Thanksgiving: A Beige Eater's Raison d'Être

Emma Gase  

Thanksgiving was almost a week ago, and like all the best holidays, it’s festivity and inevitable family fosters a universal tendency toward self-reflection. Now as much as I have renounced my Beige Diet tendencies, my bleached-white flour past still haunts me in my vastly improved culinary present. When I think today about how I used to eat even just four or five years ago, what stands out most is the constant litany of judgmental reactions I would get from my friends and family circa the holiday season. The incessant nagging ranged from the bearable “Em, you’re so picky!,” to the annoying, “Try it! Oh, c’mon! You might like seafood,” (I HATE seafood, and will, forever) to the dreaded, “No dessert until you finish that [non-specific green vegetable or unappetizing legume]!” And when I ponder these sepia-toned childhood memories growing up in the South Bay of Los Angeles, I remember exactly one food experience per year where I felt as liberated as a vegan in Portland. For is there anything better for a cheese-and-carbo-tarian than the one sweet, sweet day a year where most of the food you are supposed to eat is….beige?! The answer is nay, there is not.

Since my earliest picky-eating days, Thanksgiving has always stood out as the one day a year when I was free from the scrutiny of the green-eating Gestapo that was oh, just about everybody in the world except me. Could a veggie-phobe want anything more than a day where it is not only socially acceptable but actually encouraged to eat stuffing (beige), turkey (beige), mashed potatoes (light beige…ish) and gravy (beige!) all in one bite? That, to me, was reason enough for a national holiday.

For years, I savored the magical Thursday in November when—disregarding all sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, brussel sprouts, and basically anything that wasn’t turkey, gravy, potatoes or stuffing—my plate basically looked like everyone else’s. On Thanksgiving, I wasn’t a picky eater, or being difficult, or frantically searching the menu at Trader Vic’s for a grilled cheese. Instead, while everybody else was concerned with being grateful for their families, or cherishing each other and honoring the pilgrims for slaughtering the Indians to make this Amurican land our own, etc, etc, I was busy thanking my lucky stars that I got to eat all this beige food with no judgment or restraint. Conformity tasted better than the choicest morsel of dark meat perfectly proportioned with some garlic mash.

But this year, I looked upon Turkey Day anew. As I admired my large plate loaded with enough food to feed a small Eskimo tribe, I noticed something slightly different from the other years. Last Thursday, my plate had all the requisite beige favorites, but a coup d'état that I didn’t even notice until now had taken over. What piled my plate, but all of my childhood rejects: brussel sprouts and sweet potatoes and mushrooms and water chestnuts and carrots. Who am I? I wondered, as I steadily but surely took down basically all the brussel sprouts in the serving platter. As much as I enjoyed my multi-colored plate, somehow I didn’t feel the pride and liberation I normally feel when I still occasionally (re: everyday) revel in (and brag about) my newfound foodie horizons. Even with the green addition, I didn’t feel any different than I did on any other Thanksgiving. Did I eat any less than I did when I was a disciple of the Beige Diet? Probably not. Did having green on my plate make me proud? Not particularly. And that’s when it hit me.

It really doesn’t matter what you eat on Thanksgiving. Foodie or Beige Dieter or Vegetarian or Gluten-Free, or whatever gastronomic gospel you abide by, the point is not proving your discerning tastes, but first and foremost, heartily indulging yourself. Because that’s what Thanksgiving is: a judgment-free eating day. Portion-wise, carbohydrate-wise, pie-wise, butter-wise—even if your family goes out to a restaurant, or orders pre-made catered food that night—no one is allowed to feel ashamed about how and what they eat. It really is a beautiful thing. There is nothing quite like the solidarity that bonds a family after they eat themselves into a lethargy that induces them to watch twelve straight hours of college football the next day. Now that is something I can be thankful for.

Fish & Chips: A Match Made in Heaven

Maddie LaKind  

London baby—home of bangers and mash, shepherd’s pie, scones, tea time, and, most famously, fish & chips. While the states have tried to master this deceptively simple recipe, most knock-offs pale in comparison, all lacking that certain London “it” factor that makes it so addicting.

Last week, however, on a pre-Thanksgiving romp around Kerrytown, all my pre-conceived notions of this British specialty took a permanent turn for the better after stumbling upon Monahan’s Seafood in Sparrow Market. Having strolled past this tiny, family-run market on countless grocery runs, I was slightly disappointed and confused as to why I had never paid a visit there before. I love fish, I love shellfish, and I love a good, down-home, small business. According to my mental math, I should have dove into the menu here months, even years ago.

Primarily functioning as a fish market, but shadowing as a food stand during lunch, Monahan’s provides probably the best fish and seafood selection of any spot in town. From stunningly colorful red snapper, to prickly sea urchins, tiny clams, and luxury items like king crab legs and lobster tail, this place has it all and a lovely, welcoming staff to boot. Given their elite specialty market status, they offer a very brief window for restaurant hours – 11-3pm – and, with only five or six tables in the joint, you have to be a bit strategic about your lunchtime game plan.

I was not so wise about my game plan this first go-around, ending up plopped right in the middle of the local lunch rush. However, the wait only added to the experience, allowing more time for my foodie senses to soak up everything. With the roar of the bustling crowd, the clinking of cold beers, the briny smell of the ocean, the sight of open displays of the day’s best items, and case upon case of fresh, fishy offerings, I felt like I had been transported to the famous Pike Place Market in Seattle; a true departure from my Ann Arbor reality.

Following a brief glimpse at the menu, I eagerly settled on none other than the fish & chips—one of the most genius comfort foods ever invented. Made with North Atlantic pollack–similar to a cod or whitefish–the modest fish filet is dipped in a beer batter and deep-fried until golden. The fries are traditional English style, thick cut, fried crispy, and liberally salted. The dish is served on a paper plate–super casual–with fries on the bottom, fish on top, and a side of tartar sauce. That’s it.

After tracking down a table in the outdoor courtyard, and hardly able to contain my excitement, I dove right in. Eaten all together, this dish is paradise for any fish or fried food aficionado. Blanketed under all that beer-battered goodness, the pollack maintains a delightfully moist and tender texture, as well as a lightness that only comes from truly fresh seafood.

Combined with the crunch of the batter, the salty, earthiness of the chips, and the tangy, lemony, creaminess of the tartar sauce, this dish leaves a very strong impression. It’s been over a week now since my first visit, and I still salivate at the thought of another one of those glorious plates.

This past semester while abroad in Europe, I ate my first authentic fish and chips in London on a weekend trip with my roommates. At the time, I thought I had found the best of the best—who could top fish and chips outside of its very own country of origin? Monahan’s…that’s who. Maybe the Midwest will never hold the same seafood legacy as London but it’s a comfort to know that Ann Arbor is home to a special kind of fish shop full of welcoming faces, great values, and truly divine eats!

Monahan's Seafood Market 407 N. 5th Ave. Ann Arbor, MI 48104

Thanksgiving: A Beige Eater’s Raison d'être

Emma Gase  

Thanksgiving was almost a week ago, and like all the best holidays, its festivity and inevitable family gatherings fosters a universal tendency toward self-reflection. Now as much as I have renounced my Beige Diet tendencies, my bleached-white flour past still haunts me in my vastly improved culinary present. When I think today about how I used to eat even just four or five years ago, what stands out most is the constant litany of judgmental reactions I would get from my friends and family circa the holiday season. The incessant nagging ranged from the bearable “Em, you’re so picky!,” to the annoying, “Try it! Oh, c’mon! You might like seafood,” (I HATE seafood, and will, forever) to the dreaded, “No dessert until you finish that [non-specific green vegetable or unappetizing legume]!” And when I ponder these sepia-toned childhood memories growing up in the South Bay of Los Angeles, I remember exactly one food experience per year where I felt as liberated as a vegan in Portland. For is there anything better for a cheese-and-carbo-tarian than the one sweet, sweet day a year where most of the food you are supposed to eat is….beige?! The answer is nay, there is not.

Since my earliest picky-eating days, Thanksgiving has always stood out as the one day a year when I was free from the scrutiny of the green-eating Gestapo that was oh, just about everybody in the world except me. Could a veggie-phobe want anything more than a day where it is not only socially acceptable but actually encouraged to eat stuffing (beige), turkey (beige), mashed potatoes (light beige…ish) and gravy (beige!) all in one bite? That, to me, was reason enough for a national holiday.

For years, I savored the magical Thursday in November when—disregarding all sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, brussels sprouts, and basically anything that wasn’t turkey, gravy, potatoes or stuffing—my plate basically looked like everyone else’s. On Thanksgiving, I wasn’t a picky eater, or being difficult, or frantically searching the menu at Trader Vic’s for a grilled cheese. Instead, while everybody else was concerned with being grateful for their families, or cherishing each other and honoring the pilgrims for slaughtering the Indians to make this Amurican land our own, etc, etc, I was busy thanking my lucky stars that I got to eat all this beige food with no judgment or restraint. Conformity tasted better than the choicest morsel of dark meat perfectly proportioned with some garlic mash.

