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.