason, cooked inside the burger. I suppose Matt from Matt’s Bar had the insight “Hey, instead of putting cheese on top of the burger, let’s burn people.” After all, who doesn’t like their cheese at a thousand degrees, or roughly around the same temperature at which they melt swords? There is another place in Minneapolis called the 5-8 Club that also claims to have invented the Juicy Lucy (yes, they spell it that way). This Juicy Lucy is pretty much the same, except for the
i
in
juicy
. I guess they did this to distinguish themselves from each other because they are otherwise identical. Kind of like Protestants and Catholics. Apparently the rivalry between the Jucy Lucy and the Juicy Lucy is rather serious, so I try to eat at both places just to keep the peace. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall inherit the burgers.

In case I die, I’m gathering a list of advice for my kids. All I have so far is:

1. Mustard on a cheeseburger is amazing.

2. Ignore lists.

FRENCH FRIES: MY FAIR POTATO

Sometime in the late 1940s, the Geneva Convention declared it a crime against humanity to sell burgers with anything but French fries. Well, they should have. Whenever you get served a cheeseburger with bland-ass potato chips, don’t you feel a little ripped off? “Where are the French fries? Did your deep fryer break? I better get a discount!” A burger and fries together is one of the great culinary marriages of all time. French fries are amazing and, as logic would have it, horrible for you. If you are eating fries, you definitely are treating yourself. I think we should just rename taking vacations “eating French fries.” French fries are like Crocs. You know you shouldn’t, but your life is pretty much over anyway. French fries are deep-fried. Unquestionably the most important deep-fried item ever created. I doubt the inventor of the deep fryer realized the impact his contraption of a heated-up bucket of grease would have on the otherwise bland root vegetable. Like a Hollywood rags-to-riches fairy tale, the deep fryer turned the lowly potato into a food star desired by millions. With all its success, I can’t help but feel the French fry still remains one of the more underappreciated
food items. I’m not sure if it’s a mental block on our part or the fact that they are mostly classified as a side dish, but we don’t give enough credit to French fries. French fries are like one of those beautiful images hidden within another image. Often we just don’t see the French fries. We always want fries with our meal, but we don’t realize how important they are to the enjoyment of the meal. Not only are French fries a key element of fast food, they are possibly the one food item keeping most restaurants open. As I calculate, French fries are served with 90 percent of all non-ethnic entrées. Aside from the obvious pairing with a burger, we serve French fries with everything: steak, fish, a grilled chicken sandwich, a hot dog, even a gyro. French fries are so good, they change political thinking. When Congress was furious with the French for refusing to send troops to Iraq, they didn’t dare ban the actual French fries—they just changed the name to “Freedom fries.” Our government would not let a measly war interrupt their lunch.

French Fries as an Entrée: Poutine

I love our North American neighbors, Canada and Mexico. Americans really scored when you think about it. We could have easily been sandwiched between countries like North Korea and Albania. Phew! There is nothing to dislike about Mexico or Canada. If anything, they are the ones who have to put up with us Americans. We are like the obnoxious rich neighbor leaning over the fence, “Hey dudes, wanna come over and check out my new space program?”

Mexican food is one of the greatest accomplishments of mankind, but let’s not forget Canada. I’ve always had a strange affinity for Canadians. They always seem so nice, calm, and health insured. Because of their voluntarily living in perpetual winter and their almost absurd love for hockey, I never
understood the Canadian character until I ate poutine for the first time. Like that last scene in
The
Usual Suspects
, all the pieces seemed to come together. While poutine is a dish unique to Eastern Canada (Montreal and Ottawa), the concoction of French fries covered in cheese curds and (for no apparent reason) gravy, clearly deciphers Canadian culture. First, heart-blocking poutine is the easiest explanation for Canada’s adoption of universal health care coverage. I’m pretty sure I’m still digesting the poutine I had in May 2006. Poutine also serves as a sedative, making you so drowsy and serene you find yourself saying “a-boot” instead of “about.” The extra pounds you immediately gain help shield you against the bitter climate. The irrational love of hockey still remains a mystery to me, but I’m convinced it has something to do with poutine.

It’s normal for me to make unhealthy food choices, but poutine almost appears sadomasochistic. Poutine seems like the result of someone’s goal of making French fries even less healthy. “Well, the most unhealthy thing we could do is to cover the fries with every other food item that causes heart disease. Let’s get to work.” And that is what some brilliant Canadian did, and the results were incredibly successful. It tastes as amazing as it is bad for you.

I attended one of Ottawa’s Poutine Fests (they had two this year), where twenty-six vendors find creative ways to serve poutine. There is Philly cheesesteak poutine, popcorn chicken poutine, and for some infuriating reason, vegetarian poutine. While I was eating my second portion of poutine, I actually heard my heart say, “Oh no. What are you doing? Are you mad at me?” I could feel my arteries tightening. But my brain said, “It’s all right. It’s all right. There’s going to be some sweating. Well, a lot of sweating, but you’ll get through it. Bowels, you can take the weekend off.”

In Ottawa you get the squeaky cheese that sounds like you are cleaning a window when you chew it. I always get smoked meat added to my poutine. It’s not just the flavor of the smoked meat that I enjoy, it’s also the fact that no effort is made to explain what type of smoked meat it is. The following is a conversation I had with a waitress in Montreal in 2008.

ME:
This meat is amazing. What kind of meat is it?

WAITRESS:
Smoked meat.

ME:
Yeah, I know, but what kind of smoked meat?

WAITRESS:
The delicious kind of smoked meat.

ME:
Sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking a-boot, but suddenly I want to watch hockey.

This is triple-bacon poutine, for people who are seeking a heart attack after the third bite.

French Fries as a Condiment

Pittsburgh and Cleveland, while very different, share a common phenomenon. Besides the fact that they are both rust belt cities with a passion for football, they both have the strange and unique habit of putting French fries inside sandwiches. Sandwiches are normally one of the few items that do not come with French fries. Pittsburgh and Cleveland snuck them in. I don’t know or care who did it first, because it doesn’t matter. It’s like sneaking an extra person in the trunk into a drive-in movie. Putting fries in a sandwich is just a beautiful thing. The efficiency and convenience of this idea is nothing short of brilliant. I’m not suggesting these are the only cities where this excellent behavior has occurred; it’s just that it has been perfected in Pittsburgh and Cleveland.

In Pittsburgh I go to Primanti Brothers and get a ham sandwich with coleslaw and crispy French fries piled high between two pieces of soft Italian bread. I’m not sure which Primanti brother came up with the fries-in-the-sandwich idea. Maybe the brothers had a meeting:

BROTHER 1:
Okay, you jagoffs, we need to boost sandwich sales. Any ideas?

BROTHER 2:
How about yinz guys put coleslaw on every sandwich?

BROTHER 1:
Interesting. Maybe.

BROTHER 3:
And French fries.

BROTHER 2:
On a sandwich?

BROTHER 3:
Yes, fries on a sandwich.

BROTHER 1:
Are you drunk again?

BROTHER 3:
No, but that’s when I thought of it.