But this year, I looked upon Turkey Day anew. As I admired my large plate loaded with enough food to feed a small Eskimo tribe, I noticed something slightly different from the other years. Last Thursday, my plate had all the requisite beige favorites, but a coup d'état that I didn’t even notice until now had taken over. What piled my plate, but all of my childhood rejects: brussels sprouts and sweet potatoes and mushrooms and water chestnuts and carrots. Who am I? I wondered, as I steadily but surely took down basically all the brussels sprouts in the serving platter. As much as I enjoyed my multi-colored plate, somehow I didn’t feel the pride and liberation I normally feel when I still occasionally (re: everyday) revel in (and brag about) my newfound foodie horizons. Even with the green addition, I didn’t feel any different than I did on any other Thanksgiving. Did I eat any less than I did when I was a disciple of the Beige Diet? Probably not. Did having green on my plate make me proud? Not particularly. And that’s when it hit me.

It really doesn’t matter what you eat on Thanksgiving. Foodie or Beige Dieter or Vegetarian or Gluten-Free, or whatever gastronomic gospel you abide by, the point is not proving your discerning tastes, but first and foremost, heartily indulging yourself. Because that’s what Thanksgiving is: a judgment-free eating day. Portion-wise, carbohydrate-wise, pie-wise, butter-wise—even if your family goes out to a restaurant, or orders pre-made catered food that night—no one is allowed to feel ashamed about how and what they eat. It really is a beautiful thing. There is nothing quite like the solidarity that bonds a family after they eat themselves into a lethargy that induces them to watch twelve straight hours of college football the next day. Now that is something I can be thankful for.

Truffled Taters

Maddie LaKind  

Is there anything more synonymous with the pure pleasure of eating than a good French fry? Whether you’re a shoestring supporter, crinkle-crazed, waffle wild, crazy for chili cheese, or swoon over sweet potato, you can’t really go wrong with a good deep fried potato—in any form. It was with this mentality that I approached my dish selection for this week after a serendipitous spotting on Facebook.

While breezing through my newsfeed one lazy evening before bed, I saw a Zingerman’s co-worker of mine post a status raving over the truffled french fries at The Jolly Pumpkin. Given my knowledge of this person’s immense obsession with truffle salt—a best seller in the retail section of Zingerman’s deli—I trusted his word.

Despite a few prior visits, the Jolly Pumpkin has never maintained much of a presence on my Ann Arbor radar, at least for their food selection. I’ve enjoyed several great brews there time and time again, but the lunch and dinner selections are nothing to write home about. However, I knew my co-worker wouldn’t post just any old food claim online so I figured I might as well give the truffled fries a fair shot.

Following a grueling and drawn out day of school last week, my best friend and I made the trek to the Pumpkin, ready to indulge in a nice early evening snack. Upon first spotting of our waitress, we ordered the fries right out the gate, eager to get them to the table as quickly as possible.

A mere 6-7 minutes later, they arrived, piled high in a dramatic metal cone lined with parchment paper. Resembling a very similar shape and feel to McDonalds’ prized fry, these tats were the perfect thin, finger-length size that allowed for maximum pick-up capabilities.

Although this may seem pretty standard thus far, the aroma and unmatched flavor of the Pumpkin’s truffled fries put them a cut above the rest. Simply sprinkled with truffle salt and chopped rosemary, these babies smelled like a forager’s dream—woodsy, and wonderfully rustic.

Biting into my first truffled fry was like entering a game of pinball. First you get that classic, rich potato flavor. Then—bam—the rosemary flavor starts to emerge, fresh and fragrant. Then—boom—the truffle oil sneaks up on you, releasing that unmatched soft, delicate mushroom flavor. And finally, when you thought you got the full experience—bang—that perfect textural contrast of crunchy fry exterior and tender, fluffy center hits you, lulling you into a state of complete snack submission.

If that hasn’t already triggered your salivary glands, maybe this will do the trick. Presented on the side of the cone is a small bowl of luscious, tangy garlic aioli—a sauce composed of egg yolks, butter, garlic, black pepper and rosemary. While ketchup is always a winner, there is no better culinary gem than a proper aioli. Rich, a bit peppery, super garlicky, and oh so velvety smooth—the absolute best accompaniment to such a beautifully prepared French fry.

As I think is evident by all 20+ adjectives I just used to describe them, these fries are nothing short of amazing. I can assure you that they will not last longer than 7 maybe 8 minutes tops if you’re lucky. Try to pace yourself—I dare you. It is much easier said than done.

Jolly Pumpkin, while I have not held the best experiences with your normal dinner fare, your exemplary truffled French fries restored my faith. I will dream of those flawless mushroom and rosemary scented potatoes until my next stroll down Main street.

Also, thanks to my co-worker Max for being the unknowing puppeteer behind this whole operation—definitely the best thing to come out of Facebook in a long time.

The Jolly Pumpkin 311 South Main Street Ann Arbor, MI 48104

Wine Pairings: A Symphony

Lizzy Freed  

“Wine makes a symphony of a good meal.” –Fernande Garvin, The Art of French Cooking

All right fellow wine snobs, now that we all have a basic understanding of the process behind this wonderful drink, let’s get to the really fun part! When wine meets food.

I often remember Ted’s words from Queer Eye For the Straight Guy (it’s a great show!), “If you took a bite of that chocolate and then a sip of this Chardonnay, it would be kind of like brushing your teeth and then drinking orange juice…it would not go well together. But we also have this Semillon—it’s as sweet as that chocolate, and it can stand up to that chocolate.”

Matching wine and food should always be fun, and no matter what you’ve been told, it’s not as complicated as you think. Although there are some traditional pairs, the truth is that it is your meal, and if you like the taste of a robust Cab Sauv with a delicate whitefish, you can do it! But assuming that you, like most, would find the clashing flavors a bit overwhelming, I would like to offer some basic tools to have handy for your next dinner party.

Wine has different smells and flavors, just like food. Some of these mesh well, while others just don’t fit. Can you imagine putting peanut butter with macaroni and cheese? No! Because peanut butter needs jelly!

Let’s begin with acidity. High acidity in a wine complements creamy, basic dishes. It heightens the flavor of the food and washes it down beautifully. My favorite example is my whitefish Parmesan with a nice Sauvignon Blanc.

White Wines (light to full-bodied)	Foods They Love (matching body)
Riesling	Flounder
Sauvignon Blanc	Oysters
Pinot Grigio	Clams or Shrimp
Gewürztraminer	Scallops
Chardonnay	Veal or Salmon
Voigner	Roast Chicken/Sirloin Steak

There is a definite pattern that emerges with these pairs—the lighter the wine, the lighter the food. Texture plays a role as well.

And now for the reds:

Red Wines (light to full-bodied)	Foods They Love (matching body)
Burgundy/Bordeaux	Roast Chicken/Duck
Pinot Noir	Most game birds, some fish, soup/salad
Cabernet Sauvignon/Some Bordeaux	Lamb or Veal
Merlot	Lamb/Game Birds
Malbec	Lamb, Beefsteak
Heavier Bordeaux and Cabernet Sauvignon	Most Game Meats

Now, keep in mind that these are just references. For example, when we say that a Riesling goes well with flounder, we are saying that it goes well with flounder and all similar fish. The reds become a bit more general.

Disclaimer: This is just a basic entrance into the world of wine pairing. There are so many other facets that we will need to tackle later, such as ethnic foods, cheese, and dessert. But for the time being, just follow your nose! Cheers!

A Hard Cider & Cheese Tasting

Caitlin Miller  

Zingerman's: you just can't stay mad at it for too long, can you? It's like an adorable puppy that you love unconditionally, even if it occasionally pees on your carpet.

What I mean to say is, Zingerman's has redeemed itself in the huge sort of way that thoroughly erases all memory of bland grilled cheeses.

My lovely editor Emma and I had had Zingerman's Hard Cider & Cheese Tasting on the books for a while. After a long day of Thursday classes and a much-needed nap, I hopped on my bike and headed down to Zingerman's snazzy new events space, located in the beautiful building once occupied by Eve. Surrounded by exposed brick, inlaid archways, and rustic finishes basking in the soft glow of several overhead lamps, I felt as though I had been teleported to Williamsburg. In a way that only it can, Zingerman’s made the space feel simultaneously elegant and inviting, chic and relaxed. I walked inside and was immediately greeted by two extremely friendly Zing employees who offered me a yummy apple-vinegar spritzer. Drink in hand, I took my seat at one of three long tables decked in white linens and a GLORIOUS looking cheese plate for each guest. I couldn't contain my smile. My mouth is watering just thinking about it.

Zingerman's brought their A-game for the Hard Cider & Cheese Tasting. I had been to an event at their Creamery my freshman year that wasn’t so much a cheese tasting as a five-course meal comprising such light fare as squash burrata and goat cheese cake: after that night, I never wanted to look at another piece of cheese in my life. Thankfully, this latest event was more along the lines of a traditional tasting. After telling us about his prolonged experience with sickness, our affable host Chad opened with: "I was almost dead and I thought, if I'm well again, I'm getting into cheese. I love cheese. I'm obsessed with cheese." Chad also believes cheese to be a miracle. Hi, are you reading my mind? He just recently returned from a journey through England, Ireland, and France that can only described as the Homeric cheesequest of my dreams. Chad not only met premier cheesemakers whose families have been in the cheese biz for so long it practically flows in their veins, he got to participate in the process by making the good stuff himself. And I’m not talking about cooking up sketchy tubwater cheese in a basement in Manchester, but the real deal – Stilton Blue, baby, the British godfather of the variety.

