My Intro to Wine Snobbery

Lizzy Freed  

“I like to think about what was going on the year the grapes were growing; how the sun was shining; if it rained. I like to think about all the people who tended and picked the grapes. And if it's an old wine, how many of them must be dead by now. I like how wine continues to evolve, like if I opened a bottle of wine today it would taste different than if I'd opened it on any other day, because a bottle of wine is actually alive. And it's constantly evolving and gaining complexity. That is, until it peaks, like your '61. And then it begins its steady, inevitable decline.”
    -Sideways

I’ve liked (no, loved) wine for as long as I can remember. Not only the allure of its subtle complexities and romanticized image, but the culture of vineyards and agriculture. Although I’m not trained as a sommelier, nor do I have any actual credentials, I have completed the most necessary step to lushism: I drink a lot of wine.

I’m lucky enough to actually remember my first experience with wine. I thank adult supervision for that, rather than my age. I was about five years old, at that tricky point for young Catholics where you’re dragged to church every Sunday. Fortunately for me, my father is a non-practicing Methodist, and would make up excuses to save me from the hour of fidgeting beside my mother. This week’s recipe: Making booze.

It’s not really as bad as it sounds, so before the image of my law-abiding father is misconstrued, let me just explain that he is a man of many trades and hobbies. So, for his next endeavor, he had a hankering to make a little home brew. My role in this was very tame, and very fun for a five-year-old tomboy. I got to step in a bucket of grapes until they were all juiced, just like they always did in the movies.

In the end, our wine turned to vinegar and was tossed in the compost, but on that fleeting Sunday morning, I glimpsed into something wonderful: the culture and beauty of wine.

This leads me to what I really hope to accomplish in this column. As any of my friends can attest to, I have a huge passion for this drink (oh, but it’s SO much more!), and love to spread its goodness. So although I might not have much of an official education on wine and can’t promise I won’t make a few mistakes, this could be a great place for us all to learn together about food and drink, and the beautiful relationship it can have with human life.

Although some may better remember their first wine hangover, we can generally all say that within the experience we either bonded with good friends or with ourselves. We can get into wine complexities later, but as an introduction, we should recognize that this drink brings us together to talk, laugh, or cry, in many cases. You don’t have to be a snob to recognize that.

Going Green

Maddie LaKind  

This week, I’m going green. Not in an environmental sense or anything, but rather in choosing to feature a dish that is neither deep-fried nor cheese filled. Please, no tears. I promise that despite the omission of these luxurious preparations, this dish doesn’t skimp on flavor or joy of eating.

My basis for this week’s selection came about after dining at Jerusalem Garden last Sunday for possibly the tenth time in the last four months. Unlike most of my visits to J-Garden where I have remained a falafel sandwich and lentil soup purist, the duo just didn’t seem to call out to me this time around. Seeing this as an opportunity to expand my hummus horizons, I settled on the fattoush salad. I don’t know what was in the air on this particular day, but the salad, despite my having tried it a time or two before, displayed an entirely new allure this go-around.

As I’m sure many of you are thinking at this point, what is a fattoush salad? Is that even a real word? It is indeed a real word and is an Arabic salad composed of a variety of mixed vegetables, salad greens, and chopped pieces of either fried or toasted pita bread. Like any loyal Ann Arborite, I have already been conditioned to love the bread/salad hybrid through the consumption of far too many chipatis to count; the fattoush seemed like a healthier and much lighter follow up.

Based on where you have eaten fattoush in the past, the means of preparation can vary slightly, but they all tend to maintain a similar look, taste, and string of ingredients. J-Garden’s fattoush combines finely chopped cucumber, tomatoes, red peppers, red onion, carrot, and lots of fresh parsley until it almost resembles a chunky vegetable salsa. A simple dressing of lemon, vinegar, olive oil, salt, and sumac—a tart, citrus-flavored spice with a stunning ruby color—ties everything together before being crowned with a handful of crispy, salty pita chips.

Now, I know I am already going back on a claim I made at the start of this whole thing, but when choosing your means of pita preparation for the fattoush, fried is the clearly superior road to take. The crunch is better, the flavor more pronounced, and who doesn’t love a little bite of salty, oily goodness to accompany their veggies?

