Saturday, April 9, 2011

Culinary quirks

It seems that every country has it's selection of culinary quirks. From the PB&J to Lutefisk, these dishes are often things that would make you scratch your head and ask "Whoever would have thought of doing THAT? What were they thinking?". But for all their strangeness, some (not all, I'll admit, but some) creations come under the "Now that's actually not half bad" part of the spectrum. So let's take a look at a few of these, shall we?

Starting off with the American classic, the PB&J. That's "Peanut Butter and Jelly (sandwich)", though that's the (Am.E) version of Jelly (A preserve not dissimilar to Jam, made entirely of juice, without pips, seeds or pulp of any kind, though oddly enough in this particular "dish", using Jam is just as appropriate). The mixture of dense protien, dry starch and sweet fruit (often also with a crunch, depending on the type of peanut butter used) makes this a dish of wildly clashing contrasts, which shouldn't work at all. And yet, it does, with the sweetness of the jam mellowing the gluing action of the peanut butter. And this can be extended. My wife is quite the fan of peanut butter and honey sandwiches, which is a little too much to my British palate.

And speaking of British palates, here's something entirely from my homeworld, which often has people looking at me askance: The Crisp and Salad Cream Sandwich.

Let me translate. Br.E Crisps are Am.E Potato Chips. In this particular regard, they should be "Ready Salted" flavour. Fortunately, Walkers crisps do exist in the US and Canada, though they use the brand name "Lays", and in this case "Lays Classic" chips are a perfect substitute. As for "Salad Cream", I found it here in Canada in Safeway, labelled as "Heinz Salad Cream English Dressing", with the interesting french version underneath being (translated back into English) "English Salad Cream Vinaigrette". So you take two slices of plain bread, add butter or margarine to taste, then layer on the Br.E Crisps/Am.E Chips. You need at least 3 layers, as they compress as you squash/hold the sandwich (in fact, some pre-compression may be required before assembly), and even coverage with large and unwieldy slices of potato is very difficult to manage with a single layer (Not impossible, I'm sure someone could engineer broken pieces of crisp/chip to fill the holes, but the flavour is a little too subtle with just a single layer). Then drizzle with the salad cream. This is easier said than done, of course, as a full bottle will produce a massive rush once you have gotten it going. Indeed, when the bottle is new, a much safer technique would be to insert a knife into the bottle and spread the salad cream in a thin layer on the un-coated piece of bread. Once you have creamed your sandwich, you assemble, pressing down with a flat hand on top to break down the crisps/chips into small chunks. Then you eat.

Crunchy, salty, smooth and tangy flavours and textures flood the mouth, and you know you have reached the pinnacle of sandwich nirvana. The crunching sounds continue unabated as you eat mouthful after mouthful of ingredients that were never in a million years meant to be used together, and you find it is good.

Switching gears a little, though still talking about things on bread, let's move our attention to Bitumen. Or to give it it's brand name: "Marmite".

Technically speaking, Marmite is a yeast extract, a residue of the brewing process, and many foods out there have marmite in them, albeit in it's more raw state. It's also one of the most divisive of foodstuffs out there – whole advertising campaigns have been based around the simple fact that you either love it, or hate it. So what do you do with this substance that looks not unlike road tar? Well, you spread it on bread, of course. But there is a VERY important point to make here – If you cannot see the texture of the bread through the layer of marmite, you have spread it TOO THICK! For beginners, especially, you will want to try and scrape the marmite off the bread again. the thin layer of residue that is left is more than enough for your first try. This is intense stuff, packed with flavour, and a major source of Umami, the taste that is strongly associated with meatiness. The other main source of Umami is, of course, Mono-Sodium Glutamate, or MSG.

So, what does it taste like? That's incredibly difficult to describe. Salty is certainly a contender. If you have ever had (Br.E) Beef Stock/(Am.E) Beef Broth or Consommé, imagine that, but concentrated at least a thousand times. That's what happens in your mouth, and you either love it, or hate it. Other notables in this family of substances are Bovril (Beef Extract, and not the brand of concentrated cooking stock in the US supermarkets) and Vegemite.

What else? How about "Chips on a Baguette"? Again, we're firmly in Br.E territory here, so let's expand. (Br.E) "Chips" would be (Am.E) French Fries, though "Steak Cut" fries are closer to a proper British Chip than the shoestring things the Americans typically call "Fries". And a Baguette would be a (Am.E) French Loaf or (Am.E/Br.E) French Stick, or perhaps a (Very Am.E) Submarine bun (Though those, again, aren't quite right. If you've ever seen a woman carrying shopping in a Hollywood film, she'll have a long thin loaf of bread sticking out the top of her paper bag of groceries – That's a Baguette). So, you slice your Baguette (Not all the way through, enough to make a hinge), you butter the inside (optionally), you fill the newly-made cavity with (Br.E) Chips/ (Am.E) Steak-Cut fries, and you sprinkle grated cheese over the top. Then you eat it quick as the cheese melts and your mouth exclaims in joy.

And they say we Brits have a bland palate!