Chad then proceeded to bring it on another level with his instructions on cheese consumption. Like a Jedi he informed us it is not enough to taste the cheese; you must become one with the cheese by completely smushing it between your fingers to feel its texture (somewhere, a Frenchman is crying). Did you know that those "crunchies" in certain cheeses, mainly cheddars, are actually amino acids? James Joyce famously said cheese is the corpse of milk – well excuse you James Joyce, Chad is here to tell you that cheese is alive and delicious and gets more and more protein-rich as it ages. You are literally crunching up proteins as you eat the cheese. Fifty gold stars for Chad and his Obi-Wan-level cheese wisdom.

But, onto the cheese. We worked our way through a Wisconsin cheddar, French Camembert, Swiss Nufenen, a goat cheese from Zingerman’s own creamery, and, lastly, an extremely pungent blue cheese. The standouts for me were the Wisconsin cheddar (my witty, eloquent notes: “sooooooooooo good”) and the spectacular alpine Nufenen, a creamy but sharp cow’s milk cheese the extras of which Emma and I actually stuffed into our pockets on our way out the door.

Here's the thing: I'm a bit of a cheese purist. I like my mozzarella plain and my grilled cheeses undecorated. But the most important takeaway I learned at the Hard Cider & Cheese tasting is that pairing a cheese with a drink – in this case, cider – can make an enormous difference. For instance, I’ve never been a huge fan of blue cheese: to be more specific, the smell of Gorgonzola makes me physically sick. But – and this was not the cider talking – when the blue cheese was paired with the dessert cider, I was actually able to palate its harsh flavor and, to my great surprise, I enjoyed it! And this wasn’t just a question of making otherwise revolting cheeses taste sweet. The Nufenen also dramatically improved its paired cider, and vice versa: the cheese sweetened the earthy drink, and was in turn softened by the cider. When something tastes so good by itself, it is easy to willfully resist the belief that an added component can make it even more delicious. In the case of cheese and hard cider, however, there can be no question of this fact: so honor the miracle of cheese with a cider and cheese tasting of your own, and celebrate the coming of winter with the perfect pairing of cheese and Michigan’s favorite fall drink.

Homebrew Wine

Lizzy Freed  

Last year I decided to try my hand at making hard cider with my friend Colin. We purchased a small oak barrel, probably a couple of gallons at most, and went to work. The cider turned out really well, which was inspiring for first time brewers.

So, as apple season is coming to a close, I was thinking about trying again this year as a special autumn treat. But in lieu of my last article, I got to thinking: WHY haven’t I tried making wine? Why can I write an article about it, but not do it myself? There seemed to be something holding me back, like a fear of failure. But after successfully making beer and cider, I had no excuse. And so with that it was decided, and I was going to finally just do it.

Following my own advice, I decided the necessary starting point was to get some grapes. I have to be honest…I didn’t know where to go Luckily, my friend Olivia knew a spot, and we were able to fill an entire bucket. I had no idea what kind of grapes they were or how much wine they would produce, but I knew that I could probably at least, learn something from the endeavor.

We carried the grapes to the kitchen and started squishing the only way we knew how: by sticking our hands in and squishing out every last drop of juice. It was a very messy process, and by the end we were covered. I soon realized I had no idea what to do next. Yes, I have read about it, and yes, I thought I could figure it out, but the concept was easier than the action. I only had one barrel and one bucket…should I drain the juice into the barrel right now, or should I try to ferment it with the skins on? I wanted red wine, after all. So I did what anyone would do! I called my dad. Unfortunately, my dad didn’t answer the phone. I was desperate, I needed answers right away, juice was fermenting for God’s sake! What to do next? Call my dad’s friend.

Uncle Dave (not really my uncle) makes his own homebrew wine, which is notorious for having a high alcohol content. I wanted to know how he does it! He told me to keep the grapes on the skins for a few days, and then drain the juice into the barrel and start the fermentation.

I had help in this next portion, which literally cut my work in half (and of course added to the fun). Let me just say now, I feel so blessed by my awesome friends. Emma and Leah, two of my favorite people, came over to support the project. It became almost a balancing act: Leah was on trash duty, Emma on straining, and me on pouring juice into the barrel. Finally, after getting covered in grape juice, which stains, it was time to add the yeast and start the fermentation. We added about three cups of sugar (hopefully not too much) after reading our hydrometer. A hydrometer measures the specific gravity and relative density of the juice, which is just a fancy way of saying sugar level, which is just a fancy way of saying how much alcohol you’re going to get. We were at about 10% alcohol content, which is really low. This is why we added the sugar—we know how to have a good time. I finagled a used cork into something that could provide release of the gas but not let in oxygen. This is called an airlock, which is something you can buy at any local brew shop, and is essential in making alcohol. We know that as the yeast eats the sugar, it releases CO2, but that letting in oxygen would turn our product to vinegar. This airlock lets the CO2 out without letting the oxygen in.

And now, we wait. I’m not expecting anything great, but I am expecting to learn from the experience. In fact, I already have learned a great deal. I feel like I have a better idea of how the process actually works, even if it doesn’t turn out. I also have seen the interest and excitement others show in learning about a new process and their support in my interests. We had so much fun, which is a good thing to know if you are considering spending the rest of your life doing something. Hopefully it also tastes great, and I’ll have something to contribute to my grandma’s 90th birthday party.

I purchased four items, other than the barrel (all from the beer depot in Ann Arbor, MI).
- Hydrometer Sterilizing
- Sterilizing Powder (Easy Clean)
- Red Wine Yeast
- Tartaric Acid (recommended for anyone…Mild sulfite that helps the wine to maintain flavor)

As before, I was consulting the book How To Make Wine, by Sheridan Warrick

Not Your Average Pudding Cup

Maddie LaKind  

There is something innately special about Zingerman’s Roadhouse. I can’t quite put my finger on it. Maybe it’s the bright hues of orange and yellow dominating the three-room, sprawling restaurant, or the captivating posters giving detailed background stories of local farmers and purveyors of the restaurant, or the cases upon cases of salt and pepper shakers, or the ever-so-kind staff that always makes you feel like their only customer. It’s hard to say, but all I know is that this place holds a unique, z-shaped spot in my heart.

Specializing in classic all-American eats with a heavy focus on quality, chef Alex Young has created an empire of meaty, cheesy, veggie, sweet, and indulgent goodness that both Ann Arborites and out-of-towners can’t seem to get enough of—hence the 1-2 hour waits on the weekends. While I have had epic eating experiences with such specialties as the dangerously gooey Mac-N-Cheese, smoky slab of ribs, platters of oysters, mussels, and grilled fish, and heaping baskets of thick cut sweet potato fries, the butterscotch pudding is the one dish that has stuck with me ever since my first spoonful.

This pudding has been a staple of the Roadhouse menu for quite some time, but a recent recipe revamp by Chef Sarah Mays has elevated it from just your average bowl of pudding to a heavenly confectionary creation. I guess you could say she has a sixth pudding sense of sorts, knowing the exact proportion of ingredients and the proper whisking techniques necessary to achieve the ideal pudding consistency and classically sweet flavor. Despite standing in the presence of monstrous and intriguing post-dinner options like the donut sundae or Mississippi mud pie, the butterscotch pudding may come off as a modest contender at best. Take my advice though on this one and absolutely do not—I repeat do not—knock it before you try it!

Although I have experienced a long string of childhood pudding consumption vis-à-vis classic Jello Pudding cups, this dessert had never possessed much of a presence on my foodie radar. I guess that’s just because I hadn’t experienced pudding done right, or rather, pudding made the old-fashioned way with just a few star elements. Mays combines lots of butter, thick, local heavy cream, and Muscovado sugar—a course, molasses-y brown sugar—and works her dessert magic until it reaches that “just right” middle ground between not-to-thick and not-to-thin. The real hallmark of the dish, in my opinion, comes from a pinch of fleur de sel, a flaky, slightly saltier French version of American table salt, right on top of the finished pudding.

Modestly presented in a small cylindrical glass not much larger than a standard shot, this beauty of a pudding has nearly every sensual element working in its favor. A deep chestnut color and light sheen. A flawless, velvety texture. A toasty, caramel scent. And an absolutely addicting sweet-salty flavor. The light sprinkling of fleur de sel, which may seem out of place in such a sugary dish, actually helps balance out the intensity of the butterscotch, while also adding a crunchy contrast to the silky pudding. The combination is nothing short of pure pudding bliss.

There is one important thing to note about this item: its presence on the dessert menu fluctuates week by week. This means taking a chance and relying on a bit of fate and pure hope. I urge you not to become distraught if you happen to see it left off of the menu; simply view it as an excellent excuse to come back again. Either way, the Roadhouse is nothing short of an experience to remember and it will leave you filled with that warm, fuzzy feeling of spending time with family and friends and savoring some damn good, down-home American comfort food.

Zingerman’s Roadhouse 2501 Jackson Avenue Ann Arbor, MI 48103

Gettin' Smokey in the Wild Wild West

Guest Columnist: Lee Schechter  

Guess who’s back. Back again. Meat smoking guy. Tell a friend. No, seriously, tell a friend, this article is about to go big…

Continuing in my adventure through “Smoky Paradise,” as I call it, I decided to go big with a meat that I had never attempted before. I draw my inspiration from a magical place in the world. Good guess, but no, “Smoky Paradise” is not the most magical place in the world. My inspiration comes from Disney World. Think, Big Thunder Mountain Railroad, Country Bear Jamboree, and my personal favorite, Splash Mountain. Yes, that’s right, I have found my smoky laughing place in Frontierland.