Delving into this salad, you are immediately hit with a sensory overload of sorts. The hodge podge of vibrant colors combined with loads of fresh parsley and the bright scent of sumac and lemon juice triggers feelings of a simple summertime lunch in the garden.

The flavor of all the components married together really carries this feeling home. The crunch of the cucumber, peppers, and onions, sweet, juiciness of the tomato, vibrant fragrance of chopped parsley, a touch of citrus, and bite of pita chip make for a veggie-tastic explosion of taste. Unlike the standard, uninspiring salads offered in most take-out spots, J-Garden’s fattoush borders on the addictive side with each bite trumping the next in flavor. Also, by some miraculous feat of food science, the fried pita topping remains perfectly crisp until the last bite. Don’t ask how. Just enjoy.

With a salad this good, it often begs the question, “can this really be good for me?” The answer folks is a definitive yes! Minus the fried-ness of the pita bread—which is merely a small bonus in a pretty substantial bowl of salad—this dish has everything you need to leave feeling energized, satiated, and yearning for more. Eaten in conjunction with a bowl of lentil soup, a side of stuffed grape leaves, or a simple plate of pita and hummus, J-Garden provides a perfect foodie escape from the typical drudgery of campus cafeterias or at-home easy mac. At only $3.50 for a small size and $4.25 for a large, the fattoush salad is also a great way to have an authentic dining experience without spending a fortune.

Jerusalem Garden 307 South 5th Avenue Ann Arbor, MI 48104

Ode to Mozzarella

Caitlin Miller  

So let’s get this cheese column started right – with a brief ode to mozzarella. Ah, mozzarella. Just how long has mankind been infatuated with this lavish little cheese? Since the twelfth century, when the making of cheese from the milk of water buffalos was first recorded in southern Italy. Historians generally acknowledge the discovery of mozzarella as the most important event of the Middle Ages, its impact greater than the Crusades, the invention of the printing press, and the Black Death combined. On the seventh day God did not rest; he created the water buffalo so humanity could have mozzarella.

When was the last time you ate a salad starring cheddar cheese? Never, because no one in human history has gazed at a piece of cheddar and asked, “Can I lay a slice of tomato in that heavenly blanket?” A thick cut of mozzarella that is delicious beyond all reason, on the other hand, is like a tractor beam for tomatoes. Add a drizzle of olive oil, some freshly torn basil, maybe a pinch of sea salt, and brace yourself because caprese hangovers are real and not to be fucked with. If avocado and/or olive tapenade should find their way into this mix, however, go ahead and abandon all hope of resistance. As you dive headfirst into that perfect combination of flavors (literally, you will physically dive), just remind yourself that there is no shame in blacking out in the fetal position on your bedroom floor in a mozzarella-induced food coma. It’s happened to the best of us, guys, and it’s ALWAYS worth it. “I’m absolutely devastated I ate all that mozzarella and avocado last night,” said no one ever. Seriously.

But mozzarella isn’t smug about being the greatest cheese in the world – in the wise words of a friend, it’s “humble as fuck.” And luckily for all of us, the mozzarella cult is especially alive in Ann Arbor, with institutions like Zingerman’s whipping up fresh batches of milky, elastic goodness on the daily. Grab a friend, some balsamic, a baguette, and find yourself a grassy spot to call home for the afternoon (if your mozzarella addiction is as full-blown as mine, baguette and balsamic are optional). Because whether it’s a small round, a large ball, or a freaking loaf, mozzarella is king and the rest are his lowly servants. Mozzarella is preternaturally flavorful, inexplicably juicy, and endlessly sophisticated; it is omniscient, omnipotent, and benevolent; in a word, it is flawless.

The Real Hot Pocket

Maddie LaKind  

This month marks my two-year anniversary as an employee at Zingerman’s Delicatessen; two years filled with so many noteworthy sandwiches and far too many samples to count. As a saleswoman and general chatterbox regarding good food, people always ask me for my sandwich of choice (out of the 80+ options on the menu), preferred pastry, or must-try side from the salad case. Over the course of my employment, my favorites have pretty much remained consistent. However, something happened this past August that shook up my deli world—for good.

It was weekday-closing shift like any other. Sporadic waves of guests every twenty minutes or so, but on the whole, very relaxed. Upon perusing the menu for my employee meal for the day, I stumbled upon the infrequently visited traditional Jewish section of the menu. Don’t get me wrong; matzo ball soup, kugel, and chopped liver all hold a special place in my heart, but they aren’t the most energizing fuel for the rest of a shift. But then, I saw it. An item so infrequently ordered and tragically forgotten about that I almost glazed right over it; that item was a cheese blintz.

