The Next Great Discovery

Breaking up is hard to do. That's why this is one of the more difficult decisions I've made in my brief time as an upright, masticating lad. It's been great, even lovely at times. But as we've seen so recently in the political world, sometimes change is okay. Sometimes it's just what we need to shake ourselves out of that glossy-eyed, routine-induced languor we find ourselves after 1, 5, 10 years of the same thing, time and again, making the safe choice because we no longer wish to feel anything like uncertainty. Certainty feels good. Risk begets fear. Fear begets discomfort. Discomfort begets gurgling stomachs and dry throats. So, I implore you, take a sip of water and listen to what I have to say. It might sound scary at first. But so did space exploration. So did transcontinental railways. So did mixing mayonaise and dijon mustard. Do you want to live in a world void of Dijonaise--a world where future Dijonaise-like discoveries will never be uncovered, never brought into the warming light of a people's awareness, just so you can stay on that straight and narrow? Broaden your minds with me. Expand. Be the changing tastebuds you want to eat with in the world.

Put away the maple syrup. Next time you have a waffle, top it with a poached egg. Break into that yolk. And let the yellow nectar flow into each nook and cranny, every doughy well in which your syrup used to pool. Bye-bye, Aunt Jemima. Hello, Grade A Jumbo Brown.

To all sayers of nay, bear with me. Allow the thought to sink, much like the oozing yolk will run down into the waffle's core. Whether Belgian or Eggo, it will maintain its structural fortitude while gaining that barely detectable tang of unbirthed chick. In more adventurous circles than the standard Brunch circuit, delicacies are often those foods that are most like their natural state--the raw oyster, the fish eggs, the duck fat. In France, one such dish is the Ortolan. A small bird that migrates from Sweden to North Africa, they are caught in nets and forced into a dark box filled with seed. They eat until gorged. Then they are drowned in Armagnac, a type of brandy. (This act of cruelty is one reason why they are banned from being served in restaurants. They continue to be eaten in shadowy dining rooms across France. One practictioner submits that being suffocated in liquor is a better way to go than boiling alive in scalding water, a la Lobsters, which is a good point. If you eat meat, you've already signed off on condoning unseen cruelties, so let's not split hairs, hmm?) After being plucked, their overflowing bodies are spritzed with salt and pepper, cooked for eight minutes, and served immediately. You place the entire bird (about the size of a young girl's fist) in your mouth, all except the head and beak, which sticks out of your mouth like a boasting youth's tongue. But your tablemates don't see this; to eat the Ortolan, you first place a large napkin over your head, much like a veil, to capture the aroma and hide the mess. Purists are said to take 15 minutes to finish. And no wonder: Skin, breast, thigh, organs, bones.... that's a large swallow to bite.

I fear I've gone off track. My point: birds taste good. Why else would chicken be the most popular meat in hometown kitchens across the nation? Why else do we eat turkey to celebrate our annual remembrance of colonialism with a (geno)cide of cranberry sauce? Why else did TV-watchers of the 70s eat up The Partridge Family? I could go on.

Instead, I will say one last time: Add an egg to that waffle. If you need to lay some syrupy goodness down on those parts left un-yolked, okay. If you wish to soft-boil in lieu of poaching, hey, be my guest. But be bold. Veer off your one-lane highway of Log Cabin. And exit into the small-town of Hen Baby, pop. 1, welcoming you to a new and delicious future together.

Carrots We Can Believe In

My roommate recently made some grilled vegetables. Much to our surprise, they took on a familiar and empowering shape....

Best. Meal. Ever.

Superlatives are a slippery fish. They should be easy to catch, right? Best film, best book, best birthday... But once asked, their outsides congeal like day-old bacon drippings, and we fumble with them to grab onto something firm, something right. "Erm, uhhh.... Spaceballs? No, that can't be... Goonies? Close, but not quite... Dr. Strangelove? Wait, too dark... " What seems like the easist question to answer becomes, in its very answering, an inevitable impossibility.

Food is even less concrete than other arts. (Unless the Ladyfriend Companion has her way with a burger. She likes them cooked all the way through, the better to throw at my head when I tell her to stop complaining about her chipped tooth. [That could be taken the wrong way. The meat's really tough and overcooked, I mean. {Hm, I guess that could be misconstrued also. Let us forge on.}])

Meal preference changes. My best meal as a kid? Homemade Enchiritos. It had all the fixin's of a Taco Bell burrito, cooked lovingly in our decades-old microwave. (My hypothesis: The higher radiation levels of early Micros gave the cheese a meltier, gooey goodness unable to accomplish now.) A soft flour tortilla, spread thick with refried beans, topped in seasoned ground beef, shredded cheddar cheese, Old El Paso taco sauce, then folded over and topped with more sauce and more cheese. Stick a toothpick in it and zuke that baby until all cheese is melted and sauce is bubbly. Let cool for 10 seconds, take a bite, burn the top of your mouth, let the boiling hot cheesy bite drop out of your mouth onto the plate, damn yourself for doing that again, wait another 2 minutes, and enjoy.

At 11, nothing's so good as cheese and meat and sauce. A decade and a half later, tastes expand. So the question of a Best Meal Ever necessitates many an asterisk and footnote and ever-increasing list of asides. Nostalgia accrues many points, swaying even the most hardened foodie away from the perfectly cooked monkfish and back to that pot of perfect chili eaten before the big game. A satisfying answer demands a massive system of specification, like animals and their many classes (family, genus, etc.) Is it a vertebrate? Mammal? Egg-laying multi-cell organism that breathes only bog water? I've gotten off track. Suffice to say, it's a hard question to answer. But one important enough to belabor the process.

For now, though, I have no doubt in my mind. My best meal took place in the spring of 2005, at the gone-but-not-forgotten Restaurant Bandol, in Portland, Maine. A full transcription of the experience would take many words, too many, and for me to say such a thing is remarkable. If a picture's worth 1000 words, a duck leg is worth, oh, 12,000. So I'll let the menu tell the story for me. Thanks, Erik and Jess.

-American Spoonbill Caviar with Creme Fraiche
-Caspian Osetra Hard Cooked Egg
-Winterpoint Oyster with 100-year-old Sherry Vinegar
-Italian Black Pearl Caviar with Coddled Egg
-Glazed Carrot Soup with Stewed Apricots
-Crispy Duck Tongue, sauce Graliche, Frisee Salad
-Maine Diner Scallop, Black Perigod Truffle, Creamy Leeks
-Crispy Calf's Brain, Capers and Cabbage in a Brown Butter Vinagrette
-Duck Tartare, Swiss Chard Wrapped Breast, and White Bean Cassoulet
-"Roquefort Papillon" with housemade Brownbread and Wildflower Honey
-Sorbet
-Creme Brulee
-Valrhona Chocolate Mousse Mille-Feuille with Creme Anglaise

Accompanying this was six small glasses of wine. I finished off with a coffee and housemade madelaines. Total Time: 4+ Hours. End result: Giddy euphoria, but that's not quite right. You've heard of Food Coma? This was Flatliners, prix-fixe style. They took me under and brought me back. I was changed that night. Into what--that is what we still don't know.

If you care to nibble on some of the tastes above, your best bet is Evangeline, Erik Desjarlais' newest foray in downtown Portand, ME. You might not get the Tartare or the Tongue, but by god, try the Crispy Calf's Brain. Best. Bite. Ever.