As a young lad, my family vacationed to Disney World regularly and a tradition was born.

Me: Hey Dad, Frontierland?
Dad: You bet, my boy.
Me: We have to get some SMOKED TURKEY LEGS!
Dad: Way ahead of you, son.
Me: Hell yeah!

After years upon years of deprivation from the smoky goodness of the Wild West, I decided to find my inner frontiersman, get wild, and shout to the world yet again, “MHMMM TURKEY LEGS.” So here is my kickin’ it old school rundown on making the perfect smoked turkey legs. While Frontierland holds a warm spot in my heart, (or maybe that’s just all the smoked meat I’ve been eating, hmmm… probably should get that checked out…) I think I got really creative and well, move aside Disney, there’s a new Wild West sheriff in town and it ain’t big enough for the both of us.

You know what else ain’t big enough? My smoker. Damn, I really have to get myself a new one because 30 pounds of turkey legs becomes quite difficult to assemble into an average size smoker. All right Tex, time for some sharpshooting in smoking turkey legs.

Tip #1: Get a lot of turkey legs.

Buy a lot of turkey legs. Share with your friends. Go crazy. Get buck wild.

Tip #2: Simple, yet defined.

Make a simple, yet defined rub. Turkey legs are all about the smoky flavor. So do not, I repeat, do not go overboard. I used a simple blend of chipotle powder, paprika, chili powder, and brown sugar. The brown sugar is very key because it counters the spicy smokiness of the rub.

Tip #3: Cherry.

Use cherry wood. It won’t overpower the meat, but it will provide the perfect amount of smoky finish.

Tip #4: Smoke those legs. They want the smoke.

About four hours is all that is needed. Smoking is key and make sure they get that smoky flavor. Channel your inner youth. Be a frontiersman. Picture yourself on the Great Plains wrangling buffalo while riding your white stallion, and imagine yourself with a rifle in hand. Put on a cowboy hat, and like all smoking processes…wait it out.

Tip #5 (realistically it should be the #1 tip): Make use of your time.

Smoking takes time and commitment, so get creative yet again. I was up at 7:30 A.M. to make these, so I needed to kill time before the football game and what better way to that than to make some sauce. Get creative. Use what you got and then some. I found some Jack Daniels whiskey sitting on the counter. Cowboys and meat smokers drink whiskey, so if you don’t already drink whiskey, then get on it. Take the Jack, add some honey to sweeten it up, ketchup, more brown sugar, salt, and black pepper to taste. Find the right balance. With all sauces I make, I eyeball my measurements. Feel the love. Was the old frontier measured out? The answer is no. And neither should sauce ingredients.

Tip #6: Glaze and eat.

Take that creative sauce and glaze up those legs. You have now created the perfect blend of sweet and spicy, meaty and smoky, new world and the old frontier. Share with friends. Unless you can eat 30 pounds of turkey legs, then more power to you.

Tip #7: Create your own style of eating turkey legs.

The forehand grip is a classic. But, get crazy with the backhand power grip to maximize bite-ability and the aura of manliness. Chicks dig the backhand power grip.

Tip #8: Be a man.

As always, be manly when eating smoked meats. Get loud. Battle cries are a good option. Let the skin and meat hang from your jaw, chew with your mouth open, let the sauce cover your face. Eat every morsel off the bone. Hell, eat the bone. Don’t leave scraps; your friends will ridicule you. You have to hunt for your own food in the Wild West, so eat it all. After every meaty morsel is scavenged off of the bone, start screaming “BONE YARD,” spike the bone into the ground, your friends will follow along and you will have created a smoked turkey legs bone yard.

Tip #9: Keep being a man.

Welcome to the Bone yard, men. Reflect on the wild frontier. Spend the rest of the day being a man, admiring the bone yard, and embracing the Wild Wild West.

An American in Andalucía: The Aftermath of Cuisine Culture Shock

Emma Gase  

This past winter I studied abroad in Sevilla, Spain. For four months, I lived with a Spanish family (actually, two Spanish families, but that is neither here nor there), traveled around Spain and Europe, and improved (very, very marginally) my Spanish language skills. But most important of all, I ate every meal with my host family. That’s right, I was treated to four solid months of home-cooked, authentic-as-could-be Spanish cooking: Breakfast (if you can call a sad slice white bread and knock-off Nutella “breakfast”), lunch (paella, paella, and oh wait did I mention paella?), and dinner (who likes frozen pizza…with ketchup?). In order to make a long and still freshly painful rant shorter, I will summarize this: Never have I lived in such a dearth of tasty and nutritious food.

What’s that? Spain is a country rich with culinary tradition and charming local flavors? Paella is kind of good? You enjoy small, barely dead crustaceans in everything from white rice to season-less garbanzo beans? You dig drinking milk that is so pasteurized it doesn’t need to be refrigerated? All right, to each his own. But grudges aside, I have in my possession official evidence of the food crimes committed against me. Below you will find an excerpt from my soon-to-be award-winning masterpiece, I mean blog, which was written after a dinner at a Sevillano Country Club I was treated to by some Spanish friends. My American roommate, Megan, can corroborate every detail below:

“Last Saturday night, Carmen and her husband Pepe took Megan and I out to dinner at their tennis club. Essentially, it was sort of like a country club, but a very, very Spanish country club. While the conversation was excellent, the food was…Spanish.

And now:

Things I will never again voluntarily ingest

Caracoles = mini snails Carmen loves, eat them with a tooth-pick. Fried.
Gazpacho = liquidy tomato soup, lots of olive oil, weird cucumber aftertaste. Served cold, in a beverage glass. Sufficiently disgusting, tastes like tomato juice and minced red onions. Native to Andalucia.
Salmorejo = essentially gazpacho, but thicker, served with boiled eggs, cured ham, and fried crutons on top. Slightly resembles Thousand Island dressing. May edge out the long-holding croquettas for worst offender.
Croquettas = unidentified fried balls of previously fried, minced meat. Resemble spherical mozzarella sticks. Inside looks like Crisco. Just stay away—they smell deceptively good (you could fry a finger, and it’d smell good), but trust me on this. Your stomach and arteries will thank me later."

Alksd;laskdggggggggg…sorry, I just passed out on my keyboard from a tidal wave of Post-traumatic-Spanish-food symptom-induced shock. Safe to say, I subsisted for four months mostly on oranges, $8 imported peanut butter, pretzels, and Maria cookies, which are basically sweet Ritz crackers (I am discounting travel, where my dining habits hovered on the exact opposite end of the spectrum). Either way, I think the real milagro here is that I didn’t become anemic.

So, never one not to be proactive, I have since come up with a Plan of Attack for those who are either going to study abroad in a country with um, “foreign” palates, or anyone, really, who needs a quick out when presented with a plate of unspeakable stew.

Emma Gase’s Survival Guide To Residing in a Food-Tundra

1. Is your meal inoffensive but besmirched by only one overused ingredient, e.g. it is swimming in a pond of enough olive oil to dress a salad the size of the Prado? Be creative. You never know what a little garlic, salt, and seasoning (and draining!) can do to save a dish. Also, the microwave is your friend.
2. When secretly throwing away food in your host mother’s tiny Spanish kitchen, make sure to wait until she is vacuuming the living room to execute your disposal. Hah! Just kidding, that is a ridiculous and obviously horrible idea. What you really need to do is secretly stash the offending meal into a grocery bag while your roommate creates a diversion, and then run it out to the dumpster as fast as your American legs will take you. Using a different trash can is key, in case the aforementioned host mother decides to rifle through her own garbage to see if the American girls are throwing away her cooking and then confront them about it later (this is not an unfeasible occurrence).
3. Lie and say you are feeling un poco enferma (ill), and then revel in your victory at getting served tea, yogurt and a fried egg for dinner. Then obey your host mother and put on your slippers immediately, because not wearing them is the reason you are sick.
4. Take a financial hit and eat out (but make sure to let your señora know a day in advance, especially if you don’t want a passive aggressive and emotional Spanish lady to hide your socks and bleach your underwear into oblivion as her own special form of retribution).

And, in the last, most hopeless case of desperation:


5. Get an apartment

America's Favorite Sandwich

Caitlin Miller  

Part I: Why Grilled Cheese?

This column has thus far focused on cheese in its unaccompanied and unadulterated form. As we know, I’m heavily biased towards a big ol’ round of mozzarella – but game recognize game so now it’s time to show America’s national sandwich, the grilled cheese, some much-deserved love.

I don’t care how black or shriveled your heart is: when someone mentions a grilled cheese sandwich, you suddenly acquire a thirst that can only be satisfied by a gooey smattering of melted cheese snuggled between two golden, perfectly toasted slices of bread. Accept that you will likely go through a dark range of emotions – anger, delirium, possible physical pain – until your cheese-lust has been fulfilled.

Scholars postulate that the debate over how best to prepare a grilled cheese predates the events of the New Testament by some six hundred years. To add or not to add a tomato, some eggplant, an avocado – that is the question. I am positioned firmly with the minimalist grilled cheese camp: to defile an unassuming grilled cheese with an egg is nothing short of blasphemy. The only dish I can unequivocally support in the betterment of the grilled cheese is tomato soup on the side. Dear God, is there anything more conducive to nostalgia and/or the over-production of saliva than the hot, thick aroma of a steaming grilled cheese and generous bowl of tomato bisque? The only thing that comes close is the actual moment when the sandwich has cooled down enough to tear off a hefty chunk, drag it slowly through the soup's surface, and bring all that cheese, tomato, bread and basil to your lips. That, friends, is as close as most of us will ever get to heaven.