For those of you whom have yet to experience the transcendental powers of a good blintz, let me provide a brief snapshot. A thin egg crepe is delicately wrapped around a fluffy, honey-scented cream cheese filling, pan fried in butter until golden brown and crisped, and served with a side of both homemade strawberry preserves and sour cream. Just to reiterate: crepe, cream cheese, butter, preserves, and sour cream. Together—in one dish. Now, if that doesn’t sound like the mother load combination, I don’t know what does.

Despite my tendency for wolfing down food without any type of legitimate savoring, I used my reacquaintance with the blintz to test out a new, more leisurely eating pace centered on tasting every component of the dish. After prepping my fork with a nice heap of jam, a light dollop of sour cream, and a knob of blintz, I took my first bite and was immediately elevated into a whole new realm of what any great, cheesy, buttery dish should be. Velvety, slightly sweetened cheese filling effortlessly melding with tart jam and slightly tangy sour cream, all united by a blanket of egg crepe. Rich. Creamy. Fatty (in the best way). And almost too delicious.

I have not eaten a whole lot of blintzes in my life, but even as a new fan, I think I can rank Zingerman’s version as an exemplary product on a number of accounts. First of all, the ingredients used are all selected on the basis of excellent quality and intense flavor. This means creating a filling with all natural cream cheese—no Philadelphia here, folks—rich and floral chestnut honey, and house made crepes. Using cheese produced at the Zingerman’s Creamery on the South side of Ann Arbor, locally made preserves, and Guernsey Dairy (also local) sour cream, this dish is also a proud celebration of local products and natural food practices, both of which, lets be real, most college students could incorporate more into their food lifestyle.

Aside from all of the technical reasons why Zingerman’s cheese blintz is such a showstopper, the bottom line is that it is just damn good comfort food. Like any great bowl of mac and cheese, order of fried chicken, or piece of birthday cake, the blintz is a dish to indulge in every now and then and, most importantly, without guilt; we are all deserving of those precious moments of food nirvana! So next time you’re feeling the Zingerman’s itch, give the blintz a try. It never ceases to disappoint.

Zingerman’s Delicatessen 422 Detroit St. Ann Arbor, MI 48104

Chinese Chicken Salad, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Overcome the Beige Diet

Emma Gase  

It was the night of my 18th birthday. My palms prickled with moisture as I saw the waiter slowly moving to our table, palms up in the perfect waiter-ly 90-degree angle. I nervously thrummed my fingers on the leather booth, trying to ignore my growing apprehension. The waiter set down my plate in front of me. It wasn’t on a silver platter, but it may as well have been. There it was, in all of its pyramid-shaped, peanut-sprinkled, fried-won-ton topped magnificence: my very first salad.

I know what you’re thinking. Do Chinese chicken salads even count as salads? Just kidding, because of course they do. They have lettuce. The more shocking thing you were probably wondering was why in the heck it took me eighteen long years to order a salad. Am I some sort of freak? The answer is…yep, actually. I’ll elaborate.

I grew up on what my mother has dubbed “The Beige Diet.” To be fair, I would say the colors also ranged from yellow to white to plain brown, but you get the gist. Mine was a diet of chicken fingers, of French fries, of grilled cheese and goldfish crackers, of waffles, peanut butter, and cheeseburgers. Cheese, bread, bread and cheese, and most of all, meat of indiscernible origin fried into cute, bite-size shapes. And let’s not forget potatoes of all varieties—except for sweet potatoes. Sweet potatoes contain detectable traces of something resembling actual nutrition, and were therefore blacklisted from my diet.

Though I’m sure I technically fell into the broad category of the plain-buttered-noodle eating crowd labeled as “picky eaters,” I really don’t think “picky” is an accurate enough word to describe my former eating habits. My tastes were a different animal. For the sake of clarity, let’s call my former self an “uninformed, unimaginative, stubborn, and slightly deranged eater.”

Looking back, my tastes came from some dark place that defied logic, and, well…taste. I inexplicably found all fruit unappetizing and mildly grotesque. I scorned the very idea of vegetables, and would only choke down some broccoli at dinner in order to get dessert. I was so offended by the color green in my food, I can’t even count the laborious and painstaking minutes I dedicated to picking out the dried green parsley bits in Top Ramen.