Part II: In Which We Venture Forth Into Ann Arbor and Find Some Grilled Cheese

Look out for a later column detailing the making of a perfect grilled cheese from the comfort of your own kitchen; but, for now, the second part of this column will consider what Ann Arbor has to offer. It was the Sunday morning after our victory over MSU and, needless to say, I needed some bread. Also, I hadn't been to Zingerman's yet all year: it’s late October and this was beginning to bring shame on my house. What better moment, then, to do a little field research and locate a delicious grilled cheese in its natural habitat?! I'd heard rumors, whisperings of Zingerman's “Todd’s Cheesy Weesy” bringing grown men to their knees, so camera and notebook in hand I trekked down to Kerrytown. Sidestepping the approximately three thousand people in line, I ducked past the bread station and $800 balsamic vinegar (laughing through my tears) to pick up my grilled cheese and requisite spicy Ginger Ale (red cap or bust – do not chug this stuff, your sinuses will burst into flames) before settling at a table outside.

Here's the thing about Zingerman's: it is an incredible business, the people who work there are SO genuinely friendly and want you to have a great experience, and the pre-packaged goods they sell are unreal. For me, it’s synonymous with Ann Arbor and I absolutely love it. But that love comes with acceptance of the fact that their sandwiches, sadly, can be a bit hit and miss – especially if you're ordering to-go, which, lets face it, is a damn necessity most of the time unless you have a spare two hours to spend in line. But a restaurant, deli, whatever, is only as a good as it’s most hastily assembled takeout item. And never have I experienced such incredible highs – the #36 with avocado should be a graduation requirement – and such devastating lows at the hands of a sandwich institution. Zingerman's grilled cheese, I'm sad to say, fell under the latter category.

To be fair, they did a lot of things right: namely, the bread. But that's to be expected from Zings: it was thick, buttery, and baked the most perfect golden brown I've ever seen in my life. It was art. And all it was crying out for was a little backup from a well-chosen cheese. Frankly, the cold, tasteless, and not even remotely melted cheddar that I found in my mouth after the first bite did not answer the call. This was not the cheese I have sampled at their delectable cheese counter, and it was not what I have come to expect from Zingerman’s. It tasted like a slice of Kraft cheddar that you pull out of a plastic bag – you know, the “Kraft Singles” you liked when you were three, right around the time you thought worms and sand made for an awesome snack. And the other issue was, there was not nearly enough of it. If you’re going to name your sandwich the Cheesy Weesy, I expect to be doubled over at the amount of flavorful cheese defying the confines of the sandwich and overflowing over the crust: again, not the case. I could barely taste the cheese through all the bread – the bread was admittedly delicious, but the grilled cheese is about harmony and should highlight rather than smother its main ingredient.

As I walked away from Zings disappointed, I realized too late that my less-than-stellar grilled cheese experience was partly my own fault. A better grilled cheese sleuth than I would have headed back to the sandwich counter and constructed her own sandwich, requesting multiple cheeses and specifying the desired level of meltiness. After all, we are the masters of our own sandwich fate. In the meantime, I am on the hunt for a more satisfying grilled cheese around town and am looking forward to making my own. Have you had an amazing grilled cheese experience in Ann Arbor? Send me on a mission.

Burger & Shake: Cubano Style

Maddie LaKind  

The setting: Washington St., Ann Arbor. The scene: a stark white room with four long white picnic tables, a minimalist, steel drink bar, and a menu spanning across five hanging metal boards. The director: famed Ann Arbor chef and Top Chef contestant Eve Aronoff. And the stars: Frita and Batido.

No I’m not talking about a new motion picture event, but rather a true superstar in the Ann Arbor food world named Frida Batidos. If the buzz surrounding this foodie mecca has yet to find you, have no fear, here is the lowdown.

Ever since its debut in 2010, Frita Batidos has been a hit with local foodies, serving traditional Cuban street food in a casual, comfortable environment. The menu is unlike anything in the area, offering items like plantain chips, traditional Spanish churros, and pulled pork, but the real must-have items, as the name suggests, are the frita and the batido.

Basically just the Cuban adaptation of the good ol’ American trio of burger, fries, and milkshake, fritas are a Cuban-style burger, typically made with spicy Chorizo sausage, and topped with french fries on a brioche bun. Batidos are another Cuban specialty reminiscent of a milkshake, combining fresh fruit or flavorings, ice, and sweetened milk. Aronoff opts to make her batidos with goat’s milk, which maintains a thicker texture and slightly more sugary taste than your average cow’s milk.

Like any good burger place, Frita is all about the toppings, presenting a menu of items that put the normal sliced red onion, lettuce, and tomato to shame. A normal, unmodified burger—of which you can choose from chorizo, beef, chicken, fish, or black bean— starts on a heavenly fluffy brioche bun custom made by Zingerman’s Bakehouse. Then a nice schmear of lemon scented mayo coats the bun just enough to moisten the burger and provide that slight pop of citrus. A large handful of french fries come next, draping the sides of the burger in a crispy and perfectly greasy potato blanket.

Now it’s topping time. Like cheese…add muenster! Need some veggies…go for the cilantro-lime salsa or tropical coleslaw. Love that decadent fattiness that only an egg can provide…add one, sunny side up! Can’t narrow down all of these delectable options…ask for your frita “loco style” and get them all. Winner, winner, frita dinner.

Once you have locked down the burger, attention must be shifted to its sweet, chilled counterpart—the batido. Embodying all the hallmark flavors from the tropics, Frita offers milkshake choices ranging from passion fruit, to fresh lime, coconut cream, and mocha. Thick to the point of spoon-use (straws just don’t cut it here) and nearly brimming out of the cup, the batidos are topped with a signature colorful paper umbrella and are ready to accompany your mondo burger.

The visit I paid to Frita this past week reaffirmed all of my initial elation surrounding its opening in town. Going with the fish frita for the first time—loco style of course—and a coconut cream batido, I couldn’t have been more grateful that the frita and batido gods had finally made their way back into my life.

As I watched the waiter carry over my king size burger on their signature metal cafeteria tray, my stomach instantly knew to expand and prepare for the onslaught of burger heaven that was about to ensue. Unlike a normal hamburger with easy pick-up capabilities, the frita requires a creative eating strategy that allows for a bit of frita and topping in every bite, while still maintaining the cleanest eating space possible. I can assure you this is no easy feat. French fries will fall. Sauces will drip. Buns will disintegrate. And hands will be covered in a whole assortment of burger remnants but every moment of that burger experience will be well worth it.

I can’t quite pinpoint what was in the air on this particular day, but my frita took on a whole new realm of flavor excellence. The patty itself, made from Lake Superior whitefish, tasted like the crabcake’s lighter cousin—meaty, briny, and perfectly savory. Combined with the vinegary tang of the coleslaw, the freshness of the salsa, the impeccably crunchy shoestring fries, the luscious ooziness of a nearly raw egg yolk, and, of course, the buttery, lightness of the brioche bun, this burger redefines the everyday patty to create something worth talking about.

Eaten in conjunction with intermittent spoonfuls of ice-cold, creamy coconut batido, there is no better way to leave the chilly days of the Midwest fall behind and escape to the beach for dinnertime.

Frita Batidos 117 W. Washington Ann Arbor, MI 48104

Holy Guacamole: A Love a Decade in the Making

Emma Gase  

It all started about ten years ago in a Redondo Beach Trader Joe’s. You know those weird idiosyncrasies about yourself that you try to hide from your friends and loved ones, lest they think you insane and/or question their affiliation to you? No? Well, I don’t believe you, but I shall soldier on regardless. Back to TJ’s. So I was shopping with my mother, when we rounded upon the guacamole section. As she put a tub of guac in our cart, I was hypnotized by the odd, chunky greenish appearance. Despite the fact that I had never even tried it, I was baffled by my parents’ love of the damn stuff (there’s a ten-year-old’s logic for ya). What was so great about it? It was green and it had raw onions in it, and when you left it out on the counter for more than twenty minutes, it turned a moldy shade of brown...thanks, but no thanks. And at that moment in a California Trader Joe’s as I glared at her for putting the small tub into our cart, for reasons known only to the Higher Epicurean Powers, I decided then and there to hate guacamole. And that’s not all: In addition to being anti-gauc, I also pledged to avoid any and all things related to avocados for the rest of my life. (Let us remember: This was during the glory years of the Beige Diet and I cannot officially be held accountable for my actions). I even vowed to never say the name guacamole ever again, because I was convinced it had bad juju surrounding it’s mushy green essence (I put that last one down to a preteen penchant for drama).

Now before you call the authorities to have me committed, I realize how ignorant, silly, and unwarranted this all sounds. And although I had not a single modicum of logic to back up my prejudiced behavior, I managed to avoid guacamole and all things avocado-related for almost ten years. This was no small feat, either, considering that I was swimming against a strong pro-avocado current of popular opinion—Americans love them some guacamole. There’s also the small obstacle of how my entire family and every single one of my close friends idolizes and cherishes the avocado, thereby forcing me to be stealthy about my ten-year grudge to avoid additional food-related harassment. It was doable, but it also meant I was forced to feign countless years of half-hearted chip-dipping while heavily leaning on the salsa bowl for relief.

About a month ago, I found myself back at Trader Joe’s (kismet…you see where this is leading) doing some pre-football-game-watching-snack-stocking (not to be confused with the other yet equally essential pre-football-game-watching-beer-and-wine-run). Wanting to please the masses like the thoughtful and generous roommate I am, I found myself perusing the guacamole section. A modest green tub proclaiming, “Made with Greek Yogurt!” caught my eye. Hmm, I thought. I do enjoy Greek yogurt, and this tub is less than four dollars. Sold.

So what earth-shattering occurrence reversed my decade-long Freudian superstition? It was this totally radical and counter-intuitive thing called Actually Giving It A Chance. Yup, it was as simple as mustering the gumption to dip a tortilla chip far enough a bowl of guacamole to actually retain a decent dollop of the stuff, rather than a faint green residue which I nullify by immediately dunking into salsa. Oops, I thought, as soon as I chewed and swallowed a big scoop of TJ’s guac. I kinda of like this.

Since the inaugural bite, I have purchased and plowed through no less than three to four tubs of guacamole. I put it on everything from my breakfast tacos to turkey sandwiches to spooning it solo…and it only took me ten whole years to come around.

All The Things I Smoke...Let's Get Smokin' With Some Pulled Pork!

Guest Columnist: Lee Schechter  

Misleading column title? You bet. Well, not exactly.

I want to take a moment to apologize to the stoners out there… If you came to my column hoping I smoked a boatload of drugs, you are shit out of luck.

So here is my formal introduction. Welcome to the wonderful world of smoking… MEATS!

Okay, so enough with the intro. It’s time to get manly with some manfood, man.

Kid in a candy store, Tim Tebow during his first Jets press conference, and a freshman at his first frat party. These are all excited people. But, no one, I repeat, no one, is more excited than this guy in a meat market (or Costco).

So here is my task list en route to smoking the perfect pork butt.

Task Number One: Stay on Task

Pick some really good meat. Toss two seven-pound pork butts, four racks of baby back ribs, six pounds of ground chuck into the cart (buggy, wagon, whatever you want to call it). Don’t forget the Italian sausage. Leave Costco about ninety dollars poorer. But, ninety times happier. (This is assuming a ratio of $1 spend to 1 life happiness point.) Knowing I just went H.A.M on Costco’s meat department, I leave in triumph and meaty glory. (See the pork joke, don’t worry I’ve got a trough full of them. Okay, I’ll stop.)

Task Number Two: Don’t resist the pork butt.

It’s calling my name. “Smoke me, Lee… Smoke me…” True story. It actually said that. I’m sold. Pork butt is too good, too enjoyable to cook, and way too manly to resist in the journey to becoming a manfood expert. Okay, time to get down to man-business. Time to get dedicated. Time to focus up on the art of smokology. Task Number Three: Get sensual.

The key to smoky, flavorful, rich pulled pork is all in the rub. I use a home-blend of about twelve spices and rub the pork butt the night before. So get sensual with the pork butt. Love the pork butt. Take some vegetable oil and lather that butt up. Make it glisten. Make it shimmer. Work it. Talk dirty. Pour a hefty amount of special rub into your hand and just have at it with the pork butt. Coat that ass. Cover every end, side, and corner. The butt should have a deep reddish brown layer of spiced goodness. Thank the pork butt for a great night. Kiss it. Tuck it into bed in a container and cover it with Saran wrap. Let the pork butt think about last night, marinate in the rub, and prepare for its big, long day.

Task Number Four: Wake up really early and mentally prepare for a long, long day of smoking.

Get up really early in order to eat at a reasonable hour. With the pork butt all ready to go, load up the smoker with a solid choice of chips. I enjoy cherry for pulled pork because it is a subtle flavor, but strong enough to really hit up the meat. Mesquite is a bit too powerful, but there are some other options like apple or potentially a hickory. After the chips are in place, set up the grease pan, things are going to get messy. Pigs love to sweat out their grease. Trust me. Lower the pork butt on the rack. Keep the temperature around 225 degrees. And smoke that ass for the next ten hours. General rule is about two hours per pound at 225 degrees. Run with it. Bask in the sauna of smoke. The trick to the perfect pulled pork is all in the love. I love the pulled pork with 85% of my heart (13.25% girlfriend and 1.75% friends and family). Grab a beer, relax in a recliner, watch some football, get up and realize it has only been a few hours, repeat the previous steps, lather, rinse, repeat again and watch the clock for ten hours.

Task Number Five: With ten hours of waiting, make a kick-ass sauce for that pork ass!

I elect to go with a vinegar-mustard-based sauce. But, seriously anything works. Experiment. Blend a couple of smoky, thick sauces with a tangy sauce. Mixologize some apple cider vinegar and mustard with liquid smoke, red pepper flakes, and assorted spices. The best advice of a sauce and smokologist is to experiment. Don’t be exact. Follow the heart. Smoke with love and love the smoked meat with sauce.

Task Number Six: Ding, Ding, Ding.

Wooooo! Ten hours has passed! Survival of the fittest! Pull out that pork butt and shred that bad boy to smithereens. Use a fork and hands, and get down and dirty. Feel the smoke radiate the kitchen and coat your hands. Twist and pull the pork butt into stringy strands. Boom! Pulled pork!

Task Number Seven: Embrace primal instincts, don’t resist the meat, devour like a dinosaur.

Serve the pulled pork with some Kaiser rolls or quality buns. Order the sandwich in this specific order: bun, pulled pork, coleslaw, sauce, top bun. Take a bite and rise up to smokology heaven. Feel the smokiness. Grumble and grunt like a caveman. Be a man. Eat a lot. A whole lot. Yell battle cries, rip shirt apart, be a primal man. Climb a mountain and proclaim to the world in caveman grunts, “UMPH, ME PULLED PORK HMMPH, SMOKOLOGIST!”

A Turkish Delight

Maddie LaKind  

I take breakfast very seriously. Most people in my life will tell you that you don’t want to cross me until I’ve at least eaten at least a little something in the morning. Let me clarify though—by something, I do not mean a cup of coffee or a bite of power bar. No, no. That never cuts it for me. I need a meal that is both light and filling enough to propel me through the morning, keep me going until lunch, and, obviously, taste great.

Ann Arbor is clearly no amateur in the breakfast game with places like Angelo’s and Afternoon Delight dominating the morning meal scene. While I’m all for a good, grease-pit diner omelet or stack of silver dollar pancakes, sometimes a girl needs to expand her mind, step outside her comfort zone, and discover new breakfast horizons.

It was this very pursuit that first led me to discover the wonderful Café Zola. If you haven’t heard of this place before, sear the name into your brain; Zola, Zola, Zola. Housed in a hip downtown space with exposed brick walls, a sleek wrap-around bar, and tons of local art throughout, Café Zola is the epitome of an all-purpose spot, serving superb breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The menu is Mediterranean at heart, specifically French/Italian, with a sprinkling of Turkish specialties—a nod to the country of origin of one of the owners. The real task upon looking at this expansive and slightly overwhelming menu is honing in and narrowing down your choice.

I have had the pleasure of dining at Zola for all three meals of the day and, without question, breakfast (or brunch rather) trumps its counterparts every time. Although they are famous for their wide selection of sweet/savory crepes, omelets, and waffles, I still go back to the first dish I every tried there, which has remained my go-to favorite to this day—Turkish eggs.

Like most of you, I’m sure, I had never heard of Turkish eggs before coming to Zola, and, to this day, don’t truly know what actually makes the dish Turkish. However, since their introduction into my life, I can’t get enough. Besides possessing an unmatched vibrant flavor, the dish really shines in its simplicity, but I’m getting ahead of myself here. Here’s how the plate breaks down: a layer of sautéed spinach covers the bottom of the plate, then comes two eggs prepared any way you’d like right on top, along with a hefty hunk of crumbly, salty feta cheese, and a sprinkling of fresh thyme. Sliced tomatoes, cucumbers, and handful of olives serve as lovely accompaniments in addition to your choice of sourdough, rye, or whole-wheat toast.

Individually, these components may seem mundane but eating them all together is nothing short of divine combining nearly every flavor and texture profile; the earthiness of the spinach, the fatty egg yolk, ripe, vibrant tomato, crisp cucumber, creamy, tangy feta, and that distinct brininess of olive. All stacked atop slices of crusty toast, open-faced sandwich style, you are in for a heavenly—and healthy—breakfast treat.

It’s difficult for me to recall a breakfast so beautiful and fresh that didn’t leave me feeling bogged down post-meal. Usually when I see a dish so photo-worthy as this, it’s something like a mondo plate of French toast or a waffle brimming with dollops of whipped cream—things characterized by indulgence and excess. The Turkish eggs put that notion to shame, showing that breakfast can be truly delectable without making you feel like a slug.

Despite eating this dish upwards of ten times throughout my time in Ann Arbor, it never loses its allure. And clearly, others feel the same as it is one of Zola’s recommendations on the menu and ranked as a fan favorite among customers. It is this commitment to variety and quality that keeps people coming back brunch after brunch, week after week, with lines typically stretching out the door on Saturdays and Sundays.