Like the majority of stubborn and close-minded people, my unfortunate habits stemmed from one dangerously common root: fear. I was afraid to take a risk and try something new, certain in my misguided, youthful convictions that something earth-shatteringly terrible would happen should I try a salad (or any non-beige food) and like it. While I can no longer recall exactly what I expected would transpire should I ingest radically exotic cuisine stuffs such as bananas or mushrooms, I can tell you I was not interested in finding out. Just a cheeseburger for me, well done, no lettuce, tomatoes or mayo—and lots and lots o’ ketchup, thankyouverymuch.

For years, I endured pestering parents, relatives and friends prodding me to try this, try that, you might like it, you’ll never know if you don’t try it, you might like it, tomatoes are basically ketchup, just try it! Just try it. Try, try, try. This was the mantra that haunted me for years. It was easy enough to ignore in elementary and middle school, when a hot dog or grilled cheese was never too far out of reach. But in high school, things started changing. It began to bother me that I only ordered cheeseburgers at restaurants, that I endured a constant reaming from my friends and family, that I hated going to nice restaurants because there was food plain enough for me to order. I began to feel jealous of my friends who tried new things, who ordered meals that couldn’t be classified as Kid’s Menu fare, or just another form of chicken fingers.

My discontent grew. And grew and grew. Until one night, my friends took me out for a meal on my birthday and everything I knew changed. I remember looking at the menu, and feeling seized with a strange, immutable urge—an urge to pass over the burger section, and order a foreign item. So I did.

Though I may have been the only person to experience a cathartic moment in that particular Claim Jumper in Wheeling, Illinois that particular night, I am not exaggerating when I say my life changed after that. I’m not just a different kind of eater than I was when I was 18; I’m a different kind of person. In the last three years, I have expanded my culinary tastes in a more accelerated and concentrated amount than anyone else I know. This is the story of my sojourn from a Beige Diet to a Try Everything diet—and it was all thanks to a Chinese chicken salad.

Ring a Ding Ding

Maddie LaKind  

Blimpy's Perfect O's

As a senior at the University of Michigan, there are a number of Michigan bucket list traditions I’ve checked off over the past three years; stepping on the brass block M on the Diag after my first (successful) blue book exam, cafeteria-tray-sledding on a snow blanketed Palmer Field, and dabbling in an accapella group. However, until this past weekend, I had never visited the legendary Krazy Jim’s Blimpy Burger. I know, a sacrilegious confession for any real Ann Arbor foodie. However, now that I’ve finally been immersed in the full Blimpy experience, I can see why it has garnered such legendary local status.

My trail to burger-dom began with a somewhat lengthy wait in a line stretching out the front door of this shoebox size establishment. Once inside, and stationed at the front counter, you take a tray and order, but not any old ordering. Oh no. Think in light of the famous Seinfeld “Soup Nazi” episode; food must be ordered the krazy way or you’re out. Well, not really, but if you do it right you will definitely avoid some serious death stares from the curmudgeonly grill master. The proper and approved ordering method is as follows: first, any fried food you desire (fries, onion rings, tempura battered broccoli or cauliflower, etc.). Second, choose the number of patties you’d like on your burger. Third, bun type. Fourth, grilled toppings. Fifth, cheese type. And, lastly, cap it off with condiments and any fresh toppings.

While the grease-drenched, epic size burgers are obviously the main draw of this dive, my eyes were set on a different fatty find; onion rings. Now I’ve definitely eaten my share of onion rings, some good, some bad, but Blimpy’s o’s take on a whole new genre of fried perfection. Thick, hefty slices of yellow onions are lightly dunked in a layer of batter and deep-fried until reaching a rich golden hue. That’s it. No muss. Following a brief draining stint after being plucked out of the fryer, this monster tangle of onions is stacked high in paper basket ready to be accompanied by a choice of ketchup, bbq sauce, or ranch dressing.

After tracking down a spot out on the patio, I immediately bypassed my burger and dove into the crown jewels of onion awesomeness before me. Unlike most cookie cutter, over-battered, minimally onion flavored onion rings you find at normal burger joints, these onion rings actually tasted how an onion ring should—mildly sweet, tender to the bite, and most importantly, super crispy. Paper thin almost to the point of transparency, these rings maintained an airiness I’ve never experienced with such a royally caloric dish.