As college students, it’s hard to find the time and money to treat oneself to a nice brunch out, especially in the Main street area. I can assure you though, Zola’s spread is worth every penny. Not only are you getting a fabulously prepared meal made with top quality ingredients but you get to enjoy them in a beautiful space with a bustling local crowd. So the next time you are reaching for the box of Cheerios or a Fage yogurt, gather some friends and pay Zola a visit; your stomach will thank you later.

Café Zola 112 West Washington Street Ann Arbor, MI 48104

Wine Making 101

Lizzy Freed  

“The sun, with all of those planets revolving around it and dependent on it can still ripen a bunch of grapes as if it had nothing else in the universe to do.”
   -Galileo Galilei

Wine, like many of life’s mysteries, reaches a level of complexity deep enough to overwhelm even the greatest minds. It’s a drink and a culture in its own right, rather than merely a “good time beverage”. Once its process and multi-faceted purpose are understood, its true beauty becomes visible.

The winemaking process reflects the profundity of wine because it is so involved. There are entire books written about each individual facet of the process. This is the reason wine can get so expensive; it’s true you can get a decent bottle of wine without draining your bank account, but anyone who wants anything really special should think of it as an investment and not an expense.

The reason that wine can get so pricey is because truly exceptional bottles take time and attention, while those that are flat and replaceable do not. Though I would love to say that price doesn’t reflect quality, in many circumstances it does. It is more expensive to create a more complex product.

In order to understand the life behind a fine wine, let’s first take a look at how it’s made. This will be a very brief explanation, because as I said before, each step in the process can get complicated. However, I feel that it’s important to have a basic understanding in order to make educated assumptions about wine and to give it deserved appreciation.

The first step is to procure the grapes. Some wineries have their own established vineyards where they grow their own grapes, while others order their product from non-estate growers. The growing process is very complex, and is something that will take another column to expand upon.

Next, the rest of the supplies (yeast, crushers, presses, tanks and barrels to name a few) must be bought and prepped. This can include cleaning, sterilizing, and general organization.

The grapes then need to be pulverized, which is generally done in a crusher. Then the mash of grapes is moved to either oak or steel barrels where the fermentation process takes place.

Though most grapes will contain some natural yeast (there are even some traditional wineries that use only these), generally specific yeast strains are added to the juice to accelerate the fermentation process. This step is really where nature takes over. Because I’m a visual learner, I like to imagine the yeast eating the sugar and leaving alcohol behind. Obviously it’s a lot more complicated than this, but we’re not getting into a chemistry lesson here.

In order to make a red wine, the grape skins are left to ferment with the flesh. In whites, the juice is strained from the skins after crushing. The majority of grape varietals, including most reds, have clear juice. The red color in wine comes mainly from the skin, which contains most of a grape’s pigmentation. Generally speaking, white wines are produced from grapes that have both light skin and light juice, but it’s possible to create a white wine from a seemingly red grape, such as Pinot Noir.

After fermentation, the wine can be bottled where they age further, or moved to barrels. If you have ever seen a bottle of wine that says that it’s a “reserve,” it means that during this stage, the wine was moved into barrels, generally oak, giving the wine time to develop a more complex personality; each barrel of the same wine will taste different in the end because of its unique aging.

So the next time you’re cruising the wine aisle picking out the next nightcap, think back about the work that was expended to put that bottle on the shelf. Imagine the grapes growing, and the stress they feel during a heat wave. Think about who put the time and care into picking the grapes. Think about the precise moment the winemaker tasted his reserve and decided it was ready for bottling. Because a bottle of wine isn’t just a drink: it’s an experience.

More information available in Sheridan Warrick’s The Way to Make Wine.

A Croissant to Remember

Maddie LaKind  

There are few things I enjoy more than waking up to a hot coffee and freshly baked pastry, reading the paper, and taking the time to relax before facing reality. While this city is bursting at the seams with high quality coffee—think Comet, Lab, The Espresso Bar, Zingerman’s, Café Ambrosia, and Mighty Good—outstanding pastries are a commodity much more difficult to come by; or so I thought, until the Pastry Peddler came into my life.

It’s questionable when I first actually stumbled upon this mecca of pastry goodness given the inordinate amount of visits I’ve paid there over the years. I do however, remember that first instant of pastry revelation—that breakthrough moment when I realized that in a city of what I thought were “just okay” baked goods, there lay something pretty remarkable underneath the surface.

Operated in a petite storefront next to Campus Corner on Packard, Pastry Peddler cranks out all of the traditional bakery offerings with a serious commitment to quality. From raspberry Danish, to gooey sticky buns dripping with chopped pecans, scones of every flavor, muffins, and pasties—a savory Northern Michigan specialty reminiscent of a handheld potpie—as well as an extensive espresso drink section, the whole menu is a showstopper. There is one specialty though, that in my humble opinion, ranks high above the others, redefining what a great baked good should be, and never ceasing to disappoint—the almond croissant.

I tasted my first of a long string of these nutty delights not at the Pastry Peddler storefront but at Comet Coffee; the Peddler is one of the premiere suppliers of pastry to Ann Arbor’s coffee shop scene. Upon seeing it for the first time, I knew this thing had to be good; a dark golden croissant, shaped in a perfect crescent to expose layers upon layers of buttery pastry, topped with a thick, even layer of sliced, toasted almonds.

While beautiful in its simplicity, this seemed just like your basic almond croissant set-up to me, until I brought it to the table and dove in. After peeling apart the bottom half from the top, I discovered a thin layer of almond cream delicately nestled in the belly of the pastry. As if it wasn’t decadent enough already? Similar to the texture of pudding, this satiny addition serves as a superb textural compliment to the crunch and chewiness of the pastry itself. Also, as the almond crème seeps into the bottom layer of the pastry, it creates a sugar-soaked, super crispy, almond-scented base for this baked gem, beckoning you to delve in and enjoy—immediately!

As the croissant enthusiast I am, I have developed a unique way of eating this pastry to maximize eating time and savor it with joy. This method requires peeling the top and bottom layers apart and then slowly taking little bites of each half, alternating as you please. The top half should maintain a nice flake to it and give off that toasty, nutty aroma and flavor, while the bottom should hit you with both a crunch of pastry and the smoothness of almond crème.

Despite perfecting this technique over the course of three years in Ann Arbor, I still can’t manage to make these croissants last longer than seven or eight minutes. Eaten alongside a foamy cappuccino or shot of espresso, the almond croissant from Pastry Peddler is the perfect way to indulge in breakfast, brighten a bad day, or pick you up from an afternoon slump. If you’re anything like me, you will be counting down the days until your next croissant purchase. Just be careful—these babies can lead you down a slippery slope of minor Peddler dependence. Trust me though; there are much worse problems you could have.

Pastry Peddler, 619 Packard St, Ann Arbor, MI 48104, (734) 929-2976

Cheese Platters: A Study in Simple and Delicious Perfection

Caitlin Miller  

Forget exams, internship applications, and that three hundred page book you have yet to crack open for this week’s discussion section: is there anything more stressful than deciding what to bring to a potluck dinner?

You don’t want show up thoughtless and empty-handed, and you definitely don’t want to be the pedant with the expensive champagne and three full courses à la Whole Foods. The question is how to present oneself as simultaneously effortless, cool, and in-the-know in a single dish?

This is exactly the conundrum I faced on Saturday evening at around seven o’clock. Already late, I raced to Babo on East Washington with potluck invitation in hand (more accurately, on phone) and spent twenty precious minutes pacing the aisles like a crazy person until I finally spotted it: the cheese station. (How did I not think of this in the first place? I write a column about cheese.) Relief poured through me as I staggered up to the somewhat alarmed looking gentleman behind the counter and uttered the realest sentence I have ever spoken: “Hello sir – I need to assemble a breathtaking plate of cheese.”

What exactly does an awesome cheese platter entail? Certain blogs belonging to cheese elitists with way too much time on their hands dictate very specific guidelines for arranging a perfect cheese plate – right down to the ounce-per-guest ratio. Please. You don't need to own a scale for the precise measuring of cheese portions to be a passionate and dignified enthusiast. Just keep these simple suggestions in mind:

1. A cheese plate should have anywhere from 3-5 cheeses, depending on the number of guests. If you are aware of any cheese junkies in attendance who would happily gobble up an entire wheel of Gouda if given the chance, take note and be sure to increase the number of cheeses as needed. Remember that a cheese plate is typically an appetizer, and you don't want to irritate those who actually cooked a main course by filling up the guests on delicious Camembert, Gruyere, and various cheddars.
2. A great cheese plate is like a Renaissance painting – everything should be balanced and harmonious. That being said, harmony can be achieved in countless ways. Let's say you have three cheeses on your plate: you can opt for hard, semi-soft, soft; cow, goat, sheep; French, American, Italian; sharp, sweet, blue. Basically, you are Michelangelo! Get weird with it.
3. Can we all get our priorities straight and collectively promise to assemble our cheese plates on something vaguely resembling a thoughtful choice? What is the point of going to all this trouble if you're going to plop your poor little cheeses down on a paper plate and call it a day? (I actually saw this once, at an actual dinner, and it was very distressing.) Remember all that stuff about Michelangelo? The plate is your canvas, and the Sistine Chapel was not painted on a cardboard box. This does not have to be your grandma's antique cherry wood cutting board, but for the love of God at least lay your cheese on a solid plate.
4. If you want to get super fancy, or alternatively are attending the dinner of someone you're desperately trying to impress, you might want to bring a bottle of wine that goes well with your selection. This crafty move eliminates the possibility of your carefully planned cheese plate being negated by a sip of clashing vino. Awkward. Nobody wants their taste buds assaulted by the combination of a heavy red wine and buttery Brie. Unless you want to seriously annoy unaware guests as they struggle to cope with this unprovoked attack on their senses, plan in advance. Or, at the very least, coordinate with a friend.