At first bite, the softness of the onion intermingles with its battered counterpart, making for an ethereal contrast of textures. As soon as I finished one clump of rings, my hand immediately gravitated back for another, and another, and another. It’s this deceptive sense of lightness that led me to cap off the basket—with the help of a friend—too fast for comfort.

My fingers grease-stained and seams ready to burst, I felt I had done my first Blimpy experience proud and left with the satisfaction and excitement of conquering yet another Ann Arbor must-eat spot.

So, whether you are a Blimpy virgin—like my former self—or an avid regular, the epic mound of onion rings at Krazy Jim’s Blimpy Burger is more than worthy of its own moment in the spotlight. Just make sure to come early (aka pre-lunch or pre-dinner rush), memorize your order (in order), don’t agitate the staff, and always order your fried fare first thing.

Krazy Jim’s Blimpy Burger 551 South Division Street Ann Arbor, MI 48104

Italian Cullinary Deception

Guest Columnist: Caitlin Morath  

Italian-Style Caesar Salad

Olive Garden lied to us. I was never under the impression that the land of endless soup, salad and breadsticks was truly authentic, but I also didn’t think they have been making things up. However, after just a few days in Rome, one thing became clear: the cuisine in Italy is nothing like “Italian” food in America.

First things first, I was informed that spaghetti isn’t native to Italy. I know, inconceivable. It was supposedly brought to Italy from China by Marco Polo.

So, the quintessential Italian dish is probably just a variation of Chinese food. I found this bit of information even more disorienting than the language barrier that has crippled my communication with the locals. If the most famous dish of a country so ancient and rich with history was actually just a souvenir brought back by a man who liked long walks on the beach, then what does that say for the rest of the world?

It’s lies. All lies. Ready for another shock? Italians have no clue what chicken parmesan is.

My group sat taking notes with one of our Italian guides as she told us the best places for pizza, pasta and gelato throughout Rome. She fielded question after question — “Where’s the best place for pizza?” and, “Is there anywhere I can get a burger?”— with ease, before bringing the conversation to a standstill when someone asked, “Who has the best chicken parm?”

“Non capisco, I’m sorry, I do not understand.” We proceeded to yell out the dish again, acting upon the naive notion that a person who speaks a different language is also deaf. Finally, we got a response, “Oh, parmesan, you mean with eggplant, yes?”

“Just like that, only with chicken or maybe veal instead.”

“No, you must be mistaken, parmesan is a dish that is only done with vegetables.”

Mind. Blown. Not only is chicken parmesan not typical in Italy, but its existence is inconceivable to your average Roman. In the U.S., we haven’t just adopted Italian food, we have mutilated it beyond recognition.

Other foods I associate with my favorite hometown Italian restaurant seemed to have disappeared as well. There is rarely bread on tables, and if it does appear, it’s never used for dipping in oil. Another major faux pas is serving salad before pasta. A true Roman would gawk at the gargantuan salads that come out before the mounds of pasta in the U.S.

Even the overall experience of eating is entirely different in Italy. The meals take longer, the portions are smaller and everyone takes their time to enjoy the wine and each other's company.

And the food is made fresh-to-order, so much so that a waiter asked our group of 20 to limit our orders to only a few types of pasta if we hoped to eat at any point in the near future. It’s nothing like chain restaurants in the states, where any — supposedly — Italian dish imaginable can be ordered and ready within 15 minutes.

The food in Italy is like nothing I’ve had before. I expected it to be better than its American counterpart, but not so entirely new. I’ve come to a realization: Italian food and its American adaptation are two completely separate cuisines. Just as the noodles Marco Polo most likely brought back from China were molded over time into the spaghetti that Italians now know and love. This dish, whose roots are almost unrecognizable, so too has Italian-American food developed into a cuisine with its own unique flavors and dishes.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed every meal I’ve had thus far in Rome. The ingredients, recipes and chefs guarantee that the food is some of the best I’ll ever eat. I am simply arguing that perhaps we should stop considering the food we have as a cheap imitation of the old country, and instead appreciate our food for what it is: an example of the American melting pot at its finest. And I don’t care what Carolina says, I’m not giving up my chicken parmesan.