Not knowing how many guests would be at the potluck I was attending, I went with three cheeses. The first was an amazing, sharp Cabot cheddar from Vermont that had been aged for eight months; next, the extra creamy Delice de Bourgogne from Burgundy, France; and finally, a sweet goat cheese with lavender and fennel pollen (!) from Cypress Grove Chevre in northern California, the same farm that produces the legendary Humboldt Fog.

May I pause here for a moment to note, oh my god Cypress Grove has constructed a singularly spectacular website on all things goat cheese. Bravo, Cypress Grove. Have you ever found yourself fantasizing about the massive three-tiered goat-cheese wedding cake that will festoon your marital table, wowing your future spouse and all of your wedding guests? I digress.

As I walked into the potluck an hour later with a bag full of cheese, I must admit I felt a little unsure of myself. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but my faith in cheese wavered. Had I made a grave miscalculation? Would college students have any interest in consuming a plate of cheese? Or was I alone in the belief that a well-formulated cheese plate is a study in simple and delicious perfection? My initial apprehension felt comical fifteen minutes later as I watched a mixture of friends and complete strangers enthusiastically tackle my cheese platter. Let it never be questioned again that whether you’re a guest at someone’s table or just want to enjoy a fancier than normal meal at home, a plate adorned with cheese is a little whimsical, offers a little something for everyone, and costs relatively little money when divided among friends. It is an undisputed fact, like gravity, that a cheese plate is the surest way to turn any dinner, potluck, or night in with a mountain of homework from a banal experience into something classy and magical.

Hail Caesar

Maddie LaKind  

I love Mani Osteria—simple as that. I love everything about the place. The sleek yet rustic décor, the soft mood lighting, the smoky smell of the wood-fired oven, the open-air kitchen, and, of course, the beautiful Italian offerings they produce with consistency and panache. Ever since its opening in 2011, I have grown more and more infatuated with this establishment, using any special occasion or parental weekend as an opportunity for a visit.

The thing that sets Mani apart from most Ann Arbor restaurants is that it is nearly impossible to find a flop on the menu, seriously. In the 8+ visits I’ve paid to this place, I still have yet to eat something truly disappointing. Specializing in small plates for sharing, Mani—meaning “handmade” in Italian—prepares each dish lovingly and artfully, creating a feast for both the stomach and the eyes; the perfect combination for all those crazy Instagram-armed, foodie diners out there.

Having spent a semester abroad in Florence, Italy this past year, I have to admit that I have become a bit of an Italian food snob since my return to the states. Gelato will never maintain the same, luscious texture here and pizza/pasta will never taste as good as when it comes straight out of a tiny trattoria kitchen. However, let me say, for American-Italian food, Mani attains elite status in my book. Its modest one-page menu, while lacking in flash, embodies everything that Italians revere in their cuisine; high quality, fresh ingredients, bold flavors, and the ability to share your meal with family and friends.

While I have worked my way through a sizeable chunk of the menu, the Caesar salad remains my go to dish. Unlike most horrific renditions of this pseudo-Italian creation—which typically consists of some combination of water-logged, flavorless romaine lettuce, hockey-puck tough croutons overly coated in artificial herbs/spices, minimal shavings of parmesan (or some sort of parmesan-imposter) cheese, and an overly thick, salt-laden dressing—Mani’s exemplifies the beauty of how a simple recipe and superb ingredients can elevate a dish from normal to extraordinary.

From the bottom-up, this salad begins with a nice mound of well-chopped, crisp romaine. Next come tiny flecks of meaty white anchovy. If you think or already know you’re anti-anchovy, I would encourage you to put your predisposition aside and give it a try. The taste is more salty and briney rather than that super “fishy” taste that tends to chase people away. A handful of nutty parmigiano reggiano cheese follows suit, spread out perfectly like a light blanket of cheesy snow. Everything then gets coated in a light, traditional Caesar dressing of finely chopped anchovy, lemon juice, olive oil, and lots of freshly ground black pepper.

Seems pretty basic thus far right? Well get ready, because unlike most Caesar salads, which actually include a raw egg yolk in the dressing, Mani chooses to go the deep-fried route instead, omitting the egg from the dressing entirely and frying it up as a garnish. I ask you, is there anything better than a soft, luscious fried egg with a perfectly crunchy exterior to boost your salad to the next level? Not really, except for maybe two or three eggs instead of just one. A girl can dream can’t she?

Mani cooks their egg just enough to soften the whites, while still retaining a velvety texture. When pierced with a fork, the striking golden yolk remains delightfully runny and unctuous, creating a second dressing of sorts. When looked at as a whole, this salad is a brilliant display of harmonious opposites uniting to create a flawlessly balanced bite. Salty and fresh + rich and light + crunchy and silky = sheer perfection.

So whether you think salads are a waste of a meal or are merely disillusioned with the normally mediocre Caesar, I urge you to pay Mani a visit. I’ve yet to talk to one person who has had a negative experience here, and in a town as food-centric as Ann Arbor, that’s saying a lot. So head on over, have a glass of wine, enjoy the swank, city vibe, nosh on some small plates, indulge in gelato and espresso, laugh with friends, and, most importantly, viva Italia!

Mani Osteria 341 E Liberty St, Ann Arbor, MI 48104

MoJophobia

Emma Gase  

You’d think that after I had tried and conquered the salad empire, my culinary life was a trip to races after that. Well, you’d be assuming wrong. I did not conquer the salad empire that fateful night at Claim Jumper — the reality was I had tried one salad that had fried bits of noodle on it and was doused with a dressing that was really just a spicy, glorified version of peanut butter. Hardly fare of the foodies. It was early days, and I had some hard work ahead of me if I wanted to really triumph over the Epicurean Empire. At that point, I had merely landed on its shores, but there were still hordes of hostile natives and a whole continent ahead of me to explore before I could revel in any sort of true victory.

Enormous and intimidating boundaries aside, at least now there was an entire previously forbidden section of the menu now open to my perusal. My tastes had been officially diversified: I liked salad. If that didn’t connote adulthood, I didn’t know what did. I was cured of the Beige Diet—or so I thought.

Taste buds can change, but habits are tricky lil’ devils. You don’t just go from American cheese melted onto Einstein bagels to quinoa and kale chips overnight. This journey has been a long and tumultuous one, filled with spat-out bites, tentative dips of hummus, and joyous revelations.

As luck would have it, merely months after my salad breakthrough, I was on my way to freshman year in Ann Arbor, a place rife with unique dining options. Which leads me to the site in which I began to forge my eating identity, the mother lode of all freshman food consumption: MoJo dining hall.

I remember the first time I walked into MoJo. For fifteen solid minutes, all I could do was continuously make laps around the whole room. I gawked at the massive salad bar, the two giant Panini makers, the block ‘M’ waffle-makers, the ever-roasting rotisserie chicken, the make-your-own stir-fry station, the chronic supply of fresh, impossibly gooey cookies every twenty minutes, the giant vats of peanut butter. Talk about sensory overload.

So I did what any overwhelmed and intimidated freshman would have done: I made a beeline for the burgers and fries, ate it all in twelve minutes, and booked it right on outta there. So much for my expanded horizons. And making friends.

And so it went for the first two weeks. Kashi cereal for breakfast, turkey and cheese Panini for lunch, and a burger for dinner. I was so boring I nearly fell asleep mid-bite. I never ventured near the salad bar, or the make-your-own stir-fry station, or the rotisserie chicken (I didn’t seem to have a problem with the cookies, funnily enough). With all the change and discomfort of being a freshman at Michigan, my brain didn’t have the capacity to branch out, even if branching out was as insignificant as putzing around the salad bar. I couldn’t deal with the stress of making a salad while I was trying to understand game theory in PoliSci 160!

After two weeks of monotonous bread, cheese and cold cut combinations, I felt an overbearing sentiment only Paul Rudd’s character from “I Love You Man” could have understood: I needed to make some fucking friends. Luckily, ‘twas the season. Fall was kicking into gear, people were starting to get familiar, and I had tentatively chosen two people I could very well see as being real friends. And it just so happened that these two folks turned out to be some of the most knowledgeable foodies I had (and will ever) met. And it also just so happened that these fledgling friendships were forged over two-hour dinners in MoJo every night. It’s like Ringo and Joe Cocker wisely said: I get comfortable with the salad bar and expanded dining options with a little help from my friends. Or some variation of that.

I still remember that first meal I ate with my new friends. As they ventured to the salad bar and started placing foreign and terrifying items such as beets and hummus onto their plates, I took a deep breath and steeled myself to dive blindly into the unfamiliar. Following their lead, I made a salad for the first time in college. Well, perhaps “salad” is a loose word to describe what was really just a bowl consisting entirely of garbanzo beans, sesame seeds and a mountain of feta, but hey, it was a start. I had four years to get it right.